For anyone who has ever played Legend of Zelda (I think it's Majora's Mask), the Nanthi are actually the blueish-white/green thing Link turns into when he's running around underwater. I've never played it myself, but I saw the picture and decided to use it.
He wandered the halls of the Dark Fortress in silence, his eyes staring blankly ahead. They fed him well here, as was ordered, but eating was mechanical when he couldn't taste the food. He still worked out regularly, so his muscules were in perfect shape. Not a single scar marred his skin, all healed the moment he came back from battle. It wouldn't do to mar his beauty, or so he was told.
His body was in better condition than ever, magically frozen in time at eighteen years old. He was dressed in the finest clothes to be found, all in shades of green and black. No one ever spoke harshly to him here, if they spoke at all. He was feared, isolated by what he had become.
A sex slave. That's all he was. He existed entirely for Diablo's amusement. He often found himself wishing that he would fall out of favor with him, that he would finally be cast aside and allowed to die. Death was the only desire he had left.
He knew he had been more than this once. That he had been a warrior for light, with friends and family. He had been wanted and needed for the person he was, not because of his face or how well he performed in bed.
Now he was nothing more than a puppet, following Diablo's orders. He fought when commanded, his mind pushing away the idea that some of his opponents, whatever uniform they wore now, used to be his friends. He returned to the Dark Fortress only when Diablo decided he'd had enough. And when Diablo wanted him, he served his master silently, solemnly.
He knew the Light Rangers thought he had forgotten who he was. The Yellow Ninja Ranger had often begged, pleaded with him, trying to make him 'remember' her. Just like so many others.
He thought he had been sad when she died. Killed in battle by a putty of all things, in a single moment of carelessness. At the very least she had died a warrior's death, the way she deserved.
He hadn't cried the night she died, even as his heart screamed in agony and loss. He had gone on as he was told, as though her death was meaningless to him. It wouldn't do for Diablo to see him upset.
It was only another small part of him that died with her, after all.
Spectra didn't look up from her window seat as he joined her. They rarely spoke to one another, and neither had bothered to decide if they met on purpose or not. It didn't really matter.
Spectra had finally managed to finally the invisibility that he craved. With Lady Tearrah's death, she had only been needed to remain as the Dark Yellow Ranger. She was called periodically to fight, but as long as she drew no attention to herself, she was left alone and forgotten. He hated her for that, jealousy for her status swelling to fill his very being.
Then her flat, dull green eyes turned up to meet his, and the jealousy faded again. He knew now what she had endured to reach that place he wanted. That her spirit had long been broken, and she didn't care. She was simply waiting for the day someone got in a lucky shot and granted her oblivion.
"There will be a battle soon." Her soft voice suddenly interrupting the silence startled him, but he didn't show it. She continued, his response unnecessary. "They are restless."
She never called any of the Dark Rangers by name. It was always 'they', or 'Master'. He wondered, but never asked why.
He nodded in agreement. Diablo had been complaining about being being bored, and Zeus had stalked by him several times in a foul mood. More than once he'd almost raised a hand to him, but stopped. The one and only time Zeus had struck him, Diablo had nearly torn out his throat. He wished he would just let him hit him. It would be nice.
"Where?" His throat was dry, his voice raspy. He could have gone to have it taken care of, but he didn't want to. It was refreshing to feel pain when he tried to speak.
"Earth." She shrugged slightly. "They're trying to gain ground toward the main base of The Rebellion."
They fell silent again, watching the stars silently. As a child, he remembered being fascinated by the stars. They were amazing and unknown, and he had always wanted to know more about them. Now that he finally did, he wondered how something that housed such evil could look so beautiful.
He turned to look up at Diablo. His master was frowning at them. After a moment, Diablo held out a hand. He stood and kissed the back as he took it. Diablo yanked him closer to wrap an arm around his waist as he was lead away. Neither said anything to Spectra; Diablo too annoyed by her presence, and he himself unwilling to bring her more trouble.
He realized after a moment that it didn't matter, as Diablo waved a hand at a group of Nanthi when they passed. The Nanthi had been a simple aquatic race once, now enslaved and bound by magic and loyalty to Diablo. The blades along their wrists, upper arms, and heads for swimming made them some of the deadliest creatures in the war. The group gave a quick, short bow, and hurried away.
An agonized scream echoed through the halls a few moments later.
He remainded silent when they finally entered their quarters. He was slammed against a wall as the door closed behind them, pinned in place with a hand. "What the hell were you doing with Spectra?" Diablo demanded.
His eyes narrowed. "I want you to stay away from her."
He knew he wouldn't be able to, but he answered with what he'd want to hear. "As you wish, Master."
There was a long moment of silence as Diablo stared at him. At last he dropped his hand, turning away. "We'll be going to Earth soon." he said finally. "Be ready to fight in an hour."
Diablo's shoulders tensed. "I've told you not to call me that."
He remained silent.
"Do you hate me?"
The question really wasn't unexpected. He might have lied if he could, but Astronema had cursed him to say only the truth when they'd made him one of them. For a brief second a memory surfaced; the chair, dark energy running into his body as he screamed in agony, and Diablo holding his hand, promising it would be worth it when they finished as the villian wiped away tears he couldn't stop.
Diablo didn't move. "Do you love me?" he asked after a moment.
He moved forward, wrapping his arms around the other man as he leaned his head against his shoulder. "Yes." he said softly, hating himself all the more.
"Why do you stay? I wouldn't stop you if you left." It was a lie, and they both knew it. Diablo would never let him go.
Just as they both knew he would never leave. "Because I never want you to feel how Adam did when Rocky died."
He wasn't Adam, not anymore. They'd called him reborn when they finished the transformation, and named him Acheron-the river of woe that flowed through Hell in Greek Mythology. Adam would have cared about his friends, might have even left to join The Rebellion and fight with them against the forces of evil. Acheron would never abandon Diablo; they were bound to one another. And while he hated him with every fiber of his being for what he was and what he had done, the part of him he shared with what was once Adam could never leave the person Rocky had become.
Diablo turned, taking one of his hands and kissing it gently. Red eyes stared at him, and he willingly tilted his head for the kiss he knew was coming. And when it did, he melted into the touch, letting Diablo's hands pull him towards the bed.
It wasn't rape if you were willing.