Title: "Prime Directive"
Rating/Classification: SAC, angst, Tyr/Beka-ish, vaguely slashy.
Disclaimer: I donít own these characters.
Summary: Sort of a flip-side to "Uncharted Territory". Tyr thinks about
what is beneficial and what is not.
A Nietschean does nothing that does not benefit himself.
Perhaps this is why he spends so many nights in his quarters shuddering
under the silent stroke of his five-fingered companion. He benefits
A Nietschean should not waste precious potential genetic material.
Exactly which adage should he adhere to at what time?
And his alternatives are limited. He knows now that he cannot leave this
ship. Not without what belongs to him...not without claiming it for his own
in front of all the Prides...sticking it to those murderous, dishonorable
Drago-Kazov once and for all.
Where the murkiness comes is in defining what belongs to him.
For it exists not only in a sealed cargo bay.
It exists all around him.
In Captain Hunt's pigheaded nobility and the steel of his damn fool
In Harper's desperate need for a heavy hand and a little guidance.
In Trance's infallible innocence and wealth of secrets.
In the Magog's loyalty beyond Pack, beyond animal instinct.
In Andromeda herself's sleek intellect, cool core, and dangerous
And in Beka Valentine.
Would that he could leave her out of the equation...but he cannot.
There is a biological directive that negates the need for one's fellow
man...yet there is something distinctly advantageous about keeping the
captain of a High Guard warship on edge. So, he locks eyes with Dylan for a
moment longer than necessary. A soft touch here...a whispered word of
advice there. Danger. Promise. Possibility. A flirtation.
There is nothing advantageous about a flirtation with Beka Valentine.
There is nothing advantageous about the ache that rises in his chest when
they move side by side but do not touch...about the way his first instinct
is always to circle her, draw a protective shield around her so no one can
come near her...about the wounded growl that rises from his throat, marking
him more the patron animal of his Pride than the calculating Nietschean
male, when he is alone in his cabin and his mocking hand beckons. He would
call it "love" were such a thing possible. But it is not, of course.
It is simply a biological drive.
She is a female. More than adequately shaped. Courageous. Bold. Perhaps
his hormones mistake her for one of his own kind? Perhaps he has spent so
many days and nights in close quarters with her that only his mind is still
able to account the difference. She is merely human.
But she belongs to him nonetheless.
So, he cannot leave.
And it appears he cannot stay. Not the way he has.
Sometimes he thinks he could approach her. Companionship is not a concept
beyond Nietschean understanding. They could spend time together. While
away hours. Perhaps he could appeal to that base side of her that matches
his own insane desires...that side of her that trolls dingy spaceport clubs
for a tryst or two or four.
*Beka...since I am all ready wasting valuable seed having completely
untoward fantasies about your inferior, human, body and your smart mouth,
would you like to share my bed tonight?*
Most of the time, he realizes why it won't work.
It is against his nature.
And it is against hers.
There would be abuse. He would, no doubt, find himself on the point of a
Nova bomb, being shot towards the nearest black hole.
So, this Nietschean does nothing that does not benefit himself.
He knots the sheets in his clenched fists, rails against his traitorous
bodyís urges...curses the images of limbs entwined...white-gold against
bronze...bites his lip and draws blood.
And then, in this one small thing, he admits defeat.
He cries out her name when he succumbs.
November 27, 2001.