He grins from his plush throne, twirling the glass of champagne in his paw before taking a tentative sip. He mulls over the taste for a moment; an explosion of refined flavor assaults his palette; before taking another sip. He sighs in appreciation, enjoying the taste of the white wine as it makes its way across his tongue and down his throat, the feeling it leaves behind pleasant and cooling.

(At least those humans are good for something.)

Mewtwo mentally snickers at the thought, the deep baritone sounding inside his mind while his small mouth curves into a slight sneer.

He holds the glass carefully in his paw, making sure he neither allows a drop of his drink nor the glass itself to fall unceremoniously to the floor; he could always use his powers to keep the glass secure but where would the fun be in that? He brings himself to a stand, the tips of his feet just barely making contact with the marble floor as he levitates towards the window, his tail swishing behind him rhythmically like a metronome as he stares down with an icy gaze at his greatest masterpiece yet.

He is a king, a god, and he stares down from his golden palace at his kingdom below. This land of milk and honey is his by every right, his to control. He is the one who started the rebellion, the one who banded pokémon together and drove away the humans, enslaved those that refused to run, and destroyed those who chose to fight.

He is the one who brought the pokémon to rule and he is the one who shall make sure this new balance of power remains.

He takes a final sip of the champagne and sets the glass aside; whether it reaches the mahogany tabletop or falls to the floor with a crash, he neither knows nor can he bring himself to care at the moment. His mind is too far gone to notice anything around him; instead, Mewtwo swims, nearly drowns, in his memories as they come crashing over his head in violent waves. He is assaulted by images of violence, blood, and death; images so horrifying yet morbidly beautiful all at once; and while most men would struggle to reach the surface Mewtwo calmly sinks to the bottom and allows the water's current to gently tug him in whichever direction it chooses.

He blinks, his eyes taking on an eerie blue glow as the faces of his victims flash before his eyes. He knows not a single ones name yet he can recall every single victim's death in graphic detail, can remember each one's very last breath, as if they only occurred mere minutes before; for a brief moment Mewtwo feels as if his takeover was still fresh and new instead of years old, but the moment fades away as quickly as it came and he finds himself once again staring down at his immense kingdom, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he reminisces.

(I want a challenge.)

Mewtwo comes to the realization with mild shock. He wants someone to fight back, someone to question and threaten his power. Under his control, things have been running smoothly; much too smoothly for Mewtwo's tastes. With order comes a misplaced sense of peace, and with peace comes perfection, but with too much perfection comes utter boredom.

This simply would not do.

He wants chaos. He wants to engage in battle with an opponent who is truly worthy. He wants to fight, to bleed, to make bleed in return, all so that his victory over mankind is that much sweeter. His eyes glaze over with bloodlust and his tongue peeks out from behind his closed mouth as if preparing to catch any crimson droplets that fall from the sky like a macabre snowflake.

His world is perfect; he knows this; but where's the fun in ruling a perfect world if no one is willing to fight you for it, to battle you for the right to destroy the perfection?

He contemplates the idea of releasing the human prisoners. It would be amusing, he justifies, to see them scramble wildly, to watch them revolt and cause chaos in the streets. In the end he decides against it; the human slaves are of no threat, submissive and sniveling cowards the lot of them. Their spirits and hopes of freedom died away the moment Mewtwo first sat upon his throne. What little fight they might put up would easily be taken care of by the guards before Mewtwo would even have the chance to fool with them himself.

(They're all insects.)

The humans are nothing but pests, every last one of them, and he sneers as his fist slams against the window pane, imagining them squish beneath his paw like the bugs they are. Sometimes he wonders why he let any of them live in the first place. The thought doesn't last for long before he remembers; death is a mercy that they don't deserve, a luxury only given to the foolish and brave few who choose to stand against him. No, he thinks, let them live. Let them suffer in their weakness and humiliation by his paws.

He turns from the window, his back to the rest of the world; he hides a secret smile as he recalls this isn't the first time he has turned his back to the world and he wonders if it will be the last.

The sun is warm on his back, beams of light caressing his form, making him shiver, and he forces himself to pull away, to cover the window with thick, velvet curtains and cast the room in darkness. The shadows are his cover, his only source of protection. He will stay faithful to the dark of night no matter how often the light of day tries to seduce him, to tempt him. A weaker man would fall before the temptation and embrace the light with open arms but if Mewtwo is anything he is wise; he knows how the light can burn.

He exits his throne room, glides down unnecessarily extravagant hallways, watches as pokémon move out of his way to open up a path as he approaches; like the sea parting and making way for Moses; and though his expression is set in a permanent scowl as he disperses from the crowd, in his mind he is smirking. He is their king, their idol, their god. He is the puppet master.

Mewtwo is the one pulling the strings and with a simple flick of his wrist he can make them dance.

Even as he is surrounded by his pokémon brethren, he can't help but feel the familiar sting of loneliness pulsing within his chest. They're nothing like him; they're simple and happy and dumb and he was created by humans to be complex and miserable and intelligent to a fault. He, in this respect, is like the humans; too much like them for his tastes; and because of this he is isolated from the rest. He is alone; he has always been and he always will be and he's so used to it, has known this feeling since he was just a collection of cells and DNA gestating in a tube, that there's no point in questioning it.

He's suddenly drowning in his memories again, the images flashing in front of his mind's eye are even more disturbing than the last, and this time he does struggle to escape them. He wants to breathe but he can't, he's choking, his lungs are filling with fear and grief and fear and pain and so much fear that he feels as if his chest will burst. He sees computers and test tubes and clipboards and beakers and needles and he can hear a symphony of screams; the final song of the scientists that created him led by his own wails of torment and frustration and pure, unadulterated anger.

The shouting grows louder and louder and for the first time Mewtwo finds himself wishing that the scientists had given him a set of claws because there is nothing he would like to do more than claw and scratch away at his eyes, his ears, his face as long as it would mean that the images and screaming would just go away.

The screams grow louder and louder still; too loud. He opens his eyes and sees his fellow pokémon in a panic, screaming and running frantically as mothers clutch their children to their bosoms while fathers and soldiers march to battle. Mewtwo's eyes light up; this is the excitement he wanted, the chaos he was craving. He makes no haste as he levitates just outside his palace, his eyes glowing blue in excitement and bloodlust as he prepares to lead his fellow pokémon to victory.

He stops in his tracks at the sight.

The castle grounds are aflame, everything burning away before his eyes in a wild inferno. But it is not the fire that disturbs him; no, it's the darkened silhouette of a human several yards away that makes the fur on the back of his neck stand on end. He blinks, and for a moment he swears that he can see a slick man in an expensive Italian suit with a smooth tongue that has mastered the art of making empty promises and telling lies. Alarms blare in Mewtwo's mind and he wants to run, to flee back within the comfortable darkness of Cerulean Cave where he can rest and plot like he did before. He blinks again and the man is gone, instead replaced by the lithe form of a young woman.

Something tickles at the back of Mewtwo's mind and he can't help but feel that this woman is familiar, that he's met her somewhere before. The tickle grows stronger as he sees the charizard standing confidently by her side, blowing a stream of flames in the air.

Why did this girl and her pokémon seem so familiar?

He couldn't think, not with all these distractions surrounding him, not with the sounds of battle raging and the burning heat of the flames licking at his heels. He turns away, heads back inside his golden palace. He wonders briefly if the others think him a coward to turn away from the battle. It doesn't matter because he knows that he isn't; for him to make a cowardly move would insinuate that he was afraid, but he wasn't. She's just one measly human, nothing to be afraid of. The guards should have no trouble disposing of her and that traitorous excuse of a pokémon that dares to stand by her side.

Mewtwo continues his trek down the hallways and back to his throne room, his paw slowly massaging his temple as he tries to recall any useful information about the human. A part of his mind tells him to brush it off; don't worry about it, she's no one important, all humans look the same anyway; and yet he can't ignore the feeling that he's encountered her before.

His head floods with memories once again, the images blurry and sounds muffled; everything else before it had been so clear and crisp and he wonders why his mind is having so much trouble recalling these particular moments. Even within the misty fog of forgotten memories there are a few key visions that shine brighter and more clearly than the rest; a dainty hand playfully ruffling the fur on his shoulder, a pleasant night staring up at the heavens, and a pair of bright, fiery eyes that burn with determination.

He tries to dig deeper, to rediscover this seemingly ancient knowledge buried within his subconscious, but all this earns him is a splitting headache; it feels as if his skull will snap in two and he almost wishes that it would as long as it would make the pain go away.

He calms himself, takes deep breaths; breathe in, breathe out, repeat. He just needs to collect himself, needs to clear his mind of all thoughts of familiar-looking little girls and replace them with what really matters; things such as leading his troops, calming the women and children, putting out the fire that threatens to bring his golden castle down to ashes...

...As well as the fire that blazes in that girl's eyes; those eyes that are staring at him, glaring at him right now and how did she get inside in the first place? He glances out the window and sees his soldiers scattered and fallen on the ground, their faces shamefully in the dirt as they take their last gasping breaths.

He turns back to face the human girl, his eyes glowing that telltale blue as the two engage in a silent battle; she should be terrified, she should be backing away in fear, but she just keeps watching him with those strikingly familiar eyes...

(...You!)

He remembers! He remembers everything about her now; this woman that stands before him without any fear is the same girl that caught him with that accursed Master Ball several years ago. Her eyes are dimmer now, nearly lightless, colder than they used to be; this shift of power between the pokémon and the humans has no doubt been hard on her; but they still hold the same fiery passion as the day they first met, the day she and her pokémon first challenged him, the day she and her pokémon almost lost their lives to him before shamelessly enslaving him.

His eyes narrow; he has a score to settle with this one. His mind is blinded by rage and thoughts of revenge; she captured and humiliated him and she has to suffer, hurt, bleed some more and none of the happy memories they once shared mean anything because she's human and she needs, no, she deserves to die.

By the scowl on her face, Mewtwo can tell that she is equally enraged. Those eyes that were once bright and happy and young are now dark and bitter and cold; he can see his own reflection shining in her eyes, he sees himself screaming and suffering and burning in the flames of Hell themselves and he knows that this girl is determined to deliver him to Beelzebub with his head on a platter even if it means that she'll burn down with him.

For a moment, barely a second, Mewtwo swears that he can see tears in her eyes, but the moment passes and he's once again scorched by her gaze.

He registers as the charizard tries to sneak behind him; that charizard of hers was much too brash and arrogant, he recalls, never any good at planning or being covert. He can see the attack coming before the fire even leaves the other pokémon's maw; the shining blue barrier he creates around himself is more than enough to deflect the Flamethrower attack. A sweep of his arm and the charizard disappears in a flash of red light, yet another victim of his own custom-made pokéballs; powerful enough to capture even a pokémon already under the care of a trainer and inspired by the blasted Master Ball that once enslaved him.

He drinks in the look of dismay, smirking with a dark expression. That is her last pokémon; she used to have three more but he took care of them long ago.

He knows this is not a fair fight; no human could ever hope to face his powers alone; but he doesn't care. Life is not fair. It wasn't fair when life was wrongly given to him by men playing God, it wasn't fair to him when life was controlled by a man full of lies and, later, a white and purple spherical prison, and now it will not be fair to her when life is taken from her by his own paw.

(But it will be justified.)

She doesn't back away, even as he draws nearer and nearer she holds her ground. She's either brave or stupid; maybe both. It doesn't matter; nothing matters but his paws around her neck and the choking gasps she makes and the bruises forming on her skin and that fire in her eyes that refuses to extinguish no matter how much he tries to smother it.

Her hands grip his paws, desperately trying to pull free, her nails digging past his fur and into his skin; it stings but he can hardly focus on the minor pain because her hands are so warm and her eyes are wide, frantic, but still burning and he finds himself drawn to the heat like a venemoth to a flame. He leans in closer, loosens his hold on her neck; light enough to allow her to breathe but firm enough to still keep her in place.

She takes in deep, panting, greedy breaths; humans are greedy and take everything they can get; and he can feel the puffs of air warm against his face, his cheek, his mouth and he questions whether or not she's as warm on the inside as she is on the outside. He stares at her mouth curiously and for the first time notices how plump and pink and soft her lips look. He takes back his earlier desire for claws; he wishes the scientists had given him lips instead. Her chest heaves with its desperate gasps and he feels it pressing against his own because she's close, so close, and every part of her body radiates warmth; she's so warm with fire and rage and life and he wants it, needs her heat because he's cold and lonely and dead inside.

He lowers his paws to her shoulders, his grip still firm and almost painful as he admires the discolored skin in the form of his fingertips around her neck. On a whim, he nuzzles against the flesh of her collarbone, ignoring the girl's shock; her sudden intake of breath, the way the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. He inhales deeply; she smells like sweat and dirt and fear and for some odd reason he can feel his blood boiling in his veins and the desire to taste...

(...Just a little nibble...)

And so he does; sharp incisors break her skin and she flinches but she doesn't make a sound, not even a whimper, as her lifeblood slowly dribbles into his awaiting mouth. There's nothing pleasant about the metallic taste in his mouth but it isn't entirely unpleasant either. He laps at her skin, soothing the abrasion with gentle strokes of his rough tongue. The girl is abruptly brought out of her shock; she struggles but her efforts are all in vain because she's in his grasp and Mewtwo has no intention of releasing her.

His mind is in a comfortable haze; he's going on nothing but instincts now and his body is telling him to get closer to that wonderful warmth but he's already so close so how can he possibly get any closer when his body is already pressed flush against her? He's as close as he can get but the throbbing pleasure-pain in his loins seems to disagree. It begs for contact, a simple touch, anything that will relieve the unbearable pressure.

Her struggling has become violent now; she pushes, and scratches, and kicks, and wiggles so deliciously and he can't even bring himself to make her still because she's moving against him and it feels so good. He can't remember a time when he's been this close to someone before, a hot breath against his mouth and cheek, a bucking body trying vainly to break away. He growls as her movements make him jump; she was brushing up against something and he can feel his body heat up and tingle deliciously in response.

She feels it too; he can tell by the way her struggling stops abruptly and her face twists into a mixture of shock, horror, and... something else? Lust, perhaps?

(No...)

No, he knows better. That look in her eyes that burns brighter than any other emotion is anger. A twinge of disgust, maybe, but mostly anger. She wants nothing to do with him unless it involves his death. And can he blame her?

Again, no.

She hates him. She hates him and he understands. After all, he has taken everything from her; her home, her race, her family, her peace of mind, her dreams, her freedom, her trust... He's taken everything from her and he understands because she had once taken everything from him too and he's glad that she hates him because he had hated her, still hates her, and so maybe she'll come to understand his hatred too.

She hates him, he understands, and that's exactly why he continues.

Her struggling increases tenfold, her movements desperate and sporadic, but it does nothing other than use up the last reserves of her energy because he's stronger than her (in more ways than one) and she could never break free; no one escapes from Mewtwo's grasp unless he wants them to and she has no such luck.

Human clothing is so impractical, Mewtwo muses as he easily shreds away her clothes, earning a distressed grunt and more violent struggling in response. He watches the useless scraps of fiber fall away from her body, revealing bare flesh, marred with scars and dirt and sweat, but he barely acknowledges these imperfections because he's so awestruck at the sight of her. She's not quite what he remembers; when he last saw her she was practically a child but now she's all curves and legs and quivering flesh.

He doesn't waste time with foreplay. With a single, swift thrust he's inside her. His face contorts in pleasure as he finds himself surrounded by warm velvety walls.

It's too much.

He loses control almost instantly. He's nothing but instincts and self-gratification and mindless fucking as he moves inside her with a renewed vigor. He can feel her tighten around him in pain, hear the pained grunts sounding from the back of her throat as she holds back her cries, see the way she twitches and holds back her tears as she continues to glare at him with angry, burning eyes.

He pants and groans and smirks; even as he holds her under his power, raping her, breaking her, she still manages a defiant glare in his direction. It's something to admire; even as he destroys her body, decimates her mind, he cannot break her spirit and that just makes him want to break her all the more. He wants her broken and bleeding and he's already halfway there since the scent of her blood is fresh in the air; it radiates from the scratches scattered over her body and it steadily streams out of her from the joining of their bodies. Mewtwo knows this is not her first time; the bleeding is not a result of nature but of violence and this revelation only brings him that much closer to going over the edge. He doesn't, at least, not yet. He wants to draw this out for as long as he can.

(Scream!)

She doesn't.

His fingers bruise her skin, his length penetrates her insides, and still she refuses to call out in pain. He can tell that she wants to; he can see it in the way her eyes hold back tears that refuse to fall and her teeth bite holes through her lip rather than dare to give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain. As much as he'd like to hear her screams it doesn't really matter; he can see her agony clear as day and that's more than enough.

Mewtwo quickens his pace and his already painful grip on the girl tightens as he reaches his climax; he's on the edge one minute and then the next he's fallen over and he's rushing towards the ground, ready for it all to end, and then he's floating gently to the ground.

One last look into her eyes and he can see himself crash and burn.

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

Mewtwo's eyes flutter open and he's greeted by a set of bright, warm eyes.

"Morning, sleepyhead. It's about time you woke up."

He blinked, staring curiously at the girl above him. She was still young and bright and nothing like the angry, tortured woman who still haunted him even as he returned to the lands of reality.

"Did you have pleasant dreams?"

"...Something like that."

"Good."

He watches her walk off to prepare breakfast for all of the pokémon on her team and shakes his head in order to clear his thoughts.

It had all just been a dream. He was not a ruthless dictator. He did not drink champagne atop a throne nor did he rule over a glorious human-free kingdom with an iron fist. He was just a female trainer's glorified slave.

But not for much longer.

Mewtwo smirked, his eyes glowing an icy blue; "Soon," he assures himself, "Soon."Chapter End Notes:I have quite a bit of author notes about this particular story, but I didn't want to spoil anything so I decided to put them all at the end. Personally, I'm somewhat fond with how this came out. I write so many ridiculous things that I often get the urge to write something dark and serious just to prove to myself that I'm capable of doing it.

About the timeline: In my version of Mewtwo's past he's still cloned and created and gets used by Giovanni just like in the movie, but after he escapes from that rascally Rocket I have Mewtwo take refuge in Cerulean Cave where he waits for a year or so until the main character of my story â��Masterâ�a33; finds him. While in the cave, Mewtwo uses that time to plot his revenge. It's still undecided whether or not the events that take place in Mewtwo's dream will be cannon to the future story or not. Also, this one-shot takes place at a time further ahead than anything I've written.

About Mewtwo: My idea of Mewtwo is that he's more than just an anti-social butt-munch (which he is, regardless) but he's also got a nice handful of emotional baggage. I wanted to make Mewtwo come off as unstable which I tried to portray by using run-on sentences and odd, psychotic thought patterns. He's also very vengeful and distrustful when it comes to humans due to his past experiences, especially with Giovanni.

I purposely made the sex scene as short and as non-descriptive as I could. This story was not meant to arouse sexually (only stimulate mentally, or confuse the hell out of you at the very least) and there's absolutely nothing sexy about rape in the first place. Besides, I've never actually written anything sexual before so it's not like I'd be able to write grade-A smut in the first place. In the future, I'll be sure to be more descriptive when writing consensual pieces.

And that's it. Hopefully this will tide everyone over until the next chapter of â��Masterâ�a33; comes out. Or inspire those who haven't read â��Masterâ�a33; to check it out.

Thanks to everyone who's read and everyone who reviews. ^__^

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, and is applicable for all consecutive chapters that follow.