Two Months Previous,
The hum of the laboratory grated on Jack's already frayed nerves. Marrow, hunched over her petri dish like some mad scientist brewing plague, hadn't even acknowledged his presence.
He'd come, perhaps foolishly, thinking he could reason with her, and rekindle the spark of their… partnership. Strategic alliance, he corrected himself mentally. Partnerships implied equality, and Marrow was most assuredly his inferior. He tolerated her brilliance, nothing more.
He'd tried then, perhaps foolishly, to speak with Marrow in person, to appeal to something he hoped might still exist within her, a flicker of the strategic alliance they'd begun with.
She hadn't looked up from her microscope, bent over a petri dish filled with swirling, opaque fluid in her gleaming, sterile laboratory.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was clinical, utterly devoid of emotion. "You're not being careful enough, Jack," she'd stated as if diagnosing a disease. "You've become… sentimental. Letting that girl near Lennox's brat was a mistake."
Sentimental? The very word felt like a physical blow. He, Jack, sentimental? The thought was ludicrous. He scoffed inwardly. He was a master strategist, a visionary. Marrow, with her narrow focus and cold, unfeeling logic, couldn't possibly grasp the nuances of his schemes.
What she perceived as sentimentality was merely... finesse. A delicate touch is applied precisely to achieve maximum impact. She lacked the imagination, the sheer genius, to understand.
Besides, he relished the power he held. The knowledge, the control... even the flicker of fear he occasionally saw in the eyes of others. It was intoxicating.
Marrow, in her sterile little world, was oblivious to the game being played, the complexities he navigated with effortless grace. And letting that girl near Lennox's daughter… well, that was simply a lever he intended to use. A subtle pressure point. Marrow couldn't appreciate the artistry.
He forced a smile, though she wouldn't see it. "Careful is my middle name, Marrow," he'd said, or at least wanted to say. The words felt grave on his tongue; however, he was stifled by the sheer weight of his disdain. He left without another word, the hum of the laboratory ringing in his ears, a constant reminder of Marrow's limitations.
He was playing chess while she was still struggling to grasp the rules of checkers. And he, Jack, was always ten steps ahead. He just needed to remember that sentiment was a liability, and Marrow, a tool. And tools, however useful, were ultimately expendable.
"She's Loyal."
Loyal, he thought again, the word echoing in the cold chambers of his heart. It was true. Gene's loyalty was unquestionable. He'd seen it time and again, her staunch defense of him, her unwavering belief in his… well, in whatever twisted narrative he'd spun for her.
And that, he realized with a jolt, was the problem. He craved that loyalty, craved her unwavering gaze, but simultaneously resented it. It made him feel… vulnerable. Dependent. And Jack couldn't stand the thought of being anything less than the puppeteer, pulling all the strings.
The low hum of the server room was a symphony to Jack's ears. Power. Control. He savored it as he watched Marrow troubleshoot the network outage, her brow furrowed in concentration. He found her frustration… delectable.
It was a testament to his perceived brilliance, a shining example of why he was destined for greatness, while she was, well, Marrow. Competent, perhaps, but ultimately… beneath him.
"Having trouble, Marrow?" he drawled, leaning against a rack of blinking lights. His voice dripped with a mock concern that masked the pure, unadulterated pleasure he derived from her struggle. "Perhaps a little beyond your skill set?"
He watched her jaw tighten, the only outward sign of her annoyance. He reveled in it. He'd known she'd bristle. Marrow, for all her technical prowess, was predictable. He enjoyed peeling back the layers of her composure, revealing the nerve beneath. It affirmed his superiority and reinforced the walls of his meticulously constructed self-image.
But something felt… different tonight. He saw the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands as she typed, the flicker of genuine determination in her eyes. It was a fleeting thing, quickly masked, but he saw it. And it… bothered him.
He knew he would keep playing the game. He had to. He couldn't afford to let her see the crack in his armor, the flicker of something other than cold calculation in his eyes. To acknowledge her competence too openly, to betray a flicker of genuine respect, would be a catastrophic admission of vulnerability.
To let her see doubt, to let her see humanity… unthinkable. He couldn't allow Marrow to gain any leverage, any perceived advantage. He had to maintain the charade and reinforce the narrative that he was the master, and she was merely a player in his game.
But tonight, for the first time, that game felt a little less satisfying, a little more… complicated. The usual thrill of dominance was muted, overshadowed by a nagging awareness that he was working harder than usual to maintain the facade. He knew it was dangerous.
He scoffed inwardly. Sentimental nonsense. He quickly attributed it to the late hour and the low blood sugar. He needed to reassert himself, to remind himself, and her, who held the power.
"Perhaps," he continued, his voice regaining its familiar edge, "I should just take over. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself."
Marrow had finally lifted her head then, her eyes, usually behind thick lenses, meeting his directly. They were pale, sharp, and unsettlingly devoid of warmth. "Gene is temporary, her loyalty does not matter," she'd said, the word cutting like a scalpel. A tool to be used and discarded.
That was the moment, the precise instant, he knew the depth of the abyss between them. Marrow didn't see people, not as allies, not as sacrifices, not even really as enemies. She saw only utility. Calculated leverage. Pieces on a board.
The way she'd looked at him in that moment, as she delivered that cold assessment of Gene, made his skin crawl with a primal dread. It was the look of someone measuring, calculating precisely how many more days, how many more uses, she could tolerate him before he, too, became… temporary.