Consciousness was still lost to him as a light shone on his face after walking into it. The fading sunlight from dusk gave warmth to his skin slightly before it dimmed outside completely. Striker had found himself in a bit of a daze, walking through a vacant area near where he would soon patrol. He'd finished a rigorous workout after work, his mind going over an itinerary of the patrol ahead, and the full day that tomorrow would be, trying to work out the unexplained blank there, and becoming blank the more he tried to think of it.
And with that blankness was some sort of complementary compulsion, something pulling him gently, urging him. Absent-mindedly, he might've gone along with it, but instead he just stood there trying to analyze whatever wanted something of him. His senses weren't hindered at all, just pleasantly sedated, which he had to shake off when on duty. He would rather take the night off instead of patrolling while sluggish, tired and exhausted, putting himself at risk, even if a peaceful relaxation permeated through him, the kind he'd become more intimate with recently.
It'd been a week or so since his run in with Scryer, the witch. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd been compromised. It wasn't far-fetched to think that any sense of feeling off, and feeling good about it was her doing. The night he met her was a passionate one where the most significant details left to comb over were the passion itself and the temptation of wanting more. Warning other heroes of her was on his mind, and yet, he still wondered what there was to tell. He believed her when she told him that she encountered the others, and sampled or examined them somehow. She was so forthcoming about it with him, and then the aftermath...Scryer was definitely someone to look out for. Her endgame was still a mystery, if there was one. It scared him more that all the red-headed sorceress was doing was just for fun. No aim except to hedonistically derive pleasure wherever and however she wanted. Perhaps he was over thinking it; a diagnosis Scryer would surely agree with.
As he headed home, he found three men in a back alley trying to rob an elderly couple. Typical of the city, yet surprisingly in broad daylight, and just perfect for his skills. There wasn't time to run to the apartment and change, but it's not like he needed to. Jon stepped right between the two groups, serving as a barrier. Playing defensive after confronting them led the first two to walk right into swift, neutralizing strikes to their necks. After the peons went down with ease, the third, the ring-leader armed with a switch blade, had to be handled with a little finesse, trying to keep his business suit unscathed. Grabbing the mugger's wrist, Jon put pressure on it and snatched the blade out of his hand, hitting him on the forehead with the blade's butt, finally put the last man down.
"Are you two alright?" He asked, paying more attention to the assailants to make sure they stayed down.
"Much better now" a sultry, accented voice behind him spoke.
Striker turned to face the woman who'd replaced the elderly couple, and stared straight into her eyes. She was dressed differently, in a business suit this time, but it was unmistakably her. With a confident gait, she closed the distance between them and light tapped his forehead. Like magic, it illicted a strange compulsion made his awareness fade and consciousness dim...
Sometime later he sat tied to a chair, hands bound behind him, dressed as Striker without the face mask. Head bowed from sleep, until the sound of soft footsteps that approached woke him. Scryer wore a sweet, bewitching smile and stood in front of him. "There she is," he thought. The source of this magic and the object of his suppressed desires. Anger and his will kept his resolve alive and in-check. He wasn't surprised at all that Scryer would use that kind of trap on him; it worked well enough the first time as a ruse, or so he theorized from that night. And his heroism wouldn't allow him to ignore it on the chance that it could be real thugs looking to harm innocents. Predictability was the price of being a hero like he was. On the one hand, he was glad it was an illusion, as it perplexed him why some of the most vulnerable people thought it was worth the risk, taking shortcuts through alleys were 3/4s of crimes committed happen. On the other hand, it pained him how foolish he must've looked fighting illusions only he could see. At best, it would've looked like a bout of street hypnosis, getting random strangers to do silly things. At worst, anyone who would've recognized him would highly recommend him to men in white coats.
He felt his bounds, but couldn't find a weakness anywhere in them. Since he was almost certain she had a way to halt any sudden movements he could make, he stared forward, silently waiting for her to make the next move while contemplating any play he could make. What's worse, the strange compulsion had come back, and now he realized that whatever it was, it seemed to be independent of Scryer, like a different energy; Scryer's mental touch was entirely different to this; much less character to it, and he never expected to be well-versed in discerning these kinds of things. He shook his head to drive the feeling out. Instinctively, his head turned to his left as if knowing which direction the compulsion's origin was coming from, and then he looked in the witch's direction, wondering if it was still all Scryer's doing. She looked at him, then in the compulsion's direction, and shook her head, as if annoyed.
"I know what you're thinking," she interrupted their silence, "but that's not me."
"What the hell is it then? And what the hell are you doing to me?"
"It's nice to see you too, pet," Scryer told him, stroking his hair with her hand. The only reason he didn't recoil reactively was because her doing that somehow interfered with the compulsion, like a radio signal lost while driving through a mountain tunnel.
"Someone else with mental powers is trying to draw you to them." She said without looking at him. "Their power is somewhat impressive. Had I not caught you on the street today, you might be in her clutches now."
"Someone you know?" curiosity urged him to ask.
"Doubtful. They would know better than to encroach on you."
"What?" he asked, though his face more specifically asked, "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, dear Striker, I do have a bit of a claim on you. Obviously no one before me has delved that deeply into your psyche, and left a mark on you. And the special time we've spent together..."
Striker pulled his head away from her constant head-stroking, even if it meant more exposure to his compulsion, which followed immediately. The bound hero never expected to be fighting any mental forces that night, let alone two independent ones. "I wish they could battle for supremacy or something out of my head, or off it," he thought.
"I don't acknowledge your claim," his stern voice told her. "You can't say that after one night-"
"One night was all it took, apparently. And actually, you do acknowledge it. Though that pretty little head of yours puts up quite the impressive fight, it already knows the difference between my powers and someone else's. That's pretty sophisticated in my experience; not to mention in my presence, the further inward I go into you, the more I know your resistance isn't in concert with your desire. You assume that when you feel my power, it's just you identifying it. In reality though, you're embracing it, because you remember how good it feels."
If there was a wall to bang his head against to prevent flashes of that night together, he would've gladly used it.
"And hopefully it serves as some comfort to know that how fascinating you are leaves me to want to give more focus to little else but you. Despite my disappearance, I've never been that far off. You've been on my mind much more than I've expected; unique traits and talents that set you apart from millions of other people, even superheroes. I don't know what else to call that except for you having some kind of claim over me. In our situation, one could argue that we're exclusive..."
"And many would argue that one of us could be legally insane at this point."
"And thank heavens it is not me, Striker. Insanity wouldn't invalidate attraction. What I could do to you with no check, no restraint or self-control to you right now..."
Briefly, the difference between fear and lust blended and became the same as Scryer tempted him with bringing their faces and lips achingly close.
"But sadly, I do have something to attend to," Scryer's head turn and expression telling him exactly what that something was.
