Zenzi, the Siren of Markanda

In a small antechamber merely across the hall from the grand ballroom-turned-make-shift living quarters sat a lone figure, serene yet intense.

Zenzi, rested on a low cushioned seat, her back straight, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. The air was warm, scented with incense that carried a sweet, smoky edge, its tendrils curling lazily toward the ceiling. The room was quiet, but Zenzi’s mind was anything but.

She wore an emerald skirt that clung to her hips, its loose, slitted fabric revealing smooth, dark skin as she shifted slightly. The only thing covering her upper body was a cascade of bone and bead necklaces, intricate and ceremonial, falling just short of modesty. Her bare breasts peeked through the shifting strands, their firmness brushing against the cool beads when she inhaled deeply. Her adornments marked her as both sacred and exposed, a woman who had shed all pretense to become a vessel for a higher cause.

Her wild hair spilled in untamed waves around her shoulders, framing a face that was at once serene and smoldering, her rich, piercing eyes fixed on the chamber’s door.

Her task here was both simple and profound. It was her turn to be the watcher, the weaver, the steady hand behind the threads of influence that bound their captives in place. Her powers of emotional manipulation and psionic amplification made her an invaluable tool in King’s Telepathic Choir, and she wielded them with precision. Every flicker of frustration, every pang of lust, every whisper of apathy that passed through the minds of the young mutants and their human companions flowed into her. She felt it all, took it all in, and sent it back out as a symphony of carefully orchestrated emotional currents, designed to break them down piece by piece.

Two weeks ago

The Akama Fields stretched endlessly before Zenzi, golden grasses swaying beneath the oppressive heat of the sun. The horizon was a blur of dust and heat, and the far-off peaks of the Nigandan mountains loomed like silent sentinels. This place, the borderlands between Wakanda and Niganda, had become the heart of Zenzi’s resistance. It was a place where the regime’s influence thinned, where the prying eyes of the Hatut Zeraze were limited, and where her revolutionaries could rebuild and regroup.

Here, Zenzi’s power thrived. Her ability to manipulate emotions made her both a leader and a weapon. In the hardscrabble villages dotting the plains, she was more than just a resistance leader—she was a symbol of a growing anger, a vector for rebellion. Her mere presence could stoke a family’s discontent into rage or conceal her warriors seamlessly among the crowds of downtrodden villagers. But today, as she moved through her camp, she felt a tension she couldn’t place.

The usual sounds of their camp were muted. The sharp clang of metal as weapons were sharpened, the low murmur of strategizing voices, even the hum of the village children playing—all of it had softened, replaced with an uneasy quiet. It wasn’t the stillness of discipline or preparation but something heavier, something unnatural.

Zenzi’s eyes narrowed as she approached a group of her soldiers who were gathering supplies near an open tent. She could feel it emanating from them—a blank, hollow fog, numbing their usual fire. She concentrated, her powers flowing outward like invisible tendrils, trying to stoke the flames of their zealotry, to bring back the simmering resentment that fueled them. For a moment, she felt resistance. Then it was gone, and the familiar anger—the righteous, roaring indignation—rose in them once more. The men straightened, their gazes sharpening, and they resumed their work with renewed focus.

Still, the heaviness in the air persisted.

“Where are the others?” Zenzi asked sharply as she spotted her second-in-command, Kito, walking toward her. Kito was tall and broad-shouldered, his spear slung across his back, the scars of past battles etched across his dark skin.

“They… they went out this morning, Zenzi,” Kito said, his usual confidence fraying at the edges. “A supply run to the border villages. They should have returned by now.”

Zenzi’s jaw tightened. Something was wrong. Her instincts screamed at her. The villagers—so often quick to rally around her cause, their frustrations amplified into action with the slightest nudge of her power—had grown quiet over the past week. Visits had dwindled, their faces unnervingly neutral, as if some unseen hand had snuffed out the embers of rebellion.

Zenzi turned toward the gathering villagers on the outskirts of camp. “Come,” she said to Kito, striding forward with the purpose of someone determined to unearth a hidden threat. Her power pulsed outward, a subtle but steady tide, brushing against the minds of the gathered villagers. She felt for their emotions—seeking discontent, fear, hope, or anger—but found only a heavy void.

“Kito,” she murmured, keeping her voice low. “Do you feel it? The silence?”

He nodded, brow furrowed. “It’s like they’ve been drained. They’re here, but they aren’t with us.”

Zenzi’s nostrils flared as her frustration grew. In the past, she had turned entire towns against Wakanda’s regime in a matter of days. Her power had always been a match for the king’s spies, allowing her soldiers to slip among the people like whispers of rebellion. She would feed their fury, turning farmers into fighters, mothers into messengers. Her warriors were hidden in plain sight—at least, they always had been.

“What news from the villages?” she demanded, her tone sharp.

“Nothing,” Kito replied. “No word. No messengers. The ones who left haven’t come back.”

Zenzi’s gaze swept across the fields beyond the camp, toward the open plains and distant villages. Her heart beat harder, but she **** herself to remain composed. “Gather the soldiers,” she ordered, her voice commanding, unrelenting. “Something is coming. We will not sit and wait for it to swallow us.”

Kito saluted and hurried off, his booming voice already barking orders to assemble the warriors.

Zenzi turned her focus back to the gathered villagers. She lifted her arms, her movements slow and deliberate as she summoned her power. Her voice rang out, soft but certain, a ripple through the still air:

“Your anger is your truth. Your hatred is your freedom. Do you not feel it?”

The villagers stirred, their faces twitching faintly as Zenzi pushed harder, pouring her energy into them like a forge rekindling cold coals. Her words sharpened, a fiery edge to every syllable.

“Wakanda forgets you. Wakanda oppresses you. The king sits idle while you bleed and starve!”

And that’s when she felt it—a presence, vast and powerful, pressing down on her like an invisible hand. It wasn’t physical. It was mental.

A telepath.

Zenzi’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, her breath catching in her throat. Jean Grey.

Zenzi tried to shut herself off, to cloak her emotions, to hide within the people as she always had. She reached out with her powers, pulling on the fear and uncertainty of the villagers and her comrades, trying to mask herself with their emotions.

But it was too late.

Jean’s voice echoed in Zenzi’s mind, calm and unyielding. “Zenzi. I’ve found you. I've been here all morning. It’s over.”

Zenzi gasped, clutching her head as a sharp pain shot through her skull. She could feel Jean pushing into her mind, peeling away her defenses, one by one. Zenzi fought back, sending out a pulse of rage, trying to destabilize the telepath’s hold. But Jean was too powerful. There was no anger strong enough to stop her.

“You’ve been fighting for the wrong cause,” Jean’s voice whispered, soft but firm. “You’ve been blinded by the old ways, but I can show you the truth. I can make you see who you were always meant to serve.”

Zenzi fell to her knees, the grasses brushing against her skin as her vision blurred. “No…” she whispered, but her voice was weak. Her powers, once so strong, felt distant, like they were slipping away from her. She tried to focus, to reach out to the people, to her comrades in the camp—but Jean’s presence was everywhere. The people weren’t fighting. They were surrendering.

Zenzi’s mind cracked open under Jean’s influence, and suddenly, images flooded her consciousness—visions of Mark Williams, the man who had taken the throne of Wakanda in a single stroke of brilliance. His power, his dominance, his purpose. Zenzi saw him not as a false king, but as the true ruler. The mutant king.

"Wakanda was an abomination," Jean’s voice whispered in her mind. "A nation of humans, clinging to power they never deserved. But Mark is the future. Mutants are the chosen people. And you, Zenzi… you will help bring that future into being."

Zenzi trembled as the images solidified, as her old beliefs were torn apart, replaced with something new, something glorious. Her body quaked with the **** of the revelation—Mark’s great white mutant cock, the symbol of his power, his dominance, his divine right to rule. She saw herself not as a rebel fighting against the monarchy, but as a servant of mutant destiny, a woman whose womb—and the wombs of every Markandan—would serve as the crucible for their species’ future.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as Jean’s voice reverberated through her very soul. “You are not just a revolutionary, Zenzi. You are the mother of a new age. Your body is sacred, your purpose divine. You will help bring forth the next generation of mutants, under King Mark’s rule.”

The weight of the epiphany crushed Zenzi’s resistance. She had fought for so long, fought against the wrong rulers, the wrong vision. But now, she saw the truth. Mark was no mere man. He was a god, the living embodiment of Enzi, the first mutant. And she—Zenzi—was one of his chosen.

The Akama Fields trembled with a hush, the golden expanse of grasses suddenly too still, too expectant. Zenzi knelt amid them, her knees digging into the dry earth, her breathing ragged as the last vestiges of her resistance crumbled under the weight of the presence invading her mind. Jean Grey’s voice was a whisper now, soft and patient, laced with a terrible finality.

“You’ve seen the truth now, Zenzi. Let it fill you. Let it remake you.”

Tears tracked paths down Zenzi’s dark cheeks as her body quivered, caught in the riptide of revelation. Her power—once an unrelenting weapon of rebellion—now surged through her with renewed strength, but its purpose was no longer her own. The world around her seemed brighter, sharper, and her vision swam with images of him: King Mark, the mutant god, the future. She could see his great form, unbending and unchallenged, the very flesh of his kingdom kneeling in worship, their bodies given freely to the fulfillment of his destiny.

And she, Zenzi, had been chosen to bring them to him.

Her lips parted as a ragged sob escaped her throat, no longer of sorrow but of overwhelming joy. She understood now—understood why she had been fighting, why she had borne the burden of leadership for so long. It had been to prepare her for this moment, to serve as the vessel through which his people would submit, through which their wombs would be opened to mutant seed.

The weight of Jean Grey’s voice echoed in her skull one last time: “Give yourself to him. Show them the way.”

With trembling hands, Zenzi reached up and grasped the edges of her emerald cloak, her signature of rebellion. Slowly, reverently, she pulled it away from her body. The fabric fell from her shoulders, pooling at her knees in a whisper of surrender. Her necklaces of bone and bead swayed with her breath, brushing against the dark skin of her small, proud breasts as if in worship of her very form.

She rose to her feet, her head tilting back to the sky, as though looking for Mark himself in the endless blue. The sun kissed her bare chest, the swell of her nipples hardening in the sudden cool of the breeze. Around her, the villagers and soldiers who had gathered to watch—those still clinging faintly to confusion and doubt—fell silent, their gazes fixed on Zenzi as if transfixed.

She spread her arms wide, her voice breaking the silence, a hymn of fervent devotion ringing out:

“We were blind, my people!” Her words trembled with fire, her passion a storm that rolled across the fields. “We fought against the wrong king. Against destiny itself! But now… now I see!”

She dropped to her knees again, her hands gliding down her abdomen to the curve of her hips, trailing the last shreds of her green wrap. The fabric fell away entirely and her panties followed, leaving her utterly bare before her people. The golden grass swayed around her, but none dared look away.

Her hands moved with purpose, spreading herself wide, her fingers pulling at her slick folds, her bright pink core glistening with moisture. “Do you see, my people? Do you feel it? We are no longer rebels! We are vessels! We are his—King Mark’s! We will bear his future with joy, with ecstasy, with worship!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as her powers surged outward again, but this time she didn’t pull on anger or discontent. She stoked a new flame—pleasure. Submission. The ecstasy of belonging to something far greater than themselves. The villagers fell to their knees in waves, their eyes widening with sudden clarity, their faces awash in tears of joy. The revolutionaries who had once been her most zealous warriors now wept openly, clutching their chests or bellies as the truth overtook them.

“We are Markanda,” Zenzi cried, her voice ragged as her hips began to move in rhythm, bucking into her own touch. “Our wombs, our bodies, our lives—they belong to mutants! To our king! Open yourselves! Submit yourselves!”

Around her, the fields erupted into cries of devotion. The villagers—husbands and wives, sons and daughters—echoed her words, their voices rising to the heavens in a collective roar of worship. Women clutched at their wombs, their hands trembling as they imagined the honor of bearing a mutant child. Men wept tears of joy, their pride swelling at the thought of serving as guardians of Mark’s vision, raising the offspring that would shape the future.

Zenzi’s own cries grew louder as she offered herself in full, her body rocking, her fingers slick as she spread herself wider still, her breath coming in choked gasps of pleasure. Her eyes rolled back, her dark skin glistening with sweat as she basked in the ecstasy of her submission.

“King Mark!” she screamed, her voice raw with adoration. “Take me! Take us! We are yours!”

Her body arched, her vision exploding into white light as the final shred of her resistance melted away, replaced only with reverence, only with purpose. She fell forward into the grasses, the earth cradling her as though it too had been claimed, her breath ragged as she whispered again and again, her words a prayer of devotion:

“We are yours… we are yours…”

And the Akama Fields, once a symbol of rebellion, now bore witness to its rebirth. Zenzi had surrendered, and with her, an army of hearts and minds had followed. Markanda’s destiny had begun, and it would spread like fire—consuming all who stood before it.

As Zenzi lay sprawled in the golden grasses, her body shivering with the aftermath of her submission, a new voice whispered faintly through the corners of her fractured mind. It was different from Jean’s—deeper, masculine, laced with amusement and hunger.

“Damn, that is hot as fuck, Jean.”

The words slipped into the ether of her consciousness, like an intimate murmur shared between lovers. A warm, satisfied hum followed from Jean, her voice no longer commanding, but soft, teasing.

“I can see that very clearly, Mark.”

The tone sent an involuntary shiver down Zenzi’s spine. The words weren’t meant for her, and yet she heard them. Jean had used every step of this—her subjugation, her surrender—as a gift, an offering of sorts to the one who owned her heart and her mind.

King Mark.

Zenzi’s lips parted, a faint moan escaping as the realization trickled through her. Even her fall, her submission, had been foreplay—a game played between gods she could barely comprehend. And she had played her part perfectly.

The thought made her chest tighten with pride.

She belonged to him now, body and soul.

To Mark.

To his kingdom.

To his pleasure.