Title: Beautiful Predator
Fandom: Star Trek (Extremely AU)
It isn't surprising that few, if any, wonder what an inanimate object might 'think'. Or, if one can do so at all.
Inanimate objects aren't generally thought of as being able to think, have opinions, or even memories for that matter.
They are just things.
The dagger lay sheathed on a bedside table not three feet away from the blade's owner. The dagger lay there with no voice any living being could hear, no mouth with which to speak and yet it was thinking.
Of a kind, it was thinking.
I am not alive. Neither am I dead. You might think it strange but if you never live, you can't die, can you? If you're not alive, you can't think or remember.
If you're not dead either, maybe you can. I do.
I belong to someone. That man over there; I belong to him. It's not exactly like I'm his slave. I'm not. I perform my job; the job I was forged for.
I was forged as a weapon. I am his weapon.
I have both taken lives and saved lives. Mostly, his life on very many occasions. I'm no hero. I'm no villain. I'm just a dagger doing what I was forged to do.
That man over there forged me.
So I suppose you could call me his son. Maybe. In a weird sense. I am his creation. So I am his and I do what he wills of me.
I don't remember the forging too well except that I was on fire for a long time. I was on fire and under pressure.
I was made by two hands and a machine.
When the fire cooled off, I felt as new as I probably should have. Edges, sharp as any razor or better. Flat of me smooth and refined. My maker picked me up. Regarded me.
And held me.
I knew what I was made to do.
I was made to kill.
I'm not good. I'm not evil. I just am.
I have killed men for my creator. I felt the rush; I feel it every time his hand flicks. From the close confines of the holster to the cold, open air. And then, when the need arises, I come forward or at an angle and land into living flesh.
Do you know what it feels like?
It's warm, landing in living flesh. It's almost hot. It's moist and when blood rises against me, I feel as a drowning man might. I drown in blood every time. Every time I land, diving into flesh and blood and muscle, I can feel the warmth and the cold. Like raw meat, living meat. Prey.
I take prey. I am a refined, precise animal.
I am a predator.
That man over there. He too is a predator. We are a pack, you might say. He is the alpha and I, the beta. We protect each other.
When I slide into raw, warm flesh, I rejoice. I take pleasure in the kill knowing I protect. Knowing I am performing my function.
And I revel in it.
When all is quiet and he's alone, he takes care of me.
The edge gets a fine, meticulous honing. The flat gets shined up. A little oil and a whetstone; I revel in that too.
It's almost sensual when the oil just barely coats me over. It feels smooth, warm and slick. It isn't the cold slick of prey-blood. It's warm, secure and safe. It's sensual, slow and mellow.
And then the whetstone scrapes the oil away as if it was a grimy film of something utterly disgusting.
After a while, oil does become disgusting but not so much as prey-blood does when it dries. It become sticky, stiff and dark.
I feel dirty when the blood dries.
I feel sensual, loved when oil slides down the blade.
I feel as though I am in a baptism when the whetstone scrapes away oil, blood and hones down the edge back to killing-beauty.
And when I emerge, shining and deadly again, I feel like new.
A newly purified killer.
A newly resurrected predator.
I am not good. I am not evil.
I am the creation of a man. A good man. A deadly man.
I am a predator and a saviour.
I am the tooth of the wolf.