02-Oct-2000

I'm ba-ack! This little piece is a bit different from the way I normally write. It ended up being a *very* 1st person, internal kind of writing. Hopefully it's still readable. It's set in the same AU as 'Running With The Moon' and the other shapechanger pieces I've done; but it's a very different perspective. Hopefully, if time permits, this will become part of a longer story I've been thinking about.

Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others. For time-wasting purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Warnings: Implied violence, language, bastardized Dorothy. (like *that's* much of a stretch!) Possible squick.

The Art Of War by Hope of Dawn

Prologue

Have you ever known what it's like to need something? To desire it so completely, so fervently that your hands shake and your guts clench at the mere thought? To want it with a soul-deep longing that makes your hands shake like an addict in need of a fix?

And have you ever been denied that thing? What's more, been denied even the attempt to obtain your one desire, due to the mere circumstances of your birth?

I'm not talking about something as simple as wanting a car or a lover or a career. This isn't something that is as easily remedied as a dream denied because of race or sex or religion.

I'm talking about the desperate longing of a fish that, as it's swimming in its watery home, looks up at the sky and aches for the chance to fly. A fish cursed with the intelligence to realize that such a thing will never be.

But then, how could you? After all, how can you miss something when you were never aware of its existence in the first place? Blind, bleating, fatuous sheep--stumbling along, your myopic gaze limited only the extent of your herd. How could you possibly understand?

I do.

I know about Them. I've even seen them, in their thousand forms. Their muzzles dipped in blood, powerful and beautiful and so achingly *alive*... A myriad of shapes underneath the moon, fur and scales and feathers all donned over human skin--not as a mask, you understand, but their true selves revealed and their human facades thrown away.

You would have probably screamed with fear if you had been there with me, perched on that cold scrub-brush and rock of the hilltop, watching them. I don't blame you--it is, after all, what sheep do when confronted by the wolves. They scream and panic and run, while the wolves...

Ah, the wolves. They would have torn you to pieces, I think. Burying their muzzles in your soft innards, fighting over pieces of viscera as you bled yourself white into the earth. It would have been glorious indeed.

It wouldn't have been out of hate or vengeance, despite what you may think. It simply would have been because you were there, and it was necessary. Your blood would have become an offering to the Earth Mother; your bones, cracked and savored by even the youngest among them.

I can see the horror in your eyes. You think I am mad, delusional. That there are no such things as werewolves, kitsune--whatever you wish to call them. That humans are the hunters, the dominant species of the planet, and that there has been nothing to challenge that dominance in thousands of years. You are so wrong, little sheep. I don't blame you for your assumptions, however; they have, after all, hidden the truth exceedingly well.

It's very logical, once you think about it. You see, every living thing on this planet has its natural predators. Humans in our arrogance would like to believe we have eliminated ours. To believe that there is nothing left that could possibly harm us, except for ourselves.

We are wrong. Our predators are simply more cunning. Our predators have learned how to walk on two legs, and how to look exactly like we do.

And that's the thing that makes me grit my teeth, shaking with rage and helpless fury.

Do not be fooled--it's not the outrage of the lamb led to the slaughter. I couldn't care less if they killed you and every other bleating sheep of a person on this planet. No, my rage is a darker, much more visceral thing. For you see, the one thing that I have dreamed of as a child--the bright shining glorious goal that I have strived for all my life--is utterly unattainable.

I can never be one of them.

I will never be a predator, sweeping through the night secure in the knowledge that I am stronger, faster, smarter than my prey. I will never know the feeling of the Change, the painful exaltation that summoning claws and teeth, fur or wings will bring. No matter how much I train, or how dangerous I become, I will always be one of the sheep.

A fucking sheep. Slow and stupid. Meat for the taking.

For that, I have learned to hate them.

For that, I have learned to kill them.

Do not waste your contempt on me. I am perfectly aware of the hypocrisy of my actions; and I have long ceased to care.

I am far from being the only one. There are others like me, sheep who have tasted blood, seen the power they were denied. We have ferreted out the faces and names of these predators, the masks of humanity that they hide under. Most importantly, though--we have discovered the source of their power.

With that knowledge, and the realization that we can never share in that power, has come a decision. We, the pitiful disenfranchised sheep, will be the ones to take that power away and gain our final, bloody victory. Do not doubt it. We will take them with us down into death in one final, glorious battle.

Given that resolution, the inevitable question is simple. How can sheep destroy wolves? The answer--

The wolves may know the Hunt, but humans--humans know War. We will bring War to burn them away.

It will not ease the aching of my soul, the part of me the cries out for the power and savagery I will never possess. I have understood that for some time now. However, it will deprive Them of that gift as well. It is a fitting justice, I think, that they should become nothing more than the sheep they have hunted. I fervently hope that I shall live to see that day.

In the meantime, though...

Beware the wolves, little sheep. And when you see fire raining down from the sky to wipe the earth clean, please--think of me as you die.

The End

Back to 'Running With The Moon'

(:./hope/art1)