Past Reason Hunted (VOY)
Title: Past Reason Hunted
Rating: R
Summary: A Hirogen is on the hunt.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.
The hunt is all that matters to me now.
My prey is nearby. I can feel its presence deep within my loins, like the initial stirrings of the mating urge but with more fire, the heat of the killing game filling my limbs with life and strength and vigor. The hunt is life to me. All that exists outside the hunt is nothing but waiting, watching, assessing, baiting. Stalk... kill... relax. That is the cycle of life.
The hunt is a sacred ritual. I must prepare myself, therefore, to enter into the realm of the gods. It is they who have shown me to this prey, it is they who have endowed me with the skills and knowledge to stalk it, it is they who guide my hand as the knife slices through living flesh, cleaving muscle and sinew from bone, separating the vital organs from a still-warm body. The sacrifice is for them. To them I give my humble obeisance as I paint my face according to the ancient rites.
The faint aroma of my prey sifts into my nostrils. I tilt my head toward the ceiling, sniffing at air currents until I have determined its location. The aroma is alien to me, and the heat builds in response. It has been too long since I have played the killing game with an unfamiliar prey. I hope that it is worthy of the sacrifice for which it has been chosen.
The only weapon I carry is my knife. There are those among my people who prefer the rifle, claiming that it is more... civilized... but I do not wish to be like them. The hunt was never intended to be civilized. It is brutal, it is savage, it is violent. It is not neat. It is not kind. Killing is never gentle or civilized. That is what makes us hunters: we are not civilized. We are Hirogen.
I smell fear emanating from my prey. Good. Fear excites the mind and quickens the responses. A prey that is afraid is a prey that will challenge the hunt. It is a prey that wants to live. Fear also leaves a trail that is easy to follow. How ironic, that the prey that wants most to live is the prey that is easiest to stalk.
I can hear it now, my prey, as it struggles in vain to hide from me. It does not know that its destiny is sealed. It is not aware of the sacredness of its fate. I do not blame it for the rustling sound it makes as it seeks safety, nor for the rapid thudding of its heart, nor even for the mewling sounds coming from its mouth when I corner it at last.
The prey is small, disappointingly so. I do not recognize the species. Perhaps it is a race of small prey. Nonetheless, its blood is as warm and fluid as any giant’s. My heartbeat quickens at the sight of it. I kneel before it, this holy sacrifice, and press the blade of my knife to its throbbing jugular. The gods will be well pleased with me.
Rating: R
Summary: A Hirogen is on the hunt.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.
The hunt is all that matters to me now.
My prey is nearby. I can feel its presence deep within my loins, like the initial stirrings of the mating urge but with more fire, the heat of the killing game filling my limbs with life and strength and vigor. The hunt is life to me. All that exists outside the hunt is nothing but waiting, watching, assessing, baiting. Stalk... kill... relax. That is the cycle of life.
The hunt is a sacred ritual. I must prepare myself, therefore, to enter into the realm of the gods. It is they who have shown me to this prey, it is they who have endowed me with the skills and knowledge to stalk it, it is they who guide my hand as the knife slices through living flesh, cleaving muscle and sinew from bone, separating the vital organs from a still-warm body. The sacrifice is for them. To them I give my humble obeisance as I paint my face according to the ancient rites.
The faint aroma of my prey sifts into my nostrils. I tilt my head toward the ceiling, sniffing at air currents until I have determined its location. The aroma is alien to me, and the heat builds in response. It has been too long since I have played the killing game with an unfamiliar prey. I hope that it is worthy of the sacrifice for which it has been chosen.
The only weapon I carry is my knife. There are those among my people who prefer the rifle, claiming that it is more... civilized... but I do not wish to be like them. The hunt was never intended to be civilized. It is brutal, it is savage, it is violent. It is not neat. It is not kind. Killing is never gentle or civilized. That is what makes us hunters: we are not civilized. We are Hirogen.
I smell fear emanating from my prey. Good. Fear excites the mind and quickens the responses. A prey that is afraid is a prey that will challenge the hunt. It is a prey that wants to live. Fear also leaves a trail that is easy to follow. How ironic, that the prey that wants most to live is the prey that is easiest to stalk.
I can hear it now, my prey, as it struggles in vain to hide from me. It does not know that its destiny is sealed. It is not aware of the sacredness of its fate. I do not blame it for the rustling sound it makes as it seeks safety, nor for the rapid thudding of its heart, nor even for the mewling sounds coming from its mouth when I corner it at last.
The prey is small, disappointingly so. I do not recognize the species. Perhaps it is a race of small prey. Nonetheless, its blood is as warm and fluid as any giant’s. My heartbeat quickens at the sight of it. I kneel before it, this holy sacrifice, and press the blade of my knife to its throbbing jugular. The gods will be well pleased with me.