Mine
They are safe for now, they are happy, and I mean to keep them that way, my Sentinel, and his Anthropologist. It's why I am here, in this civilized jungle of concrete, steel and humans.
I can see them coming now, as I stretch and roll over on the sun-warmed metal roof of the machine they call Sweetheart. My Sentinel is just in front, with that long, smooth stride of a carnivore hunting. For a human, he's beautiful - sleek and lithe and powerful, a force of nature wrapped in 'civilised' trappings so that others can't hear the wild cat's growl or see the hidden claws, the predator in the pale eyes. They like to think he is tamed...
And so does he: my Sentinel likes, needs to think so. Bad enough, he thinks, that he has the sight, the sounds, the taste, the smell, the touch... the enhanced, survivor senses of a wilder, more elemental creature than man, that he will use when he has to, but fights against at all other times. He is a freak of nature: the Sentinel understands that nature, the man mistrusts and is terrified of it.
Don't tell him that he's afraid though, he'll deny with one breath and attack with the next... And when my Sentinel lashes out, the claws are not drawn, and the blood they draw - real or of the mind - it still hurts.
I scent the blood he draws, every time, and growl.
His Anthropologist knows that it hurts all too well. He is slightly behind, slightly to the side, and slightly shielded by the bigger man, which may be how my Sentinel likes it but is not how his Anthropologist thinks it should be. Small for a man, compact, as bouncy and playful as a wolf pup and just as striking in his seemingly softer, gentler way... he is also a fighter, tougher and wilier than most, and most of all when he is scared.
But he is never scared of my Sentinel; he would never understand why he should be. When my Sentinel lashes out, his Anthropologist fights back, tempered steel against razored claws.
He never stops talking. He is talking now of tests, challenges, measuring, studying, and all the things he loves so much, a stream of long, tangled, scholarly words in a soft deep voice, and waving his hands as he trots to keep up. He is a force of intellect, as bright and shining as a star, as deep as his books, as complex and confusing as the trials he loves to put my Sentinel through.
He laughs suddenly, and my Sentinel reaches out and cuffs him lightly, big hand sliding down and curling around his neck, gently, affectionately. They don't always understand each other, the frightened, dangerous, protective elemental and the wide-eyed, intellectual - they don't always agree, and each can hurt the other far more than other, less loved humans can.
Though it is true, how much and how often others do to hurt them can drive even a spirit animal to want to fight... I taste the blood, the pain, and I lash out with them.
But not for now. They are safe, they are happy, and my Sentinel is willing to indulge his friend and play with his tests and trials.
Now they reach Sweetheart, and my Sentinel looks me straight in the eye, telling me without words to get the hell off his roof before I scrape the bright blue surface. I don't leave scratches, he knows that... but I can, and he knows that. Both in metal, and in him, if he pushes me too far.
He sighs, and tells his Anthropologist to get in, if he wants to get going. Two, three hours tops, remember?
His Anthropologist has not stopped talking long enough to listen, but jumps in automatically. A well-trained pup... well sometimes. But like me, he cannot be pushed, and he will push for four hours, maybe more.
And yes, my Sentinel may concede. He knows that the senses help some times - most times - but I know his Anthropologist will still have to drag information out of him tonight over food and drink. Bit by bit, tooth and claw... and all the more worthwhile, he thinks, because of it.
Before Sweetheart moves off, I roll over again and leap down to the ground. I will be home where they get there, and watch over them. It's what I am here to do, and my Sentinel knows it.
- the end -