Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am I not
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.

--William Blake, "The Fly"



A lone fly dares, in its simplicity, to disturb my place of respite, its 
insistent buzz sounding out in the endless search for the means of 
survival. If such a creature had thoughts, or at least thoughts strong 
enough to be heard, I expect it would - on a basic level - be thinking of 
the same things as me. This fly is a paragon of avarice, groping 
mindlessly after the needs it cannot even comprehend as cheap and 
meaningless. Every day's epic struggle, its narrow escapes from Death 
and its fortunes of discarded meat and spilled blood - these are nothing. 
Although I am sure that there must be some faculty of brain inside the 
insect that now intermittently sweeps past my face, squealing as it goes, 
it is beyond my reach.

And beyond my caring.

I understand my place is above that of a fly's. Being of a relatively 
advanced sentience, quite aware enough to creatively obey orders, 
makes me obviously better than this little creature. An unenlightened 
person would say that I was at the top of a universal heap, that there 
are few or none alive above my station. The pinnacle of humanity, a 
king among men - that I could be, if I were only as stupid as they.

I am proud, as I am proud of very few things, that I have discarded of 
myself the ignorance of those below me.

I am filled with joy, for I am not at the lonely top of some imagined 
dog-pile of life. What greatness is He who has taken His destined place 
above me, for I understand it is my purpose, and the purpose of all life, 
to serve those who are superior. The Platonian hierarchy of souls - as 
this fly lives to remind me of my place below, I exist to press His 
greatness even closer to the arch of Heaven above. A fly is too low to 
even comprehend the gift I give to it when I observe its chaotic flight, 
the sanguine mirrors of its paneled eyes, the oily lace of its wings. My 
heart bursts with gratitude that I am possessed of the ability to savor 
the attention of my Master, whenever he fancies to see the trash His 
kind has advanced itself from. How I pity the unenlightened masses of 
humanity, who will never know the ecstacy of His being until the 
moment of their deaths by that divine light...

I admit to my own selfishness. I covet every tint of perfect blue in His 
eyes, the whisper of silk-soft suit against even softer skin as He moves, 
every flax-hued strand of His hair. The rich tones of His speech, 
shimmering with the power of his gracious anger, I press to my heart of 
hearts. I crave the absolution of His living altar, the purity bestowed by 
breaking into this sinner's body and purging it of the illegitimacy of my 
blood. Every word, every taste and touch and sense of Him is a blessing, 
as necessary and beloved to me as the food that keeps this devoted 
machine alive. Even the greatest pain of His displeasure is better than 
manna to me, for how else am I to prove that I am worthy?

The fly alights suddenly on my upturned cheek, its six tiny legs gaining 
purchase in the sun-scored lines of my face as it probes my skin for 
leftover traces of last night's clumsy meal, or perhaps the drying trails 
of my tears. It blurrily scuttles past my eye, releasing an occasional 
buzz - signifying what? Happiness that it has found nourish in the corner 
of my eye, on my lip? Or the rattle of the void, the horrifying hollow of a 
life lived in total ignorance of anything other than itself?

In any case, my patience is limited, and the threat of disease 
unwelcome. This tendril of thought is closing in on itself, and provides 
me no more meaning. All purpose exhausted, I focus the most feeble 
command --

And the buzzing fails as the shell of the dead fly tumbles to the floor at 
my feet.




A/N: Someone left the door open too long - guess what's making an 
annyoance of itself in my bedroom. "La Mosca" is, of course, Italian for 
"the fly"; that would be the obvious title for this fic, but seeing as there's 
already a Trigun piece by that name, it would be arrogant indeed to do 
so. "The Fly" is by Lady Aoi and can be found at MediaMiner.org - I 
strongly suggest reading it, provided you have a strong stomach and a 
taste for the macabre.