Author's Note: Yes, yes… you do really see a new story… le sigh, right? Yeah, I know, I'm awful. Sorry? But hey, it's inspiration. I am going to work on my other stories, but this one? I couldn't fight the inspiration any longer, so I had to write it, before it made my head explode or something equally as… counterproductive. A warning now though; it's going to be dark, and violent, and… well, I'd say it's going to be angsty, but if you've ever read one of my stories before, you wouldn't expect anything less, right? XD As usual, this will get its own mailing list; if you don't want to be added automatically, tell me in a review — if you do want to be added but don't have an email displayed in your profile (or if you don't have an account registered), supply me with an email, and you'll be added for update alerts.

This is for the community fanfic100 on livejournal, and each chapter will revolve around a prompt from the challenge; this is prompt #34: 'Not Enough'.

CHAPTER ONE: DIG YOUR OWN HOLE

The air was thick with blood, and even though his senses were no stronger than any other human's, he knew it was there… even though he was no vampire, he could smell it; practically taste it for the sheer magnitude of it within the walls. All the same, he kept his breathing steady, trying to adjust his eyes to the poor lighting provided by cracked lamps or hastily placed candles. The flames flickered as he moved past them, casting eerie shadows across the dirty walls and grimy floors, the boards creaking almost as if in pain as he moved. He paused warily whenever they groaned, and listened for any signs that he'd been overheard. For all he knew, the one he'd killed outside hadn't been alone.

His heart beat heavily against his ribcage, and he swallowed dryly, seeing a bloody handprint smeared against a doorframe. As quietly as possible, he armed the rifle in his hands, using his thumb to pull back on the hammer rather than using the lever. He had counted the ammo he'd spent; he had four shots left in the rifle… he'd had to use more than he usually would to kill the creature outside. It was only his aim that had saved his life; four shots through the heart and brain had downed the… whatever it was. A friend's words flittered once more through his brain, and he felt a shiver run up his spine under his clothes.

Had that really been a werewolf?

Special Agent Tom Sawyer had always thought only silver bullets could kill a werewolf. Then again, he'd been wrong before, hadn't he?

His breath caught in his chest when he saw more blood streaked across the wall of a particularly dilapidated hallway, with peeling plaster and holes along the bottoms of the walls, no doubt where vermin and all manner of insects dwelled and lurked. A pungent smell drifted to him as he approached the doorway, and his stomach lurched impressively. Holding back the urge to retch, he approached, cursing his arms for their slight but definite shake. Trying to tell himself he wasn't afraid of what he might find wasn't working, he knew, but he had to at least keep a brave face. If that creature outside hadn't been alone, then he couldn't show his fear… fear was a weakness that would always be abused.

Stepping into the doorway, his green-hazel eyes searched the dimly illuminated room, resting upon a figure in the corner… or rather, what remained of that figure. The fight against his natural reactions nearly ended as he stared in horror and disgust at the remains, nearly unrecognisable as what had once been a human, and he struggled not to gag, or even outright vomit. Appalled, he closed his eyes, grimaced and turned his head away. Whoever they had once been — he couldn't even tell if it had been male or female — and whatever had happened to them, they were dead now… and had been for a while, from the smell. Naturally, Tom felt the familiar guilt build up inside of him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at the corpse again. It was all he could do not to bolt from the room as it was. He'd stared at the body long enough to see deep gouges in the broken torso, where blood had poured, and a vicious gash in their abdomen that had freed internal organs and intestines from within. The face had been torn and even clawed or chewed, and the skull had been split. Practically every inch of skin had been stained red with arterial blood, and grey matter from…

Tom doubled over, overcome by the smell and memory of what he'd seen, and he gagged, but managed to hold back anything else. It was a struggle, but he couldn't stay any longer… it wasn't safe. And he knew there was no way he'd be able to collect that body… he didn't have the strength or resolve to do it. He shook for a moment, and then pulled himself back to his feet properly, taking in a breath through his mouth to try and save himself from taking in the stench again. The rifle, still armed and ready to fire, hung in his right hand, gripped by slightly shaky fingers. Tom didn't open his eyes until he knew he wouldn't see the remains, turning his head back towards the doorway to do so.

The American Secret Service agent nearly leapt back in surprise and even fear, greeted not only by a face at close proximity, but intense, bright amber eyes. Not human eyes. Wolf eyes.

"Sh—" He broke off his curse, and lifted the rifle quickly to fire. Even as he was squeezing the trigger, the tall, olive-skinned man snatched out with a hand, grabbing the barrel of the Winchester before wrenching it to the side. The bullet went painfully wide, blasting into the doorframe, and Tom cursed again, glancing to the face of the seemingly-older man. His somewhat oily black hair was fastened at the nape of his neck with a rough tie, and his dark clothing had helped him loom in the shadows out of sight. He flashed a predatory grin, edged with malicious intent, and the American saw the too-sharp incisors as they were bared. He, to the spy's surprise, released the rifle's barrel, only to duck with preternatural speed and grace when it whirled on him again. The sound of the shot was too loud in the filthy room, and Tom winced, swinging the butt of the large gun around at the man — or rather, werewolf — as he stood to his full height again. He ducked agilely backwards, chuckling as he did so, quirking a brow in an almost goading manner. Tom lifted the gun to fire again, and then stopped himself; he was wasting his bullets. And he only had two left…

In the rifle that was.

Swinging the Winchester out as wide as he could, he saw his opponent leap back with ease, before letting the rifle clatter to the floor. Without hesitation, he tore his Colts from his waist, and turned them both on the enemy, pulling the triggers.

A roar filled the room as one of the bullets slammed the werewolf in the chest, to the right below his shoulder, and blood sprayed colourfully from beneath his perforated black shirt. He snarled loudly, and his eyes flashed again. Tom didn't stop; holding his ground, he kept pulling the triggers, only hearing the shattering of glass when it was too late to react properly.

A strong hand wearing a grimy fingerless glove locked powerfully around Tom's left arm, and tore it back and around. The six-shooter from that hand fell to the floor as the spy gave a yell in reaction to the wrenching of his arm, and he managed one more shot with his right before it was grabbed in the same way. He heard a deep, rumbling laugh from behind his left ear, hot breath playing through his dishevelled blonde hair, even as the first, wounded werewolf realised the threat of bullets had passed. With a murderous expression, he righted himself, apparently no longer pained by the bullets that had entered his body. He stalked forward with intent, eyes locked on the agent's face.

Tom gave nothing away, and even with his arms clamped behind him, he wasn't about to go down without a fight. The Hispanic-looking werewolf approached, but didn't see the young man's attack until it was slamming him in the chest, in the form of two solidly booted feet. Even with the awkward, dull pain of his arms being held behind his back by the second — he assumed — werewolf, Tom had heaved himself up in their grip, and kicked forcefully outwards with both legs. His attack knocked the first enemy away, and sprawled him messily across the floor. Wasting no time, he threw his head back, knowing it would hurt even as it cracked against his captor's. Giving a muffled yell, the werewolf released the agent, and stumbled back.

Whirling, Tom saw his second, ambushing opponent. A burly man with a good few inches on the spy, he had dark hair, and close-cut facial hair, with dark eyes and expression to match. His tight muscles were barely hidden beneath a thin shirt and dark pants, and the grubby gloves on his hands were stained with what Tom could only conclude was blood. Both men seemed unarmed, so as long as he only had to deal with one at a time, he stood a chance. It was a slim chance, but a chance all the same.

Throwing caution to the wind, he lashed out with a fist, feeling it collide against the second opponent's jaw solidly. It snapped his head to the side, but otherwise didn't seem to faze him. It still provoked a growl though, and the large individual made a grab for Tom, who leapt back, nearly stumbling over his own dropped rifle. Turning to look over his shoulder hastily, he saw the first werewolf gathering himself to his feet, infuriated by the fall that had surely bruised his pride. As quickly as he could, even as the Hispanic man advanced, the agent grabbed his rifle, spinning it around as he brought it up, and then slamming it back. He was rewarded with a grunt and a telltale crunch as it made contact with the first opponent's face; probably his nose. In the blink of an eye, Tom had changed his grip, and was pulling the trigger.

The larger werewolf bellowed in pain and anger as the bullet tore through his torso, and he rocked with the force. Stumbling, he steadied himself against a bookcase built back into the wall, now only holding a few decaying volumes and probably its fair share of small creatures.

Only realising he'd underestimated the first opponent when the toe of a boot landed in the back of his knee, Tom gave a yell as he crumpled, unable to catch himself before his leg gave out on him. His hold on his rifle nearly gave out completely, but with a quick roll to his side, he avoided a vicious kick to his ribs, firing his last bullet up at the black-haired werewolf, whose eyes glowed fiercely. Tom missed his intended target of the head, but it did dig a bloody gouge through the werewolf's shoulder, throwing him back enough so that Tom could roll over onto his front. Casting the rifle aside now that he no longer had the time to reload, he saw his Colt pistols again, just behind the recovered second individual. Loud growls filled the room, reverberating in two different tones, but in united meaning; they weren't very happy.

Thinking quickly, Tom glanced up from the six-shooters to the thick-set werewolf in his way, and made a split-second decision; one that he might regret in a few moments, he knew. Scrambling to his feet, more or less, Tom hurtled forward, right towards the individual in his way.

It was like charging a wall; a padded wall, certainly, but a wall nevertheless. His impact barely made his opponent bat an eyelid, and with a snarl, he gripped both hands into the back of Tom's jacket tightly, before wrenching him around. The agent felt his feet leave the floor completely, and barely had time to even try and right himself before he felt wood cave beneath his weight. Giving a rough yell as the bookcase splintered and buckled with the collision, he fought to land in some semblance of upright, but his legs rebelled, and he collapsed to the floor, badly winded and more than a little sore. Wincing heavily, he forced his palms downward, even as the last musty books from the crippled shelves fell to the floor, looking up towards the two werewolves.

Only to find they'd doubled since his up-close-and-personal introduction to the bookcase…

Another male stood behind the Hispanic one, his dark brown spiky hair giving him a fittingly feral look as his dark eyes took in the struggling form of the American agent. He smiled in an almost condescending, crooked manner, chuckling to himself as he tilted his head, perhaps curious. The other was also male, with dark skin and defining facial hair; his head was closely-shaved and near-black eyes stared down at him with a derisive but calculating quality.

Shit, Tom thought simply. Against two, he'd stood a weak chance, but four…?

"This kid giving you trouble, Felipe?" the spiky-haired male quipped in a cheeky, but cold manner, not even flinching under the icy gaze from the Hispanic werewolf by his side.

Tom should have known there wouldn't just be one.

The final male crouched in an almost catlike position, his eyes meeting Tom's even as they waned to an eerie, chilling blue. "I see you met our last little playmate…" The turn of his head drew Tom's gaze to the edge of the room, and he felt nausea rise up in him again. Somehow in the fighting, he'd forgotten all about the body. And now that he looked, closer to it from the struggling, he could see the arms were wrenched behind it at awkward angles, and bound with rough, tight rope. Tom's eyes turned back to the werewolves looming over him. How long had that poor man — or woman — been tied like that, and at the mercy of these creatures?

"Turns out he wasn't quite as brave as he made out to be in the beginning," the werewolf continued, still down in his crouch, with the other three males looking on. "All talk…" He offered the somewhat crumpled spy a grin, and Tom could see those cruel fangs again. "Seems like you've got more fire, though."

To hell with that. Tom's mind snapped back into focus, the haze from slamming into the bookcase gone. With something not too unlike a growl of his own, he practically stumbled up from the floor, and collided bodily with the gloating man, who erupted with laughter. The others approached at once.

"No!" They were commanded away at once, even as a single, strong hand wrapped around Tom's throat, choking him enough to keep him from lashing out. Grabbing at the hand, he coughed weakly, trying to break the fingers away from his neck. "No, I think I'll give the kid a chance; see what he's made of for myself."

Even while he was steadily choking, Tom noticed the air of authority and leadership surrounding the darker-skinned male, despite his not being the largest; that right belonged the gloved individual closest to them, who bore the bloody evidence of the spy's struggle. Nevertheless, the other three moved away, back to the edges of the room to give their leader — or whatever he was — room to do as he wished. He made a shoving motion with his choking hand, and Tom rolled away awkwardly, landing on his back to cough hoarsely for a few moments, before remembering the danger he was in. Groaning lightly, he pulled himself to his knees, and then forced himself to stand.

"Try not to kill him, Julius," the one who had been identified as Felipe interrupted gruffly from the side of the room, with a lilt to his voice that confirmed Tom's suspicions as to his origins. "We all want our… fun." On the last word, he turned those amber eyes on the spy, and scowled; Tom did his best to ignore the intent, even as Julius laughed quietly.

Maybe if Tom delayed long enough, the rest of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen would intervene, and for all intents and purposes, save the day. He couldn't handle this one alone; he could be cocky, but he wasn't deluded. If he was reading the four werewolves' behaviour right, this Julius was the oldest of the four, and clearly some kind of leader… which meant he had experience. And power.

Shocking blue eyes, more icy and vivid even than Mina Harker's, regarded him impatiently; Tom realised, meeting that gaze, that he wouldn't be able to delay… if he didn't defend himself and fight back, then he'd end up like the mangled remains to the side of the room. Even as he braced his body, he realised what — or rather who — he must have killed outside… he'd killed one of them.

No wonder they're so angry, he thought, glancing briefly to the others.

He only realised he'd left himself wide open for attack when the complete weight of Julius' body slammed into his, winding him thoroughly, and driving him right back into the wall with enough force for the plaster to crack and crumble. Some of the debris fell around them as the dark werewolf pulled back, grinning triumphantly as Tom nearly buckled again. His ribcage burned fiercely, and it ached to breathe. His eyes watered from the sheer force with which he'd hit the wall, and a strangled gasp left his mouth.

"Show me what you've got, kid…" Julius taunted in a low voice, hunkered down almost, as if he were ready to pounce. Tom strained his eyes to look at him, panting; he already felt exhausted, and he hadn't even landed a blow on the opponent yet.

He was in trouble.

Fight him, his brain commanded desperately. Fight him, or you'll die. He winced heavily, and gave his head a brisk shake, forcing his legs to hold him up properly again. Then again, you'll probably die if you do fight him…

The only thing that brought Tom back to his feet and made him ready himself to actually fight was the idea of being killed on his knees… he wouldn't die like that. He wanted to be fighting; if he had to die, then he would do it on his feet.

Blocking the other werewolves from his mind, he focused only on Julius, and his motions. For the most part, the other fighter was still, seemingly frozen with anticipation of his human opponent's attack. Collecting himself, Tom squared his shoulders defiantly, narrowed his eyes a fraction, and then charged. He headed straight for the werewolf, seeing at the last minute that an arm came up to knock him right off his feet. Tom had been expecting something like it, but not that; all the same, he forced his body down and rolled, tucking it in awkwardly as he did, and wrenching something from his boot. Julius didn't react in time, and even as Tom spun back to his knees on the other side, he lashed out and around.

An arc of blood followed the blade as it slashed across Julius' lower back, drawing a bestial roar of pain and fury from him. The blade caught the light as Tom panted, registering the surprise and anger from the other three males across the room. The largest made to join the fray, but held back when Julius whirled. As he turned, his arm swung out, but instead of clubbing the spy crouched nearby, it gripped fiercely in his hair, twisting his head down and around. Tom let out a choked sound like a gasp, and did the only thing he could think of. Reaching out quickly as far as he could, he buried the knife in any body part he could find. Julius howled, infuriated, as his thigh was punctured above the knee, and blood poured from around the blade.

Still gripping Tom's blonde hair, he kicked out with his other foot. The toe of his solid boot smashed into the American agent's chest, and he cried out, even as Julius dropped his head. Unable to hold himself up after the savage blow, the spy dropped like a lead weight to the floor, gasping for breath. His lungs burned as if surrounded by fire, and his ribs flared madly. His first thought was that Julius had broken something, but even as he braced his struck torso with an arm, he didn't feel the familiar agony… perhaps cracked, or severely bruised, but not broken.

He heard the scrape of steel against bone as Julius tore the blade from his leg. Waiting for it to plunge into his body somewhere as the werewolf took his revenge, he started violently when the large knife slammed loudly into the wooden floorboard not two inches from his bowed-over head. He threw himself away from it, drawing entertained laughter from the three males at the side of the room. Collapsing near the doorway, Tom grimaced and suppressed a groan, opening his eyes to land them on the gory remains across the room.

And then only one thought occurred to him.

Run.

Breathing harshly, he looked from one werewolf to the next, landing his eyes finally on Julius.

Run. Run now.

This was a fight he couldn't win; no matter what he did, he would lose. And if he didn't get out, then he was already dead.

Waiting for Julius to turn his head triumphantly to the other three males at the side of the room, effectively drawing their attention to him, Tom scrambled to his feet, and bolted for the door, and potential freedom. Nearly stumbling at the doorway, he begged his legs not to fail him, and ran as fast as they would carry him down the dilapidated hallway. He heard the yells and pursuit from behind him, and frantically searched for a way out.

C'mon, c'mon, please…

He practically fell into an old living room, filled with draped furniture no doubt rotten and mouldy beneath the old sheets, knocking over a small table holding candles on the way in. Cursing, he leapt back from the flames that ignited the oily fabric of a decayed drape.

Window! Tom's mind screamed at him, but before he could grab something to throw at the covered glass, he felt fingers latch around his wrist. Had Julius and the others caught up with him already? He looked, panicked, back the way he had come, seeing that the flames had spread across the hallway's entrance, blocking the four male werewolves from pursuing him into the dirty living room.

Then what—

Before Tom could even look to the owner of the hand that had grabbed him, he was being swung around. His back crashed up against the nearest wall, knocking all gathered air out of him again, leaving him dazed and light-headed. Pinned to the wall, he opened his eyes, seeing blue pupils staring into his own green ones at close proximity. He almost thought it was Mina for a moment, before he remembered he was being pinned to the wall, and he pulled his head back as much as possible, taking in what other features he could see; smoke was slowly starting to fill the room, but he could see smooth, defined cheekbones, delicate, feminine lips and brows, and blonde hair around her neck and shoulders. For a minute, Tom was stunned, and could do nothing, but it didn't take him long to realise she was no saviour. He thrashed at once, managing to land a knee against her hard enough to startle her, and loosen her grip. He grabbed a dusty vase from a rickety table beside him, and smashed it into her head, hearing her cry out. Her fingers released his wrist. He heard snarls and roars, and he watched in awed horror as four beastly forms launched themselves over the fire that had blocked the hallway. On four legs they advanced, baring wicked fangs as their lupine ears flattened against broad, thick skulls. Hackles shot up from their backs and shoulders like spikes, and they approached him hungrily; with intent.

Noticing the swirl of smoke away from the wall behind him, he instinctively grabbed the rickety table the vase had been resting on, and swung it around with a yell. His chest burned intensely from the blow Julius had landed, and the building smoke, but even as he felt the wooden piece of furniture in his hand hit another draped window, he knew he could bear the discomfort, so long as he could get out. The deafening smash of the glass filled his ears, and the wolves recoiled from the sharp shards that exploded from around the table, as Tom released it. The wooden frame of the table caught in the drape enough to tear it down from its poor hangings, and dusky light poured into the room. The oxygen fed the flames, and they roared towards the ceiling. The werewolves shied away from it, the blonde woman — now sporting a bloody wound to her left temple — followed them, even as they surrounded her protectively from the heat.

Not waiting a moment longer, Tom collected himself, and turned for the window.

It was then that a huge body soared through the smashed window, ignoring any broken fragments that might have caught against skin or clothing, and collided with Tom forcefully. The impact drove them away from the window, and Tom felt the backs of his legs collide with another table. Losing his balance, he toppled onto it, even as it cracked and gave way beneath the weight of the two bodies. With a yell, he felt his back hit the floor, jarring his shoulder blades and wooden splinters scattered everywhere. A muscular man with a shaved head loomed over him, and without even batting an eyelid, he heaved up and around, releasing his grips on Tom's lapels after putting enough momentum behind the spy's body to launch him cleanly across the room. He struck the wall beside the window he had just smashed, and rebounded, falling heavily to the floor with little more than a struggled gasp. From where he lay, he could see where the floorboards met the wall, a stinging in the side of his head keeping him from focusing completely. Even as he tried to pull himself back to his feet, he realised he didn't have the strength. He could barely move at all.

He felt shadows come over him before his consciousness failed completely.

To Be Continued…