Author's note: Written for 15minuteficlets at Live Journal. This is extremely depressing, but for some reason, I just got inspired to write it. Set sometime after Blade Trinity, told from Hannibal King's POV. The word was "Painful". Please review. Reviews are like drugs, only healthier.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I'm not making any profit for this. So don't sue me. Savvy?


It was a routine mission. A simple, clean job that could be dealt with swiftly. Nothing special. Hannibal King and Abigail Whistler had tackled tougher. We could handle three newly turned werewolves who couldn't even control their change. It was nothing special, just a quick hunt to take out killers the police weren't able to take down.

We never even suspected it could end up dirty. Perhaps that was the problem. We were cocky. Not cocky in the way I've always been, loudly arrogant and snarky. Cocky in the sense that it had become to much of a job, not a mission. We had fallen into a routine of always winning.

And why not? Hell, we helped Blade, the greatest vampire hunter ever pretty much, take down Drake - Dracula, Dagon, Gilgamesh. We didn't play that big a part, but we were necessary. And we helped Blade tike Drake down - mainly Abby, of course.

So why shouldn't she feel cocky?

Because cocky equals sloppy.

We'd underestimated our targets. It wasn't three. It was four. The fourth being the one who had turned them, older and who could harness his lycanthropic strength even when the moon wasn't even visible in the clear sky.

He shows up as we kill off the second of our intended targets. Next thing I know, I'm on the ground with a gaping wound in my side. He was going to kill me. Because I'd gotten cocky - I allowed us to forget the risks.

Abigail, the Whistler of the Nightstalkers, my little, hellion, she saved my ass. Again. She did that more times than I can count.

Clean shot, efficient kill. Just like her. Just like always. Nothing special about the kill, nothing special about the shot.

My side was covered in blood. My wound burned. My brain kept telling me that to move would only bring pain. Pain is, painful. I don't like pain. But I knew there was another one to kill. And I knew Abigail could take care of herself, but I should help her. I always help her.

I watched her die.

I killed the werewolf as Abigail fell to the ground limply, silver bullet embedding in its brain as the punk mutt dropped a knife. Like the one that cut open my side. But it didn't cut Abigail open. It sliced through her heart.

That wild heart. That heart I wanted to own and in some ways did. That werewolf destroyed it.

I held her. I held her as her blood seeped out and life faded away completely. I held her as I cried.

She helped kill Dracula. She was the daughter of Abraham Whistler. She had fought beside Blade. She had saved me.

It was nothing special. It was painful.