A/N: I got bored. I wrote this. Joy.
This was a hunt, that much was clear. Who exactly was the hunted was less so. They had their guns and silver bullets and knives. He had his claws and his teeth and his supernaturally good senses. They also had stealth, he had to give them that because they'd been out here for three hours and he still wasn't exactly sure how many of them there were. He was guessing about two, but there could be as many as four.
They all had their tactics and no end of wits about them. They'd been weaving in and out of each others' traps for a while now, a delicate dance of avoidance while you tempted your enemy closer to spring your own trap. He'd heard of mere humans that knew what they were doing, that could have lesser beasts than him on the run and screaming for their lives, but he was never going to go down like that. Right at this very minute, it was hard to tell who had the upper hand, it kept switching back and forth.
When you tasted blood, that was usually a pretty sure sign you'd got the upper hand, so forgive him for getting a little cocky when he got his claws into the smallest one. Young blood, even better. It gave something in him pause, though, that someone so young should be out here and know what they're doing. He didn't actually pause, no, it was then that he was shot in the shoulder and damn those silver bullets sting! This new one was hauling the little one up and then they were running.
He was used to this, people running from him, it was what he did best. He enjoyed it so much he was almost disappointed when they stopped and faced him.
"Dad!" they called and he swung round to face the third man, now in plain sight and the fact that he wasn't getting out of this trap alive was painfully obvious. Still, some part of him, the part that had once been human boggled that they had called him dad. He'd had a family once, what the hell kind of father brought his children to a place like this? Brought them into this dark world? Ok, so it was just as valid to ask what the hell kind of father eats his own children, but that had been the beast in him, not the father.
He ducked to the side just in time, so that the bullet aimed at his heart just nicked a lung and the one shot at his head just took off half his muzzle. Painful as all hell, but he was still alive, still moving. Well, writhing on the ground, but it would take the dad a few seconds to get here and in those seconds he could be up and out.
But no, the son was standing over him, must be the eldest. He knew the son didn't have any bullets left, he could still escape. Then he saw the dagger. In a moment of clarity he didn't see a father putting his sons on the front line and watching as they got shot to hell, he saw a father preparing his sons for everything the world had to throw at them so they could protect themselves when he was no longer able to.
He would have liked to have shaken the man's hand and told him what a good job he'd done but, well, the eldest son brought the knife down and that was that.
Hope you liked it.