Jamie sat under a massive oak tree, its leaves drifting down with the changing season. He stared up at the glorious night sky, a dark void illuminated by tiny specks of light. He remembered that in school, one of the few subjects not focused on the military was astronomy. Despite everything, he'd taken a keen interest in studying the stars. He could point out where Saturn was, along with moons like Titan, Enceladus, and Rhea.
His favorite moon was Titan, the moon with an atmosphere—albeit a toxic and dangerous one—but still majestic when viewed through a telescope. He also loved Jupiter, especially its massive storm, a tempest bigger than Earth that had been raging across the planet for over 300 years. He often dreamed of the night sky, knowing that somewhere, Mother's influence hadn't touched.
Jamie always found time to wonder about the world beyond. It gave him a strange sense of hope—that something outside his understanding could exist. Even the most sadistic of people could feel a sense of wonder. Though his mind couldn't comprehend it, his soul could.
He let out a small chuckle and said, "If the moon can turn me into werewolf, I wonder what the hell Jupiter would do to me?"
Jamie's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of small footsteps crunching through the snow and fallen leaves. Though the snow hadn't completely buried the ground, the distinct sound of boots pressing into the earth caught his attention. Years of experience had taught Jamie to recognize different types of footsteps, and he was particularly good at discerning a man's. These steps weren't heavy and loud like an elephant's, nor were they light and skittish like an imp's. They were clumsy, yet deliberate, supported by boots—footwear that most monsters didn't care for.
Now, it was a matter of determining what kind of man it was. Civilian or military? These weren't the careless, untrained steps of a civilian. The person wore military boots and walked with precision, thinking about each step. Slowly, it dawned on Jamie—he'd heard this walk before. Traveling with others, he'd grown accustomed to the unique rhythm in their strides.
*Cautiously, Jamie began moving, matching the quietness of his surroundings.*
Nearby, remnants of an old war still plagued the land. A jeep, riddled with bullet holes, sat abandoned, surrounded by the skeletal remains of US soldiers. Some of the skeletons were still huddled together, wearing faded uniforms. Jamie, shaking off the grim sight, knelt down and removed a gas mask from one of the skeletons, sliding it over his own face. Just as the pieces clicked together in his mind, he remembered whose footsteps these were.
*Sam's.*
A flashlight flickered on him, and before he could react, a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending him tumbling down a steep chasm. As Jamie fell, Sam's voice echoed above him.
"Yes! I got him! I got him!"
Sam rushed to the edge of the chasm, his excitement palpable, but his confidence soon faltered. He froze at the sight below.
"You've got to be kidding me!" he yelled.
The pit was filled with thousands of skeletons, all wearing gas masks, surrounded by wrecked vehicles and debris. In the low visibility of the night, Jamie could easily disappear among the bones, hidden from Sam's view.
"Calm yourself, Sam," he muttered aloud. "How hard could it be to find him?" A beam from his flashlight scanned the mass grave below, but nothing stood out like a sore thumb, but he had no such luck. He sighed deeply and yelled, "Rex, get your massive ass out here!"
From the tree line, the ground began to shake with each step as Rex emerged. He wasn't the tallest Skinwalker, but he was undoubtedly the most muscular. Rex shouted at Sam, "Well, so much for subtlety!"
Sam yelled back, "I'm done hiding! It's done nothing for us. Let's take the fight to them! I'm done crawling into other people's skins… No more!"
Rex replied, " Other people's skins? Are you implying that we have our own? We don't have skins."
Sam yelled, "I know! You know what I mean, damn it!"
Sam looks over again at the chasm, peering down at the mass grave below. He whistled, then chuckled slowly. "Wow," he murmured, picking up one of the fallen soldiers' gas masks. "He could really be any one of those guys down there. Can't you smell him or something?"
Rex replied with a sigh. "Normally, yes. But I don't think I've ever had a chance to catch his scent. Even if I did, it'd still be hard to find him in that mess."
Sam scowled, frustration bubbling over. "Well, isn't this just great, then? What good are your nose and abilities if you can't even find him when he's probably not even 200 feet away?"
Suddenly, a massive hand clamped around Sam's throat. Rex looked down at him, his expression cold, like a dog toying with a chew toy. "It wouldn't take much—just one little squeeze, and *pop!* Your head would explode like a popcorn kernel. So don't talk to me like that again."
Whimpering, Sam stammered, "Y-yes... yes, got it."
Rex smirked. "You should jump in after him."
Before Sam could react, Rex shoved him, sending him flying through the air and into the sea of skeletons below like a man thrown into a mosh pit.
Sam crashed down into the skeletons, the brittle bones snapping and scattering around him. As he tried to steady himself, the floor beneath him gave way, sending him plummeting through another layer of rotting debris, metal, and twisted bodies. He landed with a thud among even more skeletons, broken-down vehicles, and rusted gear from battles long forgotten. Dazed, he pushed himself up, spitting out dirt and bits of bone.
Rage flared in his eyes as he yelled, "Rex! When I get my powers, you're the first I'm killing!"
A sharp, mocking whistle cut through the darkness. Then Jamie's voice echoed, calm and taunting. "What's the matter? Spent so much time hiding behind someone else's skin, you've forgotten what it's like to get your own hands dirty?"
Sam's focus honed in on the figure of Jamie, his eyes glinting with a twisted determination. "You know it's a dog-eat-dog world out here. Survival of the fittest!" he shouted, voice echoing through the chasm.
He swung his rifle forward, the flashlight beam cutting through the thick veil of shadows, casting eerie silhouettes among the skeletons. The path before him revealed the remains of an ancient subway station, long abandoned and buried under layers of time and ruin. Rusted rail tracks stretched into the distance, fractured and warped, while the walls were coated in grime, marked with the faint outlines of once-bright graffiti, faded under decades of dust.
With each step, Sam struggled against the mountain of bones beneath him. Skeletons shifted and clattered, spilling under his boots like loose stones on a treacherous slope. Some of the bones crumbled into dust, others caught his foot as he scrambled, his movements clumsy in the dim, unsettling light. He could feel the weight of the place pressing down, as though he were traversing the very depths of human suffering.
"Maybe it's their fault for not being tougher," he continued, voice full of venom as he staggered over the jagged terrain of skeletons. "People defend themselves, sure, but everyone has the same intentions I do. The world's full of murderers; I'm just better at being one."
He spat out the last words as if they were some perverse declaration, lifting his head to peer further down the chasm. The stale air was thick with dust, the walls bearing witness to countless lives and deaths. His eyes locked onto the shadowy figure ahead, his flashlight casting an almost feverish light as he pushed forward, climbing the bone-strewn ground toward Jamie.
Sam stepped into a clearing, a rare spot in the chasm where the debris and skeletons thinned, allowing his boots to land silently on the even ground. He smirked as he realized the setup was perfect for an ambush. The silhouette of his target stood ahead near a crumbling concession stand, a place where, decades ago, people might have bought tickets and snacks, unaware of the ruin it would someday become.
"Jamie," Sam called out, keeping his voice low but taunting, "don't pretend you're not capable of the same things I am. Sure, you've been the more heroic type, but I bet you've done things you'd rather not admit. You go after us for killing the innocent, yet I'm sure some of the people your government targets aren't completely evil. Let's not kid ourselves."
Sam got down on one knee, steadying his rifle. The beam from his flashlight cast a focused glare as he took aim, a twisted grin creeping across his face. "The only reason you're the 'good guy' here is because you've got the biggest government on Earth saying so. And, of course, you're just 'defending yourself'—oldest excuse in the book."
With a sudden movement, Sam jumped, rolled, and fired at the figure by the ticket stand. The bullet tore through the silhouette, only for him to realize it was an old cardboard cutout of a German soldier, complete with a mock rifle slung across its back. Cursing, Sam swung his rifle toward another figure lurking behind the stand and fired again, only to see his shot strike a dusty, rotting mannequin dressed as an old-time conductor, still clutching the rifle.
Jamie's voice echoed through the clearing, mocking and cool. "What's the matter, Sam? First time out in the field on your own? You really thought I spent all this time just practicing how to be a werewolf? Did it ever occur to you that I might actually be a trained Soldier?"
"Come on, Jamie!" Sam shouted, his voice carrying a tinge of frustration and fear. "I know you're just f****** with me. Jump out already, let's get it over with—I don't got all day!"
A shuffle of debris echoed nearby, the sound of someone running. Sam spun and fired toward it, only to hear his bullet ricochet off the concrete, barely missing him. The wall was pocked with countless impact marks, his new shot just one of many.
Jamie's voice drifted through the darkness, calm and unyielding. "You really think you get to choose what happens next? After everything you've done, you think you get that kind of luxury?"
Sam let out a nervous laugh. "That's what I like about you, Jamie. I *want* that." His eyes gleamed with twisted admiration. "Fear. Respect. Power. That's what it means to be a monster."
In the dim light, a figure shifted—a human outline, unmistakably real this time. His pulse quickened as he aimed, voice rising in fervor. "Yeah, sure, I'll look like hell, but what will I get in return? Power to crush anyone who even thinks about crossing me."
He pulled the trigger, the rifle's muzzle flash blazing like lightning in the dark, illuminating his target for a split second. In that flash, he saw Jamie—wearing a gas mask—crumpling to the ground, the sound of his fall echoing with a sickening thud.
A smug smile crept onto Sam's face as he steadied his rifle. But something felt wrong; the silence that followed was heavier than he expected, almost too quiet.
"It… it can't be that easy," Sam muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He edged closer to the body, rifle poised, moving with the caution of someone approaching a sleeping bear, careful not to stir it. He jabbed the figure with the tip of his rifle a few times, watching it rock lifelessly with each nudge. The silence around him was unnerving, pressing in from all sides.
After a beat, he chuckled nervously. "Come on, Jamie. My guard down—this is your big chance." But there was only silence, thick and smothering. Sam took another hesitant step forward, readying himself to pull the gas mask off the fallen figure.
"You know," he muttered, almost to himself, "I used to be scared of the dark. Until I realized you could hide in it. Then it became my best friend." His eyes darted around the room, taking in the eerie mannequins, scattered skulls, darkened crevices, and the unsettling draft snaking along the ground. In the light, these were just objects. But in the dark, they became twisted reflections of everything people feared.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached down, fingers curling around the edge of the gas mask. "It's only when you're hunted that you remember why you feared the dark," he said, almost philosophically. He pulled the mask away, revealing a face that made his stomach drop—a face he knew all too well.
"T… T… Talo?" he stammered, his voice caught in his throat. The figure, wounded and barely conscious, let out a choked laugh, blood trickling from his lips. "You want to know what's funny?" Talo rasped, forcing the words out. "You'll *never* get your shot at Jamie."
A heavy, rhythmic sound echoed through the shadows, low and menacing. Sam spun around, the color draining from his face as he heard the unmistakable growl of a werewolf. Slowly, he turned, his breath hitching at the sight in the dark.
In the pitch-blackness, Jamie's form loomed—massive, feral. His glowing blue eyes pierced the darkness, and his sharp, glinting teeth shone like a predator's grin, fixed directly on Sam.