Summary: An origin for Skulker.
DISCLAIMER! I DON'T OWN IT! IF I DID IT WOULD STILL BE ON!
The Kill
Ever since he had been a boy, younger than the whelp even, his father had taken him hunting. At the age of 10 he was as a good a shot with the gun as his father was if not slightly better, by 11 he had mastered traps and snares. The two of them would go hunting early one morning and not return for days, even then it would be late afternoon or night when they did get back.
One time though, after his father had shot a deer and had went to go see his prize, he had stayed behind. He found he couldn't help himself as he raised the gun and looked at his father through the scope, carefully aligning the crossed lines in position with his fathers head, and he imagined how it would feel to pull the trigger and hunt one of the most dangerous animals of all time, man himself. He surely would be the greatest hunter. Although he had stayed hidden in the hiding spot they had picked out, his father had still seen the gun raised.
"Jason! Put that thing down this instant!" he had shouted while he watched his son obediently put it down. "Don't ever point that at another person again."
"Yes sir." He had replied begrudgingly.
Later on after their hunting trip, they had returned home and put their guns away. His father had told him to empty it of its bullets so that they could clean them in the morning. It was this one task he neglected to do that changed everything. Figuring he could empty it tomorrow he had put the gun up and went to bed. He should have known better...
The next morning he was awoken by the sharp crack of a rifle going off, and looking around he also noticed that he had over-slept. Suddenly remembering that he had not unloaded his gun the night before he had jumped out of the bed and rushed out the door to the shed, his heart pounding in his ears the whole time.
When he arrived at the shed there was his father lying in a pool of blood... dead... with his rifle in his hands. He had let his son sleep in thinking it would make up for scolding him so harshly the day before, he decided to even clean the guns while his son slept and when he got to Jason's he had no way of knowing it was still loaded... Jason slowly walked frowards, then that strange urge that had first led him to raise his gun the day before returned only this time he did something else. He scooped up some of his father blood in his hands and rubbed it between his fingers enjoying the feel of it. It was warm and sticky and undeniably fresh, unknown to him he had started to smile. His first real kill, the others were nothing but common animals that millions of other hunters had killed before. But this, this was a rare kill.
Years passed since that incident. He grew more and more skilled than his father ever had, and as such, he began to use bigger and better weapons. He traveled the world hunting strange and exotic prey. Even made a name for himself. He was no longer short weak Jason, but Skulker, the killer of all prey. And to him, everything was prey.
It had been a fate similar to that of his father's that ended him. He had grown cocky, had underestimated his prey., which had then inturn snuck up on him and tore into his leg. It had been a vicious fight but one he had one. He had been too tired to empty all his guns that night leaving one still loaded. Coicidently, his old gun, the one that had killed his father. He only really kept it as a prize gun, a spare, a last resort kind of gun.
When he left the next day to clean the guns he saved the old one for last figuring that when he got to it he would empty it. But, oh he was in a rush he was eager to begin hunting again, and when he got to the old gun he had well forgotten that it was still loaded and when he started to clean it the gun had went off hitting him right between the eyes.
That had been half a century ago, he had better weapons now, and an even rarer prey, the whelp. A rare prize indeed, there were only three halfas in existence. One, the oldest was powerful enough that even Skulker dare not try to hunt him. A second, being the youngest and just a mere clone, was therefore unworthy of his attention. No, he wanted, needed, the middle aged one, the second most powerful, the one with the attitude, Danny Phantom, or as he liked to call him, the whelp. This one was at the top of his list. Sometimes though, as Skulker would study him to try to find a weakness, he couldn't help but notice the father/son relationship the whelp shared with his bafoon of a father. He couldn't help but miss his own father...
Then he would clear his mind, and take aim, making sure to carefully align the gun at the next target he went after, he would look through the scope to make sure the head was right at the point where the lines intersected, and he would pull the trigger...
The End...
Ok... What do you think?
I still have a strange case of writer's block that enables me from writing as often so... yeah, I might just make a bunch of origin stories...
XD