The inconsistency of civilization
Count Zaroff withdrew his watch from his pocket. Rainsford and the young woman had already made their way into the jungle; their head start was almost up. Soon he would take his rifle and go after them, a prospect which Zaroff both longed for and dreaded. A most curious sensation, for when it came to hunting, he'd never hesitated at all—until now. Until the arrival of this Robert Rainsford.
It had been a most unfortunate turn of events. Rainsford was the very image of the hunter: young and strong, and, from what Zaroff had assumed from his writings at least, ruthless. Alas, he was like all the others in the so-called "civilized" world: utterly hypocritical in the Victorian manner. Unable to follow their philosophies to their natural conclusions. How typical. How depressing.
It would be a shame to have to kill the young man. The count could not deny that the bloodthirsty side of him was eager for the challenge. Rainsford was just about his equal in the hunt, so to overpower him would be especially delicious, preferable to the usual sailor vermin with which he had to make do. Zaroff closed his eyes, allowing the violent fantasy to play within his mind. The blood and adrenaline would pulse through his whole body, bringing him to a state of unmatched ecstasy. It would no doubt make a nice supplement to his later "celebrating" with the lovely Miss Trowbridge—as he always said, one passion builds upon the other. No doubt that would be a pleasurable battle of another sort. Women rarely made their way to his fortress, though when they did, he made sure to take advantage of the opportunity for several days, before he inevitably grew bored with them, finally leaving them to his beloved hounds. Yes, it would no doubt be an exhilarating chase, hunting down the man and the woman.
But Zaroff was also saddened, for to kill Rainsford would be such a waste. Though he would never admit it aloud, living on the island could be tedious. It served his entertainment purposes well, no doubt about that, but Ivan and his other servants were hardly good company, being unlearned peasants. They could barely speak to one another, let alone hold a substantial conversation like actual human beings. But Rainsford—ah, he was intelligent and keen-brained. His books had occupied a good deal of Zaroff's idle hours in the night. Sitting by the fire, pouring over every word, Zaroff had often wished to speak with the author as though they were intimate friends. When the young hunter had washed up on his shores, it had seemed as though fate itself had intervened to bring them together.
Zaroff sighed, rubbing at the scar along the side of his head. The count had assumed the two of them had formed a connection earlier that night as they talked of the hunt, the nobility of the chase. Were they not kindred spirits? Brothers? For a few moments, he had foreseen an alleviation of his loneliness. Evenings with invigorating conversation, talk of prey, weaponry, strategy. Stalking game with another hunter at his side, an equal, not some brute servants. Toasting their victories with centuries old wine and laughing. It would have been divine. It would have been a relief.
Ah but what a shame. Just as God had made him a hunter, He must have also destined the count to live out his days alone, a solitary master over everyone else. Pocketing his watch, he took up his rifle and called for Ivan to get the hounds ready. Waste or not, this would be the most exciting hunt of them all.
A/N: I love both the short story and 1932 film adaptation of The Most Dangerous Game, but this story is based off the film, which added a female character to the mix. Zaroff is one of my favorite villains, so I just wanted to get into his head for a bit. Hope it was somewhat entertaining.