Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride.
Weston ran, his sensitive wolf-nose picking up various scents in the green, foresty area surrounding him.
He loved to run. He did it whenever he got a chance.
It was even more fun when he got to chase something. Like, say, an escaped mutant kid.
He grinned wolfily. It had been two weeks ago. A pair of lion-human mixes, one male, one female, had made a break for it. Some careless whitecoat (now 'reassigned') had left the latch of their shared cage open.
It had been fun. They'd gotten the female first, and then the male turned back to help her. They'd actually been pretty strong. They were prototype Slicers-- a feline version of Erasers. It had been a good fight, but the Erasers outnumbered them by far, and they'd gone down in the end. Unfortunately, the male had died in the fight, and the female had committed suicide with a test tube she had snatched somehow and shattered to provide a sharp edge.
Weston fancied himself a bit of a poet. Most of what he wrote were what he called 'deathsongs': about prey captured, and fights won. He mostly kept his hobby secret from the others, for fear of their derision. But after the last capture, he'd snarled out a chant he'd thought up on the spot:
"Fur and fang
Numbered name
Sleep in a cage
Burn with rage
Tomorrow's just another day
Of tests and syringes!
Howwooo!
No prey escapes us
None evade us
We are strongest
We are fastest
Our fangs drip with red
You're better dead
Than in our claws
Between our jaws
Howwooo!"
Some of the others had given him savage grins of congratulation. A few had sneered, but less than Weston had expected.
A sudden spear of pain piercing his chest broke him from his reverie. He grabbed at his chest, gasping.
It lanced through him again.
The thought came to him: I'm dying.
He'd always known how long Erasers lived. He'd also known that he was getting close to the limit. But he'd never really thought about it, had never considered the possibility of actually dying.
He'd caused the deaths of others, but had never truly realized that he would meet the same, inevitable end.
No! No! I can't die!
He bared all his teeth and snarled in frustration and defiance. Another lance of pain brought him to his knees. He howled in rage and despair.
Suddenly, his head cleared.
Water. I have to find water.
He didn't know why this thought came to him, but it sounded somehow right. He perked up his ears and heard a faint trickle in the distance. Yes, the stream. He'd been there before.
He stumbled toward the noise.
Just let me live for a little bit longer, just let me reach it, please just let me reach it...
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he was there. He collapsed onto a mossy rock.
The sound of the water soothed him, and he felt at peace for perhaps the first time in his all-too-short existance.
I need just one more deathsong... one for me.
He cleared his throat and whispered hoarsely:
"Wolven shape,
Human mind
I ran with
Others of my kind
First I killed
Now I die
By a singing stream
I lie
Not wolf
Not human
I howl alone
My life is gone
I die alone...
Weston coughed once, then closed his eyes. A strange sense of serenity came over him, and he breathed his last.
---
His fellow Erasers found his body the next day.
"We should bring him back," one said.
"No," said another.
Everyone knew what happened to dead Erasers. Their bodies were dissected, so that the scientists could learn more about their inner workings.
But it was an end with little dignity.
The other Erasers simply buried him there, by the stream.