Title: Catching the Cub.

Chapter 1: Hunted

I've been stabbed. Oh god I've been stabbed!

Peter stumbled, sagging against the alley wall as he tried to catch his breath and not pass out from the pain that infused his body. He clutched at his wounded right shoulder with a moan unable to block out the agony inside him. Despite his best efforts to stop the bleeding, his life was still leaking slowly through his fingers, soaking into his costume.

The bleeding wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop. A sob escaped the boy. He tried to push himself away from the wall, but a sudden bout of dizziness made his slump back against it. He needed to move, to run. That man was still chasing him. He needed to- but he felt so sick.

God someone please help. The boy never imagined something could hurt this much. His shoulder burned like it was on fire and it wasn't the burn of just being wounded. It was the burn of infection, or worse, poison.

Peter shuddered, half at the thought and half at the heat that was blazing inside him. I need to move. But the world seemed to be spinning around him. The next thing the boy knew rain was splashing against his face as he lay on his back staring blearily up at the sky. He felt so hot. He couldn't breathe. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side, curling around his pain. He just couldn't catch his breath.

A sudden scuffing sound startled Peter and he glanced up in alarm. God no. Please no. Not him. The boy desperately tried to pull himself up. He managed to get to his knees when a loud clattering made him flinch away and onto his feet, adrenaline washing hot through his blood. Please.

The brunet leaned heavily back against a dumpster, panting. He needed to move, but his body wouldn't obey him. There was more noise. Too close. He couldn't pinpoint- Something brushed against his leg. Fuck! He cried out in fear, jerking back against the dumperster hard enough that the screech of metal on concrete split the air. Then there was silence.

Peter listened hard, trying to quiet his panting breathes. There was nothing. He closed his eyes and listened harder. Nothing… Nooothin- There! His head snapping around just in time to see a furry tail whip around the alley corner and disappear.

A little uncontrollably giggle escaped Peter. Just a raccoon. Just a stupid fucking raccoon. The giggled turned into a hysterical laugh. He couldn't stop. He just laughed and laughed and laughed until he was gasping for breath, tears flowing from his eyes, mixing with the rain running down his face. He felt like he was suffocating. The cloth of his mask tightening around his throat. Clogging his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe!

In a mindless panic the teen tore off his mask and flung it away, his instincts getting the better of him. He leaned forward, his hips braced against the dumpster behind him, and closed his eyes. Breathe. Just breathe.

Oh god. Peter wrapped his free arm around his aching belly, looking groggily up into the cloudy night sky as he panted. The cool rain felt good as it splashed against his feverish skin. He closed his eyes with a sigh, trying to focus on the feel of the rain rather than the pain and heat and panic coursing through his body. He knew he couldn't run anymore. He could barely stand. Fighting was definitely out of the question. The only thing left to him was to hide, but where? Dumpster?

Peter looked over his shoulder at the large metal canister at his back. No. It was already covered in his blood. The hunter would find him in seconds even if he had the strength left to burrow down into the trash, but did he have any other option? Peter dazedly looked around the little alley then his eyes locked onto the ground. Manhole. That would have to work.

It hurt to lever the heavy metal cover up and Peter almost gave up, but then with a hiss and a belch of foul air the lid came free and somehow he managed to slide it out of the way. He peered blearily down into the stench and darkness of the hole wondering if this was a good idea, but it wasn't like he really had a choice. At the very least the hunter would lose his scent in the filthy place.

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wishing his head would stop spinning before lowering himself down into the warm, sticky air of the sewers. With only one working hand still slick with his own blood it was hard going. He tried to be careful as he moved down the ladder into the deeper darkness, but he slipped halfway down. He felt his stomach drop as his hand missed its mark, his fingertips brushing against the metal rung as he desperately tried to get a hold then he was falling through the air.

Peter slammed into the concrete below and just lay there for several minutes, unmoving. After awhile little disjointed thoughts slowly started to creep around the darkness of his mind again. He hurt so bad. He was so hot. He wanted to give up. He wanted to just lay there. He wanted to cry. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be home. He wanted this to be a nightmare. He couldn't catch his breath. He didn't want to die.

Somehow Peter dragged himself to his feet again and, leaning one shoulder against the wall, took a staggering step forward. He was running on instinct more than anything now… and that last thought.

I don't want to die.

He took another step, steadier now.

I don't want to die!

He moved forward through the oily, black atmosphere with only the sound of sewage bubbling along beside him in a small canal and his own breathing to accompany him. The thick air was burning the back of his throat and making his eyes water, but he still moved forward. His body seemed to disconnect from his mind, moving on its own as his thoughts faded away until there was only one left.

Don't die.

Peter had no way of knowing how long he trudged on like that, mindlessly plodding one foot down in front of the other, but eventually his body gave out on him too. He was so exhausted. So hurt. He couldn't bring himself to lift another foot. To take another step. His legs trembled with strain as he sagged against the moist, smelly wall, his gasping breaths rattling in his throat. He pressed his forehead to the warm, wet cement with a moan. The hand clutching his wound still felt wet, but he couldn't tell if it was with his blood or just the rain soaked fabric of his costume he was feeling. It was too dark.

The boy dimly realized his body was moving on its own again, moving up the wall instead of forward. He was barely conscious as his hand, feeling blindly in the dark, found where the ceiling and wall met. His body started doing something again, but his mind was too tired to care what it was. Then there was a small safe place for him. He didn't know how or why, but it was what his instincts were telling him so he crawled in and curled up in a miserable little ball. A fraction of a second later he had fallen into unconsciousness.

Not so far away the hunter crouched by a splash of blood, a smile slashing across his lips. He knew his prey was close. Now it was time for the hunt to really begin.

TBC...

Okay I know I'm being a bad author. I know all of you out there who love Alien or Ancient or Innocent are probably thinking 'what the hell are you freaking doing?!' but, well, I've been nursing this fic idea for a while now and just figured out how I was going to start it so I figured I better get it down now before inspiration deserted me again. Please don't hate me and I really hope you all enjoy. Oh, and I love comments as always!