2. Obsession

Hunter saw it all.

Of course he did.

He never had missed, and never would miss an opportunity to see the Armada clockworks get mercilessly beaten into the ground.

So of course he had seen that tiny, isolated, abandoned squadron of ten appear out of the shadows and get shot down almost instantly by the island's enormous sleeping militia.

And of course he had seen that one musketeer slink back into the shadows. Unnoticed, but not by him.

Smart, but not invincible, Hunter thought, shaking his head in amusement and smirking to himself before picking up his staff and stalking out the door, heading into the alleys.

The alleyways of Skull Island were, collectively, a giant, massive maze that snaked throughout the entirety of the land. Once one was in, there were only five ways out, one of them conveniently being less than five minute's distance away from the Chamberlain manor.

In addition, as if to add a cruel amount to his advantage, this entrance also was the closest to the location where he had seen the ambush on the Armada musketeer squadron – and if his logic was correct, the single remaining marksman would be somewhere relatively close to this particular alleyway entrance.

Pressed against the wall, staff in one hand and breath held fast, as to ensure that he would not be able to produce a single sound that would impede his hearing, the male witchdoctor listened, he listened for any trace of that telltale sound –

There.

The dampened rotating of hundreds of thousands of gears, some large, some small, from somewhere behind him, and without hesitation, he moved, turning the corner and flattening himself against the wall once again.

And just in time as well.

Sure enough, the witchdoctor's estimations had been correct.

Roughly around fifteen seconds later, the Armada marksman silently walked right past the corner behind which Hunter hid, his two white – gloved hands warily keeping his rifle pointed in front of him.

Now.

Hunter lunged for him.

It was quite simple to the witchdoctor – he slid a hand over the Clockwork's mouth, muffling the small sounds of alarm as he hooked an arm around his waist and dragged the soldier backwards.

However, the marksman refused to go without a fight.

The second he had been seized, the clockwork had attempted to aim the gun directly at Hunter's head, and he had twisted wildly, desperately trying to escape his captor's grip after discovering that the witchdoctor had disarmed him and grabbed onto him faster than he could have predicted.

Slamming him into the stone walls of the alleyway, Hunter wrapped his other hand around the clockwork's throat, pulling him away from the wall only to slam him backwards relentlessly, repeating the motion until the marksman had lost all sense of balance and all but collapsed against the witchdoctor, still save for the periodical slight twitch as he struggled to regain his sense of direction – an attempt which, naturally, was to no avail.

Hunter relaxed his grip on the soldier then, not wanting him dead quite yet, and lifted his unmoving frame, turning to his right and starting back towards the manor.

Perfectly, he thought, allowing the feeling of satisfaction to wash over him, it had gone perfectly, just as expected.

For tonight, he knew – there was no room for imperfection – it was Dangler's birthday.

Dangler, his goddess, his mistress, his queen – sadly unaware of her own perfection. Yet, in a strange way, that only seemed to add to her beauty.

As he walked, he glanced down at the defeated – and oddly delicate marionette soldier, unmoving, unresponsive – at least for the time being.

Excellent, he thought, looking towards the many lights of the manor and allowing himself to smile.

Dangler does love such fragile things.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dangler returned to the manor late that night, although Hunter was not particularly surprised.

It was not exactly an uncommon occurrence, given that she often lurked in the caves of Skull Island during the day, amusing herself in various ways, whether that was scaring young trainees of the Resistance silly or having a breath – holding contest with herself – whatever suited her fancy at that particular moment.

She was a strange girl – nothing ever seemed to hold her attention for very long, and she was always seeking fun or entertainment as if it was as vital to her survival as water or oxygen.

However, when she did return, she made as grand of an entrance as ever, flinging the door open and practically spinning in, the folds of her skirt flying around her voluptuously curved figure in a tornado of black silk as the door slammed shut behind her, an exhilarated expression on her face, the cause of it unknown.

Placing both of his hands on her shoulders, Hunter laughed at her dizzy expression as the vertigo finally caught up with her and kissed her once, on the top of her forehead.

"Welcome home, milady."

She let out a dark, low chuckle, the gravity of the sound seeming to weigh the very air down.

"I brought something for you today…"

The woman's arched eyebrows shot up in curiosity.

"Really, now…? And what might that be?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to close your eyes first…" He smirked slyly, watching as she placed her hands over her eyes before gently gripping her wrist and leading her, across the main room and down the steep staircase that led to the lower dungeons, causing her anticipation to visibly build as he finally slowed the both of them to a stop just outside one of the doors, which was pushed open with an ominous (and to some degree, obnoxious) squeaking noises as the hinges swung.

The marksman was still there, splayed out on the ground where Hunter had left him, his slim wrists tied behind his back.

The witchdoctor then proceeded to do the one thing that he would end up regretting for as long as he lived.

"All right, Dangler…open your eyes."

And she did not react in quite the way he had wanted her to – she was supposed to take on that possessive, menacing grin, the one that controlled and the one that inspired fear, as she whispered and murmured of the thousand terrible deaths that would befall this "clockwork fiend", and she would laugh loudly about how his frame would absolutely give out underneath her overwhelming ability to cause pain, regardless of whether the recipient was capable of feeling it or not.

No, she did none of that, and Hunter felt none of the triumph that he had fabricated and imagined as he wound through the alleyways, re-tracing the path in which he had come through, carrying the marionette as if he was the prey that would be fed to Dangler, the ravenous, wrathful lioness with a raging, yet controlled hunger.

Instead, she had left his side in a heartbeat – she had shaken his hands off of her shoulders as if she was shrugging off a cape or a shawl without a second thought before rushing to the prone clockwork with hurried steps, sinking to her knees beside him and simply staring in awe, all thoughts of Hunter entirely forgotten, at least for the moment.

No glory, only dread.

Only dread.

"Such a…such a perfect thing…oh…"

It slithered, like a giant snake, down his throat and into his gut, where it proceeded to twist and turn to its unreachable satisfaction.

"Beautiful…perfectly beautiful…where did you…"

Only dread.

"You know…I love…perfect things…."

Only dread.

Only ever dread.

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet of history behind Hunter - and, specifically, the initiating events of Dangler's obsession.

Review!

- Severina