/Big TW for graphic depictations of violence, proceed with caution\

This was the hardest chapter to write to date. I freaking hate action scenes - why did I do this to myself :'))

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The car makes its way over an old, bumpy road – the seats and the floor vibrate, and the bodies on each side of his, and his bones and the lump in his throat.

Melon regrets having lost his gun in the past fight. He knows it won't do anything against the four supremacists in the car, no, he's a good shoot, sure, but it would a stroke of luck to even put one bullet into even one of them before the others react.
If that animal happens to be Grace, it could almost be worth it – however, no, that's not why he longs for the weapon. His hands already know the motions, his mind can conjure the feeling of the open barrel pressed against his chest, right over his heart. Two presses of his finger, as he has imagined it, almost done it, so many times-

His index twitches over his thigh, and Melon realizes that if he's thinking about this – killing himself –, it's more habit than anything else. He doesn't want to die. He's scared, actually, of what they will do to them, of his existence cut short, reduced to his mere hybrid status. (It has shaped so much of his world, but he still hoped he was someone beyond that. Even if that someone was only a monster. And especially if that someone had found another soul that cared.)

He thinks about Agata and his vision blurs. He bites the inside of his cheek, the slight pain a welcomed distraction. He's not going to give the supremacists the pleasure of his tears.

They were four in the car with him, and Melon didn't hear any more engines, not even the squeaking of a bicycle chain. No sounds either when they arrived at the lake, no one to exchange greetings with, and the silence has only stretched out since they threw him into this room. The wooden planks on the ground are sinking into the muddy ground, humidity has slipped through everything. It's cold.

With a bit of luck, there are only the four animals around the makeshift cell, plus Grace, and him.

He can deal with four.

The hybrid shifts around, assessing the length of the chain linking his wrists together. He wraps it around his right thumb, grimacing as the metal presses over his injured arm. He gives the chain a tentative tug, then closes his eyes. Three. Breathes in. Two. Breathes out. One.

He has to bite down his tongue to prevent any noise from slipping out. He solely hopes the guard at the door didn't pick on the audible pop of his thumb as it dislocated. Melon wiggles his hand free from the handcuff, gives a half-hearted attempt at putting his thumb back into place – it doesn't work – and gets up as quietly as he can. He listens to the silence. There are the whispers of the nearby water, and footsteps echoing oh so faintly across the deserted pathways in between the cabins. He holds his breath, trying to piece out from sounds and scents alone where the supremacists are. He waits, memorizes the path of their rounds, waits until they are as far apart as possible.

It's the cat that got door duty. He's glad it's the smallest of the four – glad, also, that he made them believe he couldn't see in the dark. All it took was one stumble as Melon was more focused on his surroundings than on watching his steps, and they raised the question themselves, he just had to play along. It made them relax.

He can clearly make out the small feline's figure over the twilight sky.

The guard has his back to him – perfect – and it's only when Melon is just behind him that the cat seems to become aware of his presence, but by that time, it's already too late. The hybrid flings the handcuff chain around his throat, catches it in his left hand, and pulls. The cat chokes, drops his gun, his hands flying to his neck, clawing helplessly at the metal chain. He tries to reach back blindly and Melon dodges his claws easily.

It's not long before he stops struggling, and not long either before he stops doing anything altogether.

The body hits the ground and Melon steps over it, already focused on his next target. His ear twitches as he picks up a nearby presence. It smells like reptile. Crocodile? Yes, he does remember a crocodile. He closes his fist around the metal of the empty handcuff ring, fully intending to use it as makeshift brass knuckles. Crocodiles' weakness are their noses, so that's what he will target.

He picks up the cat's gun, just in case, but he would like to avoid firing it and alerting the other supremacists just yet.

He takes the crocodile by surprise, and that's probably the only reason why he overpowered him so quickly. Strangling him too won't work with the scales – and Melon won't be able to bite through it either. He punches him again in the nose, giving himself the time to think, but his mind draws a blank. Well, so much for discretion…

He shoots, and the body under him seizes then falls back on the ground, lifeless.

The next one is a weasel, and she's the one that springs on him this time. He dodges her first blow on instinct only – notices afterward that she's wielding knives –, fires at her but the bullet only hits her outer arm. She knocks the gun out of his hand, swings again wildly with her weapon. He leans back just enough that he only feels the whoosh of air as her knife cuts through nothing, then he strikes. One hit is enough to make her dizzy, so he takes that chance to grab her arm, long fingers wrapping around the limb, sending her crashing against the wall. He picks up her knife in the next movement, jams it at the base of her skull. She goes limp; he has severed her spinal cord.

He has barely the time to hide the smaller of her two knives inside his shoe that gunfire echoes again through the quiet night, making him jump. The bullets hit the ground just beside his feet and Melon doesn't think, he just runs away. He slips as he makes a sharp turn in between two houses, catches himself with one hand on the ground, and scurries away – away from her. One of the few perks of sporting a prey body – it's easy to outrun your pursuers.

But if he ventures to the open land, he will get shot, and if he tries to hide, Grace will track his scent and she will find him.

The only choice he has left is picking where he wants to fight.

(And maybe die.)

He stops behind the boat shed, tries to catch his breath.

"Tell me, how far do you think you can run to, hum?"

Her tone is as calm as usual, though she can't help but let hints of her trepidation slip through. Grace steps around the shed, coming into sight. There are a few feet apart, and for a couple of seconds, they just stare at each other.

Then she goes to aim and Melon lunges forward. Their bodies collide together – her gun trapped in between – and tumble backward, crashing into the shed wall. Decaying wood cracks under their combined weight. Grace struggles to keep her balance, her back to the gutted shed wall, splinters burrowing into her flesh. Melon bares his teeth – but she won't make the same mistake twice, this time she noticed the hybrid coming dangerously close to her neck and she shoves him back. He stumbles, and her legs are in the way, he can't step back without tripping. He catches himself on the wall next to her head a split second before Grace hits him square in the chest. He crashes onto the ground, rolls, gets back on all fours, prepar-

The gunfire makes his ears ring.

There are so close that she shouldn't have missed, but maybe she's too shaken to aim correctly, maybe his instincts kicked in quicker than ever before, maybe her head hits the wall harder than he thought- anyway, he won't let her have another shot.

He leaps and Grace raises her gun arm out of instinct, trying to protect herself. His fangs sink into the outstretched limb, past her sleeve and into her flesh. Blood floods his mouth. If she bends her wrist and shoots, she might get him in the shoulder, or the chest even, and sure, one bullet won't be enough to kill but it will make him back away and that means the same thing. This is the only chance he will get. He needs to make her drop the gun. His jaw hurts – gazelle bones aren't meant to exert this kind of pressure – but he bites down harder anyway, feeling the joint cracks, and she gasps, her knee jerks up and hits him in the stomach, but he doesn't let go and she- she does let go.

The sound of the gun hitting the ground is lost in the middle of their ragged breathings and the pounding of his heart.

Grace tries to jerk her arm out, he feels the button on her sleeve catch on one of his fangs – feels the pull and sharp pain, his blood mixing with hers – then she instead jams her arm deeper inside his mouth, forcing him to relent. Such a shame she didn't have this reflex sooner, though, because now Melon just has to bend down and the gun is at his fingertips-

She grabs him, bashes his head against the wall, hard. His hand closes on thin air, and the world spins dangerously, he has no idea where the gun is now, isn't even sure he's still standing. Through the haze, he hears her spit something, but the words don't make sense. She hits him again; it barely registers, and he loses what was left of his balance. His injured arm takes the brunt of the fall, pain shooting up to his shoulder and dotting his vision with black stars. He dry heaves, spits out blood mixed with bile and his broken fang.

This is bad.

He tries to push himself up, but nothing feels solid, like the ground is washing away – and it's too late, she presses her knee in the middle of his back and he collapses under her. She must be twice his own weight, he can barely move, let alone free himself. Grace grabs his wrist, twists his arm behind his back, her grip tight around the broken bone. He hears himself scream. She takes a hold of his horn, forcefully bends his head to the side, baring the thin skin of his neck. He gets flashbacks of a different scene – spots moving like bugs, hands pulling his pants down – and he chokes.

She lets go of his arm, inches closer, her chest pressed to his back, legs entangled with his and, and – time slows to a halt.

She's panting just beside his ear, almost growling, her breath hot against his skin. She's going to bite for sure, in that position she could easily get his carotid. His body is frozen, helpless under her weight, waiting. Hers is trembling, muscles locked and heart beating so loudly he can hear it, flooded with the exhilaration of the victorious chase.

I'm going to get eaten? The image of Agata flashes in his head – unexpected – and he finds himself wanting to pretend it is him, instead of the bloodhound, ready to take his life.

(Love is like predation.)

Her instincts tell her, screaming, that she has to sink her fangs into the exposed flesh, dig through until she finds blood and life, deliver the final blow. Taste the sweet flesh of the hunted.

His get out of control – the gazelle inside so terrified it's losing its mind – or maybe it's something else, darker and that hasn't anything to do with his species but rather with his lack thereof, something he carries with him everywhere in the form of two bullets in an always-loaded gun – and his body jerks, pressing the side of his neck against her fangs.

Grace jolts back as if burned.

"I'm not taking your mixed blood in," she hisses, the low growl in her throat almost making her words unintelligible.

He feels her body shift to the side, her weight no longer pinning him to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her reaching for the discarded gun – sees her bloodied sleeve, the traces left behind by his teeth, and the beginning of a collarbone, peeking out of her shirt collar. And she dropped her guard – and the roles are reversed.

The hybrid bucks under her weight, throwing her off-balance. At the same time he has grabbed the small knife hidden inside his shoe – he jabs it into her leg, just into that spot on the side of the knee cap, past the fur and the flesh, hears the cartilage breaking – feels it, reverberating up his arm, straight to his core. He twists the knife, and her voice hits a note impossibly high before the agony cuts it off entirely. She jerks away and Melon manages to free himself, swinging again blindly with the knife. Blood splashes across his face. She falls back and he follows, slams her against the shed wall, newfound excitation lighting up his nerves. His head is still throbbing, but it adds to the daze, to the intoxication.

He raises his knife again, clutching the handle tighter now that the blood makes it slippery, catches the spark of pure terror in Grace's eyes, and laughs.

The knife falls. Again, and again, and again, she chokes on her screams and he is still giggling, the sounds mixing with the sound of punctured flesh, of metal scraping against bone, and finally the blade slips from his grip, lost in the reddened mud around them. He looks at his empty hand, still raised to strike, then, slowly, back at the limp body under him. He's straddling her, one leg on each side of her large figure, so he's acutely aware of her rapid, shallow inspirations, feels her ribcage fighting against his thighs to expand and, desperately, fuel with oxygen her failing system.

He hasn't reached her heart, though, so she won't die in the next few minutes, if at all. Bloodhounds are sturdy. For someone used to pain, the injuries wouldn't even be that debilitating – and if you don't panic, you might even avoid slipping into shock. But her- she's already gasping for air, eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown so wide the black eats away at the red.

"Never been on the receiving end, eh?" the hybrid drawls out, tracing with his index one of the crimson flowers blossoming all over her front. He sticks his finger inside one of the wounds, chuckles as her breath hitches up. "Consider this pay-back, for all the other freaks you killed."

He can smell her fear, mixing deliciously with the heavy smell of blood all around. He leans over, catches a reflection of himself in the crimson eyes – hand drenched in red, splashes all across his face and chest, more dripping from his fangs and maw. Is that what herbivores see, a split second before a carnivore tears out their throats? The crazed, delirious eyes of the predator, the pure joy at the mere idea of their life slipping out under their teeth and claws? Instincts falling into place, bridging the gap between herbivores and carnivores, no more fighting back against others and oneself – peace at last.

Except Grace is a bloodhound, she's from a species that derives pleasure from tracking down and finding and killing. She stands on the right side of biology, no one's instincts should be to maim her.

Maybe that's why she fears hybrids so much.

Melon licks her blood on his hand, not breaking eye contact.

"Such a shame, I can't know what it tastes like… I bet it's 'delicious', right? Pure as it…" He sneers, gestures at the soil all around avidly drinking it up. "Look, it seems to mix well with the mire, though."

He wonders if the vision he has had of himself right now, reflected by Grace's terrified eyes – the manic glint in his, the blood of his victims splattered across his clothes – if that was the last thing the other hybrids saw before their corpses were dragged to the lake and anchored to a weight to disappear down its cold depths. But- the news report said the last target of the Chimera Hunters was lynched, he remembers it clearly. They didn't even give her the chance to meet anyone's gaze, in her final moments. She died alone.

The thought lights a fire inside his chest.

It's different from the usual flashes of bloodlust – deeper than his messed-up instincts, more long-lasting. It burns hotter, too. He snarls at Grace. She needs to pay for attacking him, for threatening Agata's life, and for all the other murders – for the violence against his kind.

She will die tonight.

"You had such a good opening, just now," Melon says, bringing his attention back to him – far away from what his hand is searching for, on his left. "You really should have just bitten down. Now it's too late. Is it really worth it to die, to avoid getting any of my mixed blood on your tongue?"

It wouldn't surprise him too much if she said yes. He smiles, sickly-sweet.

Spits in her mouth.

There are traces of hers, but mainly the blood mixed with his saliva comes from his broken fang. Melon watches her face twist in pure disgust, feels her body flex under him, like it's trying to get away from the offending taste. Her eyes have cleared now, fixed to a point over her shoulder, not even looking at his chimera face- suddenly, without warning, they are back on him, only him, boring right into his own eyes.

He holds her gaze without wavering. Witnesses the anticipation building up, the fear slowly parting away. It's hope, and more than that, more twisted. She believes she has a way out, not only to save her own life, but to end his.

"What is it?" he asks innocently.

He can see her expression swells – and his grins widens. He brings onto her field of view his left hand. Clutching the gun.

"Your little friend isn't discreet enough."

Her face falls.

Melon doesn't even look behind him, just points over his shoulder and shoots. The detonation was so close to his ear that it leaves behind a faint high-pitched whistling. It isn't loud enough to cover the agonizing gasps, though, nor the sound of knees hitting the ground.

He cranes his neck, glances at the eagle. He hit him square in the chest. Good.

Just to be sure, he fires two more shots.

"Please."

He turns back to Grace, surprised to hear her voice again. It's still raw from all the screaming.

"Just shoot me. Get it over with."

"Oh no, bitch, no…" He laughs. Throws the gun away without even looking. "Don't count on it. Besides, blood looks so great on you! It matches your eyes."

He pauses, cocks his head to the side. Considering it.

"I don't like your eyes."

Maybe his nails can't cut through flesh as claws would, but it turns out it isn't needed to gouge eyes out. After all, there are just two slimy little balls, ready to plop out of their orbits like overripe fruits. Only the optic nerve proves to be quite a pain to sever completely.

Grace has passed out.

He stands up, stumbles a little. It's only fun if she's awake, but the hybrid can't exactly wait for her to come back around either. He doesn't know when the others supremacists will be back. He turns around. The lake is only like five or six meters away. Goes back to Grace's limp body. He could drag her, right…?

(He can. Just barely.)

His right arm is completely useless – the wrist feels broken anew, he can't relocate his thumb and he's pretty sure his shoulder isn't totally in the right position either – so with only one hand clutching her ankle, it does make quite a challenge. He gathers what's left of his strength to give one last push to her body, and Grace falls with a heavy thud onto one of the small boats, which rocks under the unexpected weight.

The impact jolts her to consciousness.

She tries to scramble up, but her limbs don't quite support her weight. She turns her head around frantically, probably trying to piece out her surroundings – to know where the hybrid is, where the danger and the pain will be coming from. Blood runs down from her eyes, following the folds and creases of her face, lovely red accents amongst her white fur. The empty sockets give her a permanent horrified look. (Although, she might be truly horrified.)

With one foot, Melon pushes the boat away.

It rolls on the waters and Grace clutches its sides in fear. One second passes, two, and she seems to realize what's happening. She reaches out blindly, feels for anything she could hold onto. She latches onto another boat, her claws dragging along the painted wood, but the motion makes her own fragile craft sway so badly she nearly falls out. She's forced to let go, and the hybrid watches her slowly drift away.

He turns away, walks back to the multiple tracks their fight has left on the mud. Looking for the gun. When he has it, his grip so hard his knuckles whiten, he goes back to the bank.

He raises his arm, aims, taking his sweet time. Fires twice.

Both bullets pierce through the wood, narrowly avoiding hitting Grace.

And the boat begins to sink.

She shrieks as water licks at her feet. They both know that with her injuries and the weight of her clothes, there is no way she could make it back to the land.

"If you run into any corpse on your way down, say hello to them for me!" He shouts, loud enough to be heard over her whimpers and the wind. "From one freak to another!"

The trauma ends here.

Melon doesn't even watch her drown, turning his back to the lake, slowly stretching out, feeling his joints pop. He bites back a wince. His whole body hurts now that the adrenaline is wearing off, anchoring him to reality. He is beginning to really feel the cold too. And, to top it off, it starts to rain.

It's fine, though. She's gone.

She is dead, so he just has to hide until the other supremacists come, find their dead comrades and her absence, and eventually leave. He checks the gun magazine, finds it empty. Yeah. He throws it over his shoulder, into the lake, tucks the weasel's knife back safely into his shoe.

The hybrid is about to look for the other corpses he left behind – for their weapons – when his ears pick on the distant sound of a car engine. Fuck, already? His eyes dart around, looking for a hiding place.

He just has to not get caught, and things will be okay. They have to be.

(He thinks about Agata, and the other lions. Will they come looking for him?)

This is going to be a long night.

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We are well into the climax now - only three more chapters to go after this. It feels weird already - but thanks for still being on board with this fic!