Troutfang raced at the red pelt of a fox, scoring his claws down on its body. Beside him, a much older black and white tuxedo tom helped to take turns on landing blows on the animal. Both of them were surrounded by an even larger battle between fox and cat, the latter slowly turning the tide and winning.
But inside, Troutfang didn't feel pride. He was slowly growing angry. He loved the tom beside him, Sootpelt, who had taken care of him and loved him like a son for his entire life. But his adoptive father didn't let him prove himself. The young white and grey tom felt the need to take down his foe by himself. His wish never came true though, as the other tom attacked the fox before it could try to land any blows on him.
How he just wished he could show Sootpelt and his adoptive mother, Floodstep, what a real fighter he was. What he could be. But the chance had never arisen until now, and he had jumped at the thought of it, even happy when the older tom had offered to join him. Having him see what Troutfang could do, to tell the tale of his greatness in battle; it had filled his heart with glee, as he had long awaited the chance to prove himself to them. He needed to show them just what he was made of.
Soon would he learn that when the chance had arisen, Troutfang really shouldn't have taken it.
Suddenly, Sootpelt had lunged at the fox's throat, grasping the skin and digging in with his teeth. The black and white tom tore at it, letting crimson red lifeblood flow from the killing wound. He fell back, landing beside Troutfang, and watched as the animal spun about, which caused the blood to come out even faster. Then it fell to the ground, twitching only once or twice, then lay still.
The white and grey tom stared at the fox, ignoring the suddenly ecstatic Sootpelt beside him, who was laughing and cheering about how he wasn't too old. Troutfang had worked so hard… He had wanted so badly to kill that fox, to be the best. And that opportunity had been yanked from him.
He looked around, seeing that all the other foxed were slowly being chased away by Riverclan. He had lost his chance. There was no way Sootpelt would see just how good he was.
Troutfang bared his teeth, his frustration welling up in his throat. This wasn't fair! His thoughts screamed at him in outrage, berating him for being too slow. A voice seemed to edge it on, increasing his anger until it was at a fever pitch.
Red suddenly clouded his vision, but Troutfang remembered suddenly seeing a moving black and white target. He figured it was a badger, and, he took his rage out on it. Maybe he could defeat it single-handedly? Then he would get his pride back? He easily leapt onto its back, biting down on it and digging his claws into its back. An opportunity popped up, when, suddenly, its throat and stomach came into view.
He took it, and attacked.
When the red was gone, and he had all but torn the animal apart, Troutfang finally got a look at the so-called "badger" below him. Horror contorted his face as he stumbled back from the remains of his father figure.
Paws shaking, he stared at the body, his ears flattening against his head. Horror, shame, anger, rage, they all swirled in him, each emotion fighting to break the surface. Yet he just stared at it, his face strangely impassive for the mixed emotions in his voice.
"What have I done?"