boulevard of broken dreams [private; sayrie]

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    [size=20pt]·· M A S S A C R E[/size]


    A thin, fine mist curled from Massacre's muzzle, his breath billowing in the frigid air as he clawed at the earth, uncovering the stash of prey he'd hidden earlier from his hunting expedition. As he worked at the frost-stiffened soil, the brazen crimson light from the sunset bathed his pitch black coat and reflected in his sallow amber eyes, lending them fresh color and causing them to reflect the fierce light. The sun, a glowing, circular sheet of flame, sank low in the sky, shedding the light from its dying rays over the darkening world. A mottled assortment of red and orange hues painted the sky, and the sun's light spilled over the horizon in a ribbon of incandescent gold as the rim of the sun slid behind the dark line that marked the point between earth and heaven.


    A snarl of frustration wrenched from the black tom's throat as one of his claws caught in the hardened earth. He was not oblivious to its beauty, the radiant, resplendent power of the sunset, but darker thoughts hovered in his mind, blackening his mood, making his temper brittle. Fresh steam streamed from his muzzle as another growl rumbled low and threatening in his chest, a sound that swelled and at last emerged as another vicious snarl as he at last managed to free his stash of prey, tearing it from the earth. Massacre tossed his head, his fangs glistening in the bloodred light of the setting sun as he sank his claws into the ground, releasing some of his pent emotions of rage and hatred through the savage action as he fought to master his unruly feelings.


    The cause for his anger? The usual.


    She-cats.


    The were disgusting, helpless, sniveling filth, a their very presences a blemish to all respectable toms. How he hated them, for their wretched feebleness and pathetic natures, for what they stood for in his world. They were the weakest, a hindrance to the progression of their race, good only for one thing - to give them new life. Had they not served that single purpose, Massacre would have gladly slaughtered them all with his own fangs and claws. What he wouldn't give to liberate all the seasons of accumulated bitterness, hatred and ferocity caged with him upon them, to unleash his fury on them, to let loose the beastial need to destroy, to rip, mangle any of them that lived and breathed as what he hated the most.


    She-cats.


    The immense rage he felt towards them this evening was out of the ordinary revulsion and enmity he regarded she-cats with. Such uncontrolled, unfettered longing for violence was not normal even for Massacre, but the events that had transpired earlier in the day had ignited the flare of his anger and hatred; something that he rarely allowed himself to be subjected to. He was passive aggressive, one to smile into the face of his greatest antagonist when they sought to inflame him with all their might, and it was rare, extremely, unthinkably rare that he allowed himself to be aroused to rage in a manner like this.


    But he had allowed himself to seem weak.


    And it had been because of one of them - a pitiful, loathsome she-cat had elicited this moment of weakness from him. He had, for once, met a she-cat that might have been of worth. She did not cringe or cower, or openly rebel as so many of them had, but she had been steadily unyielding, refusing to allow herself to be cowed by any of his taunts or threats. Quite an unusual Dirt, she had been, and he had sought to give her some protection - she had earned it. Yet when he had spoken to his peers of her, they had turned on him, taunting him for showing any sliver of kindness, jeering for his allowing his hard, frozen demeanor to waver for once. It had been the utmost humiliation, and he had condemned himself to it for the sake of a she-cat.


    Eyes flashing in the light of the setting sun, Massacre glared down at the now-shredded soil beneath his claws with grim satisfaction, silently vowing he would never again allow himself to be so weak again. They were not worth it, regardless of who they were or what they did. They were she-cats - the very bottom of the pinnacle of hierarchy, and he would not concern himself with them.


    Gathering the prey in his jaws, Massacre began to trot through the woods back towards SkullClan's camp, his temper still smoldering beneath a stony expression. He was on hunting duty - and he would be on hunting duty from now for the next half moon bringing she-cats prey, tossing scraps into the huddle of starved females. His punishment for showing kindness to one of them. Which he interpreted as weakness. It was gruesome work, watching his endeavors disappear into the gullets of numerous starved, filthy mongrels that ate with the dignity of famished alley-dogs. It was perversely interesting as well, watching apparently poor, coy and submissive she-cats throw themselves into the fray when it came to food, recklessly fighting her peers for the scraps, her inner monstrosity making its appearance when she was driven to desperation by hunger.


    It was depressing business.
    Massacre's lip curled with disgust as he entered the dank, foul-smelling tunnel that lead to the Dirt's den. The morbid odor of misery; the sharp stench of fear intermingled with the smells of filth and suffering hung heavy in the air, a sickening scent that Massacre had quickly grown tired of after several trips to the Dirts Den to deliver their food.


    Pausing at the entrance, his dark fur still concealed in the shadows of the tunnel, Massacre dropped his prey and bent down, dividing each piece into several strips before he carefully lifted the meat in his jaws and entered the cavern. He swept past the guards and, setting his expression to a hard and blank one, he began wading through the thick throng of she-cats, his head sweeping left and right as he scattered the prey amongst the crowd. By the time he reached the far wall of the den, his jaws were nearly empty. He did his best to avoid being engulfed by the hoard of starving she-cats, but as he was turning to return the way he'd come, and finish tossing the remaining prey, he collided full on with another she-cat. A hiss of surprise escaped his maw as he whirled to glare at her, but the prey in his mouth prevented him from speaking.


    Stupid she-cats...


    [hr]


    [ Wordcount: 1117 ]

    What is like to forever be pushed to the edge? What is like to be born in freedom, with the gentle breeze caressing your face, only to have it snatched away from you, burned with every venom-soaked comment? What is it like to see every day not as a blessing, but as a curse, to long day after day to leave the place that held you captive for years. Does a caged bird sing after being beaten, torn apart, and utterly demolished by those who had blocked the sun from its life? Rarely. You may fight in the beginning to free yourself, to once again feel the soft, springy grass underneath your paw pads, but in the end, the toms held you back, brutally working the fight from you until you just become another grovelling, pitiful scrap of fur, without an ounce of dignity left.


    Elixia would die before she allowed herself to reach that point.


    Time moved slowly in her moons of captivity, giving the Bengal plenty of time to think about the value of life. To those who had been born in this living nightmare, there was nothing to focus their attentions on, absolutely nothing to shine a little light on these dark, cramped days. There was only the overwhelming stench of filth in this overcrowded den, the heat of a hundred pelts brushing together; hunger and sickness breaking their spirits. There was only one purpose she-cats served in Skull, and that was to bring more toms into the world, toms who would come back only to sneer like the others, to beat them and further demolish their dwindling souls. What could there possibly be ahead, where was that fabled light at the end of the tunnel for these females who were deemed to be useless, whose future would be as toys for the opposing gender?


    For Elixia, there was one thing that she clung to, one thing that sustained her when freshkill was scarce and starvation ran rampant; freedom. She had been born a loner, free to go about as she pleased. There had been no den walls to hold her back, no guards with malice-filled eyes, fangs sharpened and ready to reprimand any she-cat whom they deemed to be misbehaving. Out there, there had been the most glorious gift, something that she had always taken for granted before she was thrown into this pit of despair--fresh air. Ah, it was a beautiful thing, feeling the wind rushing through your pelt as you run through a forest, the sweet scents of prey and growing things abundant. It was Elixia's paradise, and the only thing that had managed to keep her from shattering, the only thing that differentiated her from these sniveling, weak she-cats.


    Even after spending a good chuck of her life in this prison, Elixia had not yet lost her spirit. She had not allowed herself to give in to the wills of the toms, who sought entertainment in watching the female population suffer. She had kept herself from weakening, her strong will to survive overcoming her own negative emotions of dread and despair. Instead of lying about on the den floor, mourning for the life that had been ripped from her grasp, she paced about the den--while avoiding the she-cats who were spending their precious time sprawled out on the floor--to keep her muscles, lean but tough, in good condition. Elixia never allowed herself to spend a single day at rest; she had found that sanity was most easily retained when you did not think of your confinement, and so she instead found little games to play with herself to sharpen her mind and skills.


    And at night, when she lie among the battered pelts of her denmates, she plotted. Day after day, she brought new ideas of how to escape to light, sometimes crumpling them up and throwing them out, while others she stored neatly in the back of her mind. Three times now she had come up with what seemed like beautiful, well-thought out plans at night, but as she went over them during the daytime, she found them wrought with flaws. Anything seemed plausible at night, after all, but it is only when you look at it from a different angle, see your plan in broad daylight (though it was never very bright in the Dirt's den), that you can find all of the holes.


    While Massacre clawed at the earth in a completely different universe, Elixia did the same, pacing about her comrades, lips curled up in an irritated snarl to showcase rows of sharpened fangs. Fed up she was tonight, fed up with her current position and her ridiculous plans. The Bengal would be willing to do anything to get away from the despair that, lately, had been beginning to sway her will, drag her down and break her fiery spirit. She was bogged down with thoughts of the outside world, and everything she would give to see it just once more. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of her life in this den, only to die under the claws of a tom. No, if her life was going to end like that, she would go down fighting, and possibly take one of them with her.


    Among the wretched stench of sorrow, Elixia was unable to scent the presence of a tom; one that had been here earlier, in fact. She likely would not have noticed him at all had all the other she-cats not flocked to him like sheep, tripping over themselves and scrabbling to obtain just a morsel of prey. Even to her, their behavior was revolting, and she bitterly turned away, dark thoughts swimming around in her mind. What had they become? They were nothing more than slaves, and yet some begged for toms to mate with them, likely hoping that if they were carrying kittens they would get an extra share of freshkill. It was disgusting, and against every promise she had made to herself since she had been captured and arrived here.


    Suddenly, she collided with someone, someone who, without even opening her eyes, she knew was a tom. He was much too burly, much too strong and well-fed, to be one of the horde of she-cats fighting in the dirt for scraps. Pale green eyes, cold and hard, turned upon his own, and they met for a moment, both portraying the same distaste for one another. Elixia, after so many moons, now held toms in the same regard that they held her; they were useless, pitiful creatures, and for all she cared, any tom that was not of her flesh and blood could rot in a hole, forgotten. They brutally mistreated she-cats, and for what? She had a theory, and one that brought her immense joy and satisfaction. They feared them, which was why the toms had to keep them beaten down and malnourished. Well, if Elixia ever got the chance to slit the throat of one of them, she would show them that she-cats were a force to be reckoned with.


    Abruptly, the silver Bengal smoothly stepped aside, out of the way of the tom, gaze sweeping to the front. She was bound to get an earful from him as soon as he spat his remaining prey from his mouth, but, to be blunt, Elixia was not in the mood to put up with being patronized. She just as well get out his way and mind her own business; neither wanted to speak to the other due to utter revulsion, so it would work swimmingly. That is, unless said tom was in an unusually sour mood this fine evening, which, unfortunately, he was.


    [word count; 1287]

    Flinty pale green eyes flew open to meet Massacre's sallow amber ones as a silver Bengal she-cat whirled to face him. In the depths of her gaze, Massacre was suddenly aware of the burning spirit in them. An undying flame that spoke of hatred, revulsion and abhorrence towards him and all toms in existence. He knew, in that instant that their eyes locked, that she would have as gladly indulged her own every savage urge to wreak destruction upon every tom in Skull as he would have to destroy every Dirt. It was a look that drew both contempt and surprise for him, for he had never seen such in the eyes of a she-cat before. He had always regarded them akin to a herd of sheep in nature - always moving with the herd, never thinking to have their own thoughts, never thinking to maintain any individuality.


    It seemed this particular she-cat was different, however.


    Their gazes met for only a few scarce seconds before the she-cat, in one fluid movement, stepped out of his way and broke the eye contact, withdrawing her stare from his to gaze aloofly to the front of the cavern. Massacre looked away from her as well, tossing the remainder of the meat from his maw with a savage jerk of his neck, showering the she-cats nearest to him with a mouthful of shredded squirrel before he spun around to face the she-cat whom he had crashed into once more. The rage within him still roiled and spluttered like a feral beast, a monster that roared its desire to break loose from its containment and unleash the full force of its fury upon whatever individual unfortunate enough to cross its path.


    His eyes blazing, every fiber of his being aflame with pent up feelings of frustration, fury and hatred, Massacre moved to stand directly before the Bengal, his tail lashing behind him. His furious gaze sought her's, his lurid orbs searching to ensnare her's so that she would be forced to meet his eyes, to perceive the exact depth of his wrath. He allowed a low, rumbling growl to build in his chest and roll forth from between bared teeth. "You would do well to stay out of my way, she-cat." There was no mistaking the threat in his voice as he glared at her.


    As his eyes swept over her, sizing her up, he noted her deceptively slender build, yet he could also discern the sturdiness and strength in her limbs that few she-cats he had seen possessed. This inner power matched the look in her eyes perfectly - she was the embodiment of fiery ferocity and spirit. She, he could see, had not succumbed herself pitifully to the toms. She had not given up and surrendered all she had to those of higher power, but continued fighting. Something told him that she was not one of those simply content to meld herself into the group, lie low and hope to stay relatively untouched by the toms. So she was a fighter. A possible danger to SkullClan's cause, and yet there was something about the flash of spirit in her eyes that Massacre almost appreciated - the fact that she wasn't just 'another one of those she-cats'.


    Had he been in a better mood, he might have perhaps amused himself with a pleasant conversation with her. However, the sea of bitter rage and hate within him would not so easily calm. Instead, his eyes burned into her's, both cold and angry. It was misdirected anger, he knew. It was ludicrous for anyone to so easily be roused to fury by a little collision like that. But he was helpless to the clutches of his pique; a boiling, churning, ineffable hatred that drummed through his veins with his every heartbeat. It was not simply his frustration at the recent events that had transpired, but the awakened anger and bitterness that stemmed from his past, from the abuse his father had dealt him and his brother when they were kits.


    His teeth flashed in the gloom of the den as he emitted a fierce snarl, his hackles bristling as his tail thrashed with sudden, renewed vigor. "Keep your disgusting she-cat filth away from me unless you want your ears clawed." His warning was spoken in a deep, menacing growl as he drew himself up to tower over her, his unsheathed claws and exposed fangs glinting in the cold, thin light of the Dirt's den. He considered simply abandoning all efforts of articulate communication and asserting himself through force and ferocity, a process he wouldn't find the least hindering, but they were coming now. Unbidden, ghostly memories creeping into his mind, dozens of recollections of his brutal, harsh past that seemed to shed stifling darkness over the flame of anger burning in his heart, enclosing it, smothering it until it seared itself to scorched ashes.


    Massacre felt the dying embers of his rage, and he suddenly wished the heat of his anger would return. The ashes were useless to him - they choked him in the darkness of the misery he'd suffered in his past, the settled a despondency over him that dissolved his wish to do anything but brood in his own, silent world. The fury, at least, he could cling to as though drowning, he could lean on it as a frail crutch to keep his spirit alive and moving.


    Most attributed the merciless savagery Massacre could display as merely insanity, or perhaps assumed it his inherent nature to possess the dark, cold, unfeelingness that he did. But that was an erroneous assumption. Massacre had not been born with the nature he had now - it was the cruelty of the environment he had grown in, the lack of warmth and support from any cat, the absence of love and compassion that refined the gentler points of an individual's personality in his kithood that had lead to him becoming what he was. He had not been born in Skull, but it was his anger, his need to strike back at the world that had driven him to join them.


    However, it could perhaps be considered more of a detriment than a benefit for him to have thrown himself into such a place as Skull. It was a place empty of the very elements he needed the most.


    The jet black tom continued to glare at the she-cat, despite his spluttering, dying anger that was morphing itself into a darker, grimmer, more withdrawn mood. However it ate at him from the inside, he would never allow such to show to another at Skull, particularly not a she-cat. They would only make it worse, anyhow. They wouldn't understand.


    No one understood.


    [Wordcount: 1125]

    There was nothing more infuriating to Elixia than watching a tom try to take advantage of her. His fury was evident in every stiff movement, agitation clear in his smoldering amber gaze. She had scarcely taken a single pawstep away from the midnight black tom when he turned toward her again, expression twisted up in his fury. From what she could see, he was looking to find some sort of release to this feral rage, this need to unleash all of this pent-up energy overwhelming his true nature. It was piteous, watching him getting so worked up over a mere misstep--a misstep that was a fault of his, mind you. And here he was, trying to blame the entire account on her. No, there was nothing more infuriating than being used as a stress reliever to a tom.


    There was hissing and spitting from his side as a few stragglers who had missed the initial distribution of the meal fought over the scraps, and for just a moment, the Bengal couldn't help but think of the meal she was missing at the moment. She had not eaten in quite a while, and though she possessed the strength to easily steal her next meal from one of the weaker females of the bunch, she was far above doing so. She would not allow herself to sink so low; thievery was a crime, after all, and though she was not beyond manipulation to get what she wanted, she would not take what belonged to others. She would never harm the innocents that just happened to be put through so much misery under the overbearing claws of the opposing gender. Masking her longing for prey under a cold expression of indifference, she evenly met the tom's gaze. If he thought that he could force her into meeting his gaze, he was sorely mistaken. She would meet it under her own will, for she was not afraid of anything he could possibly do to her.


    "You would do well to stay out of my way, she-cat." There was an unmistakable threat in his tone, teeth bared in an enraged snarl. Already, Elixia could feel her own pent-up frustrations building up at the surface, pressing to be unleashed on this tom before her. She was sick and tired of the brutal treatment, sick and tired of being confined to this small space with hundreds of other broken spirits. She needed something substantial to hold onto, something that wasn't just a memory, so faded with age she was beginning to suspect that it was only a dream. These feelings of anger, of injustice, were a heavy anchor, an emotion that she could remember clearly even in the dimmest hours of her life. "You would do well to watch where you're going, tom." she shot back, her facade of coolness crumbling away to a rage equal to his own, tail lashing violently for emphasis.


    So he was trying to intimidate her, trying to force her into submission? Well, again was he mistaken, for Elixia was not easily subdued. Ears flattening to her skull, she responded to the tom's snarl with one of her own, showcasing rows of pointed teeth. "Keep your disgusting she-cat filth away from me unless you want your ears clawed." He was threatening to...claw her ears? Seriously? The threat struck her as funny, and the silver Bengal let out a laugh, halting and filled with the bitterness of hearing threats of that nature over and over again. The routine was so common she could predict far ahead of time what would happen; tom gets annoyed for whatever reason, beginning with a verbal fight before escalating into a clawed ear or tail. Never had a tom tried to subdue Elixia permanently, and now, she was aching for this one to try it. If there was no way out but death, then so be it. She would go out fighting, lining his black pelt with scars to remember her by. She may as well leave this place with a lasting memory that would linger nearly as long as the time she been here.


    "Fine," she snarled, the challenge clear in her fiery gaze. "Try and claw me, tom, I dare you." Elixia stood tall, proud, unafraid to meet whatever retribution that the tom deemed fit for her display of disobedience. She hardly cared anymore, the indifference brought on by so many days of pain and misery. He'd be doing her a favor by slaughtering her where she stood, but if she could just brand her image into his mind, her last words being one of defiance, then maybe she would feel as if she accomplished something. "Not all she-cats are as weak as you'd like to believe they are." Needle-sharp claws scored the earth, slitted eyes boring into his as she demanded silently he attack her. In her, there was a need to prove herself, prove that unlike the sniveling beasts fighting over scraps of prey, she was worth something.


    But then, Elixia saw something. A flicker of darkness, a dying ember in the roaring anger that had once engulfed the tom's entire being. He was boiling down to a simmer, his will to fight her sinking. The Bengal had to forcibly hold herself back, to keep herself from taking advantage of this moment of weakness and lash out. No, he couldn't seriously be backing out on her now! She wanted to engage in combat with this tom, she wanted to go out snarling, with blood smearing through her pelt. More than anything else, though, she wanted to see this one tom bleed, bleed as he had likely made so many other she-cats bleed. She, more than anything else, wanted to see his spirit broken, wanted to see him in the same position countless females of Skull found themselves in.


    "Come on. Fight me."


    [word count;; 1005]

    [Sorry this is a bit long... ^^; You can just start reading from the paragraph Massacre's starts talking in if this is too much. I wrote more than I originally intended to. o.0]


    As he confronted her, Massacre noted the change that overcame the she-cat. Her air of aloof coldness dissipated like mist under hot sunlight, leaving her glaring back at him with a look that bespoke of every bit of her inner ferocity. It was then that he suddenly realized her rage was of his equal - she knew its clutches also, its savage, all-consuming rage, the desire to shred, to rip and destroy, the need to wreak havoc upon all that she hated. They were the same, and yet so different.


    Her pale green eyes flashed with fire as his words inflamed her, as they ignited a fearsome flare of anger that he knew she would not contain for long. They were possessed by the same acrimony towards each other's genders, and suddenly the air grew thick with tension between them. The atmosphere was brimming with antagonism, the primal drive to assert, to fight and to liberate to furious energies gathering within their bodies was steadily mounting, soon to burst forth in an irrepressible torrent of fiery ferocity. "You would do well to watch where you're going, tom." She retorted sharply, her the unconstrained fury in her own voice reinforced by the enraged lashing of her tail.


    Massacre stiffened in both disbelief and outrage. Never had a she-cat dared to speak to him in such a manner. This was insanity, this was rudeness he wouldn't tolerate even from his peers. A slow, heavy black thundercloud of incredulity mingled with pure, unadulterated fury and hatred swelled in his chest, threatening to explode outward with unrestrained violence. This fresh surge of anger swept away every wisp of his despondency, replacing it with a fierce, feral desire for retribution. She would pay for her insolence, in flesh and blood. In response to his threat to claw her, a harsh, grating laugh choked itself from her throat, a sound that was fraught with seasons of accumulated bitterness and hatred, mirthless, it was so saturated with acerbity.


    She laughed. How dare she laugh. No one laughed at him. The very concept of it was unthinkable. And it wasn't just that - her laugh had been an expression of her interminable contempt, her scorn for him. But she wasn't finished. Her ears pinned back, bared fangs glistening in the cold light of the Dirt's Den, her voice a vicious snarl as she spoke. "Fine. Try and claw me, tom, I dare you." Massacre's pale amber eyes flew wide with disbelief. Such words coming from a she-cat... it was even more unthinkable than for him to be laughed at. It could have been a joke, but there was no denying the challenge in her sage green eyes, nor the way she stood straight and tall in defiance to him. Despite himself, despite all his fuming anger, Massacre found this stunning. When most she-cats hissed and spat insults or rebellious retorts, they were pressed flat against the ground in a defensive posture - the look of a defeated snarling to a superior. But this she-cat was different. She was her own, seemingly unaffected by the looming, dominating presence of the toms in SkullClan.


    She was a rarity. She was both the most impressive and stupid she-cat he had ever seen.


    A cold chuckle escaped Massacre's throat, though his eyes still blazed, his tail still whipped back and forth behind him. "My name," he corrected, "Is Massacre." Another pause as he swiped his tongue passively over his lips, his eyes glinting dangerously as he stared at her. "Not all she-cats are as weak as you'd like to believe they are." She told him fiercely, her claws scoring the hard earth beneath them, gouging them mercilessly into the dirt. Despite the tautness, the thread of tension stretched to its limits between them, ready to snap at the slightest of provocations, a Massacre let out a snort of amusement. She was brave, this one. Brave but foolish. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to push him to his limits like this. The rest of them were cowards, only capable of putting on a flimsy show of false courage before a mere fierce word or look subdued them.


    But this girl... she was different. Her bravado was true strength. She possessed an inner fire, a spirit that the others in this miserable cavern lacked.


    Perhaps she might actually put up a fight for once before he crushed her - it had been a long time since Massacre had truly found a worthy opponent. Fighting was as instinctive as breathing to him. Ever since he had been old enough to withstand walking, his father had cruelly forced him and his brother to learn the ways of combat. He fought them and defeated them day by day, but he taught them as well. Massacre's knowledge and abilities in fighting were refined to a point where few could match him - although a long history of battles lay in his past, he had yet to find an opponent able to leave a lasting mark on his pelt. After the harsh kill or be killed world he'd thrived in as a loner, Massacre had found most of the unruly in Skull dull and boring to fight. They surrendered as soon as it became apparent they might have to walk away with scars, clawmarks or permanent maiming, and never had he once encountered a she-cat that had truly turned to fight.


    "Come on. Fight me."


    Oh, this would be interesting indeed.


    His famous chesire-cat grin touching his maw, Massacre flicked his tail dismissively to the side as if her challenge had completely failed to interest him. He turned away from her, though he kept her in his peripherals, strolling relaxedly a few paces away to where two she-cats were tussling over a scrap of squirrel nearby. As he did, he looked over the she-cat once more, keeping his stare somewhat amused and casual, but at the same time, seizing her up as, not a she-cat, but a true opponent. He was somewhat larger and broader than her as a tom, though the size difference was not entirely substantial, for he was not of extraordinary size or weight among toms. However, this allowed him a perfect balance of both strength and speed in a fight.


    As for her, she was slender and lean in build. As he had noted before, he knew that though she looked deceptively weak, there was a supple sturdiness he could see in her limbs that most other she-cats lacked. Indeed, she was a fighter through and through. However, she was also starved and kept from truly exercising her muscles - factors that might become turning points for whether she won or lost in the fight. However, Massacre knew better than to greatly underestimate her - she had already amazed him several times by her fortitude. Besides, when one was as fueled with hate and anger as she was, they could serve to compensate for hunger for a brief time.


    All of this passed through Massacre's mind in a matter of seconds, and without warning, he jerked to the side and kicked at the pair of she-cats, knocking them aside to leave a clear space for him and the she-cat to fight. The rest of the cats had already kept away, wanting to stay clear of the two cats who had been glaring at each other, both clearly at the point of letting hell break loose.


    Turning back to her, spacing a yard or so of distance between them, Massacre eyed her coolly, concentrating all his pent up anger, frustration and hatred into preparing for the battle to come. "You've been a most... interesting companion so far, my dear." He spoke conversationally as he fell casually into a ready stance, his paws spaced wide, legs slightly bent. "It would be a pity to shred you before I knew your name. Care to tell me?" He would pause for her response, but regardless of whether she was opening her maw to answer him, readying herself to fight or whatever, he would move the instant she responded to his words.


    He would rush forward without warning, his weight low, closing the distance between them within a second. He would run towards her head on, and at last moment, twist and attempt to ram his shoulder full into her face, a blow that would hopefully throw her off her paws, make her lose her balance, or at very least leave her dazed for several seconds. The momentum of his speed and weight combined would be sufficient to prevent her from being able to grab his shoulder. If his attack succeeded, he would immediately follow up, throwing his shoulder and momentum into her and attempting to force her off her paws. If this succeeded, he would then instantly try to move over her and pin her down, his body low over her's so that there wouldn't be enough room for her to get her paws underneath him to throw him off or batter him. Simultaneously, he would aim to clamp his jaws around her throat with a grip like iron, to close her windpipe and prevent her from breathing.


    If she managed to avoid his attack, he would use his speed to sweep past her before she could properly grab or counterattack him after dodging him, and end up several feet behind her where he would immediately whirl to face her once more. He would end up in a position that would force her to turn 360 degrees to face him, unless she stayed in position and left her back vulnerable to him.


    She wanted a fight? She would get one.


    [Wordcount: 1616]