Hunt Gone Wrong

They were partners in crime, or so she supposed.
After all, like it or not, they were certainly partnered. And what they did wasn’t particularly legal. Quite the opposite.
Names? Morgan Everett and Nathaniel Cowen. Known to be the best of the best at what they were paired to do: hunt monsters. They were the perfect pair of killers for the dangerous art of eliminating the beasts that lurked in the dangerous, forbidden forest surrounding their town.
Not many would find what they did very inviting. Not a lot of people craved the adrenaline rush that the killers lived on. Many people looked to the forest with fear. Some didn’t look at all. Those were the citizens who plugged their ears and walked away when the myths were spoken of. Morgan and Nathaniel, in comparison, were some of the few that listened. Hell, they were the ones who told the stories.
On this hunt, it hadn't been obvious at first that they had been followed. But they had run just as soon as it had become apparent; starting from when they felt they were being watched, ending as the monster had appeared behind them. It was not something as deadly as a wyrm, and not as easily killed as a simple Manticore. With Nathaniel’s expertise put on hold by their desperate evasion of the monster, she had nothing to consider but mere guesses, and there was a monstrous (no pun intended) chance that she was incorrect.
It was massive, she knew that. It sounded like that of a massive wolf, with heavy footfalls as it bounded after the two of them. To it, they were nothing more than dinner. Or the mere appetizer. The killers were muscled, but they didn’t have a ton of tender meat on their bones. No matter what, it wanted to kill them, and she wasn’t stupid enough to take a risk with something like that. It had a killer instinct, just as they, as hunters, do. Not once has she hesitated from a kill, and if there is an reasonable comparison, it would not show hesitation, either. Humans were impulsive by nature, but they were capable of keeping their heads on their shoulders. Monsters were animalistic, spontaneous, and centered around one thing: survival.
And this monster was gaining on them. She leaps over a fallen tree trunk, her arms pumping to keep her speed. After a moment of struggle, she succeeds, managing to make it up beside Nathaniel. He was the important one in this situation. His survival held everyone else’s survival, too. He was the only one who could control the fence, the only living killer in the forest who could force the energy through his body, and channel it into the ground, so the fence could be touched. With her being his partner, she had a reinforced duty to keep him alive. Or at least make the best possible attempt.
Was it pathetic that she was so focused on the imminent sacrificial act of her giving her life for him? She wasn’t sure what the answer was, otherwise. He would hate her for it. Yet she would do it anyway. “The lives of many over the lives of one,” or whatever that saying was.
Her hair whips her face, her ponytail having fallen out minutes ago. The cold air was stinging her eyes, drying out her mouth, chapping her lips. She flashes a look behind her, and if she had the capability, she would have screamed. It was right behind them, making a leap towards Nathaniel, so it could box her in once it had killed the faster of the two…
“Nathaniel!” Her scream, that single warning, is the last thing out of her mouth before she makes a leap towards him. They collide, muscle on muscle, and she’s vaguely aware of the fact that she had gotten him out of direct contact with the beast. There’s no one there to divide her from the impact, however, and she’s tossed to the ground with a sound of sickening, multiple cracks, and an agonizing pain zinging through her chest.
She’s immobilized from the moment she hits the ground. Unable to move, and unable to figure out why she can barely breathe. Soft, wet pops, like sacs of air bursting, are all that results in her tussle for a proper inhale. Her fists clench against the ground, tugging at the grass curling against her fingers, as though it would reduce the dangerous liquid filling her lungs. It was getting more and more constricting, her eyes becoming panicked, her chest heaving as she fights.
It was no use. She’s aware that there’s no noise now. Like the silence on a battlefield once the war was over. A minute passes, and it remains as such, other than a meager shuffling of something moving against the ground. She squeezes her eyes shut, figuring Nathaniel was dead, had wounded the beast, but hadn’t quite accomplished the task. The monster was just going to finish her off. Maybe that was easier. It was certainly faster than suffocating on the forest floor.
But the shuffling doesn’t resonate that of a four-legged creature. She doesn’t dare look, not wanting to stare into the eyes of her killer, like she had thirteen years ago.
The attacker does not do anything more than bend down stiffly, and press the back of its hand to her cheek, as though trying for her attention. She lets her feverish eyes flicker open, and they travel up, taking in bloody combat boots, ripped jeans, a muddy shirt, and familiar sea green eyes, framed by strong cheekbones and dark eyebrows.
Nathaniel.
“Morgan,” he’s whispering, speaking quietly to keep any scavengers from hearing them, even though it would be easy to pick up on the rank smell of blood. She watches him, immediately trying to take refuge in his strength, before her relief clashed with her vulnerability, and resulted in an embarrassing display of emotion. All the while, she wonders if this was the end. It was hard to come to terms with the possibility that this was the moment where she became like the rest of his partners. For a while there, she had thought she might have had a chance of ending the cycle.
It was easy to notice how his eyes are particularly transfixed on the blood spreading on her side, where stray branches have pierced her skin. It was nothing in comparison to the number done on her ribs, and the indentation on her chest from where the bones had been shattered. He still asks, despite the fact that the answer was obvious, “You just get the wind knocked out of you, Morgan?”
She shakes her head a little, gasping as his gentle hands begin to slide over her sides. He starts at her hips, traveling upward. She only flinches as he gets to the cuts, but when he reaches her ribs, she nearly screams. Her voice is a whimper, gurgling from the fluid in her lungs, rising ever steadily. “D-don’t…don…’t touch…” Her words contradict the outcome of what would happen in a moment; there was nothing he could do, save for pick her up, or leave her here. His choice was predictable.
Apparently, even with her labored breath and fluttering eyes, he decides that she has some chance of living. The pain his decision causes her is unmatched by anything she has experienced before. He was trying to be gentle, but efficient, and she has a feeling that it would make no difference if he was not trying to save her pain. Her lungs tighten, agony wracking through her chest. Trying to find some reprieve, she clings to his shirt, holding on for dear life. It is hard to admit that her breaths, whatever ones she could harvest, are sobs. His next words are validation enough that her composure is far from upheld.
“Stay calm, Morgan. Breathe.” He’s trying to be stoic. Professional, even, but whatever he is attempting to hide is obvious. Fear is evident in his tone, more than anything. Nathaniel, saint-like in the current situation, was still trying to calm her terror, in the midst of his own panic. And she could do nothing more than let his footsteps lull her to a half-conscious state as she was carried gently towards the fence, where her fate would be determined.