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He was running trough the forest again. He knew that he couldn't trust half of his memories, but this one he could claim as his own. His head was harder to mess with than most. The joys of being a psychopath.
He remembered, distantly, vaguely as if through a fog, that this was a dream, that this was the good dream, the one he had after a long fight with the runt, a hard hunt, the killing of a hated enemy or really good sex. He couldn't remember a recent run-in with the runt ('Because the runt is fucking dead!' something in his mind screeched, but he chose to ignore it), nor did he have good sex in a while -it took a lot to satisfy a masochist with incredible stamina- so it must have been a hunt. Or perhaps a kill, though he couldn't remember getting close to anyone important for the sake of killing them in the past five weeks.
His thought process discarded the chitchat and focused on the task at hand. The dark, moss covered trees of Canada gave way to the high grasslands of Europe, perhaps Scotland or Germany if he remembered correctly, fresh with mists and birch saplings. Yep; Germany.
A small sound made his ears twitch and hind legs tense. A buck was grazing fifty feet in front of him as if nothing in the world could hurt it. Like a young boy. Most boys think that nothing can hurt them, but the predator crouching in the weeds had never been like most boys. The red need to stalk, run down, pounce, maim and consume had seeped in through the tears of puberty and the holes left by pincers.
Yellow eyes, unblinking and sharper than any man's were trained from early on to see through the near absolute darkness of caves and cellars.
Ears, mutated over the years to tips that twitched like a cats, honed and sharpened to pick up the slightest of sounds; a ferret twisting trough ten feet of snow, the scurrying of insects in the forest and the fall of footsteps from twenty feet underground.
A nose, better even than a bloodhounds, ready to track anything down, polished by years upon years of practice in the most unfriendly conditions imaginable.
Limbs, muscled in tight, primitive knots that shifted underneath golden skin like waves, enabling godlike strength and speed, ready to bring their owner up to twenty feet high into the air if need be, and a mind, brilliant and ruthless, calculating with cold precision, hate-filled from a childhood spent in the dark.
The buck's fate had long been decided.
The predator slowly crept closer. He was always on all fourths; it was a natural inclination of his instincts. When the distance between himself and his prey had been shortened to forty feet, he pounced. Powerful legs catapulted him into the air and carried him forward, spine curving and a joyful sound bubbling in his throat; half growl, half roar, with a significant high note of a childish mewl hidden in there somewhere.
The predator was free at last. Free from the world, free from the weight of his newly regained conscience, free to roam the wild without a care.
A sensation of wild, child-like joy engulfed him completely, made him forget anything and everything not related to this chase. He was the god of the hunt, the child of the hunt, he was one with everything around him and the exhilarating joy of finally -finally!- being here and being one with the beast, the animal inside.
Normally Victor and the Cat were different: Victor, the (somewhat) voice of reason, and the Cat who was simply the Cat. There was no other way to describe it but as something that had always been present, yet grew with every further mutation inside of him; the animal that followed his instincts, the true Sabretooth. And now it was finally free to be what it wanted to be, fully, with no distractions.
A short chase, and the buck went down. The predator buried his teeth in the throat of the beast, then tore into the chest cavity to swallow the heart, face completely covered in and dripping with delicious red, red, red, red everywhere, washing over him, cleansing him, rocking him to sleep; whispering all the sweet lullabies he'd never heard as a child.
He ate, gnawed at the warm meat and ravished the soft muscles of the underbelly. All was well in the world, even with the distant knowledge that he would have to wake up sometime soon -the dream always ended with the scaling of a cliff after the feast- he cherished these rare moments of total safety too much to care.
When he was done, he stood up and wandered -on two feet this time- to where he could see a hill looming over the horizon. Once scaled it would allow a magnificent view of the sea of Nova Scotia, lifting him from sleep with its constant mutter.