When I hunt, I take the minimum I need to make a kill. I equip myself with 2 stone-tipped spears, a knife or a hatchet, bandages, and food. I’m prepared to lose everything, because my prey is more dangerous than I.
I sneak through the terrain, following ravines and rocky treelines. I keep cover, and I rely on sharp hearing to find my prey. I always hear them first – usually by the careless shots they fire to kill chickens and deer.

I set myself in a good position and wait. Often, they go the other way, but I don’t take risks to pursue them so soon. I’m patient – I wait a moment, then follow quietly. I know they’ll stop again, allowing me to catch up. When the opportunity presents itself, I get close as I can without being discovered. I make sure that I’m well within range, so there can be no escape.

I attack from behind, or to the side. As I charge, abandoning stealth, I can only describe what I feel as desperate, malicious terror. I know he outguns me, but my mind is utterly set on his destruction.
He doesn’t see the first spear until it’s lodged deep into his chest, and my hands already grasp the second. His panic ruins any chance he’d have to dodge it.
I duck and weave as I approach, positioning myself opposite to where I know he’ll run. He fumbles with his gun, firing one poorly-placed shot after another. He stops to reload, but my second spear has already found him, and he falls to the ground screaming.
I scan the horizon, then approach to inspect my prize. While he bleeds out in the snow, I take his armor, bandages, and materials. At last, I pick up his gun from the ground to finish the job. I want his friends to hear the shot, hopelessly delayed from the sporadic bursts he fired at me. They’ll know what it means.