| Who's afraid of the big bad wolf |
[Aug. 12th, 2007|08:34 pm] |
The full moon was well above the horizon as the werewolf made her way down the ridge toward the trailer park. She'd waited for this moment, waited for the moon to be full and the chance to hunt a special kind of prey. Tonight she would avenge her slain packmate by tearing apart her killer.
It had taken time for Julie to work up to this. By nature the werewolf wasn't inclined to seek out civilization while in her four legged form, but the desire for vengance was strong. Julie's grief and anger at the loss of her friend combined with Elfleda's influence had kept her locked in a changed state ever since that night and the werewolf had been running wild.
Cattle had been killed, ranchers attacked, but it wasn't enough. The urge to hunt this more dangerous prey had always been there, but it had taken until the moon was full for it to become all consuming and drive the werewolf down from the hills. Julie could smell his scent grow stronger as she emerged from the shadows and out onto the ground in front of the killer's den.
'You have ... no ... new messages.'
Whistler slammed down the flip top of his cell phone, not bothering to even check for text messages. In the few weeks that passed since being cleansed by Hannah, new (Styggian) Agent for the Powers That Be, his dance card was virtually empty. No contact with Rhiannon. That was as much his decision as hers. When she shuffled away from his double-wide, away from the aftermath of being cleansed of Elfleda's influence at the cost of a friend's life, it wasn't good-bye. But he felt her need for space. The things he'd said cut deeper than the knife she'd stuck him with outside of their apartment, and he still didn't know how to make amends. That the words were false could be argued, but the intent was still there. To hurt.
That he did in spades. And now karma was returning the favor. He'd become something of a pariah since the blonde waitress at the Nugget went missing. There was an influx of patrons ordering pie, and a distinct drop in attendance at the Rock 'N Bowl where (thankfully) the manager still allowed him to work. "People come and go, not like Searchlight's a mecca to put down roots, Whistler," the old man justified. Still many of the lanes went dark for several days until someone made a 'helpful' suggestion and Cosmic Bowling became the newest fad to a town that had trouble staying up past ten on a school night.
He got looks wherever he went. The corner store stopped carrying his Lucky Sevens. And whenever the Agent stepped foot in the Lighthouse, it was last call.
Whistler jammed his fingers into pants pocket and retrieved the key to his trailer... which had been tagged with spraypaint again. At least this time someone used a dictionary. He bent over, patted Gerald on his gnomish head and slipped the rascal a Peter Jackson menthol.
The werewolf managed not to growl as she spotted her prey, the scent on the soft breeze confirming that this being was the one she sought. She'd been careful to approach from downwind, not wanting to give herself away and it seemed to have worked: her prey stood facing away from her and gave no sign he was aware of her presence. His blood called out to her, and she moved in for the attack.
She would teach him the meaning of a hunter's moon and avenge her packmate.
Still, as she closed the distance the werewolf felt the fur on the back of her neck stand up as she got the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Julie paused and lifted her head to sniff the air suspicously, but there were no other scents on the breeze that posed a threat save that of her prey.
Satisfied, the werewolf started up again and quickly increased her speed to a full run. She would knock him down and rip out his throat before he even knew what was happening.
Well dammit, someone gummed up his lock with superglue. Whistler suspected Old Dingbat Abernathy. This had her fingerprint, figuratively speaking.
Or it could've been Loki. The Norse gods were making their way to Las Vegas for the centennial Golden Oldies Convention (relatively speaking of course. If the true Old Ones showed up for a rollicking good time with Craps, Booze and Hookers, there'd be nothing left in their wake). Fuck, he hated that mischief maker. Fake vomit was funny the first ten times. That asshat needed new material.
The hatted man put his hands on his hips, yelped as he stuck the key into his tender side, and stood staring at the blockade to his abode. He'd probably have to jimmy the window open.
Or not. As someone had conveniently put a rock through it while he was at work.
Sigh.
If this was truly the end of a perfect day, Whistler chuckled to himself, a meteor would crash into the double-wide right now, obliterating everything but Hannah's troll collection.
Julie was running full speed toward the hatted man, who still seemed completely unaware of her presence. The werewolf was confident that she would take her prey almost without a fight, a confidence that lasted until she crossed over the line of rocks between the street and yard.
When she crossed the rocks, the feeling that she was being watched intensified dramatically and her speed decreased as if weights were attached to her paws, making it harder to run. Julie whined at the sudden change, but as she'd been at full run there was too much momentum to stop her entirely, all it could do was slow her down and make it hard to change course.
A problem her prey did not have when he stepped away from the door toward a window, and the werewolf slammed into the flimsy trailer door and tumbled into the inside of the trailer itself.
Once inside the trailer, the force restraining her disappeared and Julie was on her feet almost instantly, teeth bared in full snarl as she leaped toward her prey at the window.
"Fat lot o' good you are," Whistler scolded his perimeter security. "What, rocks and aerosol cans aren't considered threats?"
Gerald shrugged and puffed on his Peter Jackson.
"Did you read what they said about--"
A mass of fur blurred past him and solved the issue of entrance to the Agent's double-wide. The sound of wood breaking would be the least of his worries. The snarling, that brought up the hairs on the back of his neck.
Whistler turned back to the window, squinting inside to see who. No. Make that what. Golden eyes. And teeth. "Fuck."
There wasn't time to mount a mental defence. So Whistler did what anyone in his position would do. He yelled at the top of his lungs and ducked.
Julie's target might have escaped her teeth, but not her claws, the edges of which from her hind paws raked along his back as she sailed through the window and passed overhead. She could smell fresh blood well up from the cuts and it only strengthened her desire to rip him apart and feast on his innards.
The werewolf landed on the ground and immediately the sluggishness returned, and Julie snarled in frustration. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to let it stop her from her goal, and the werewolf lunged toward her target.
He killed her packmate. He would pay with his life.
The wolf landed square on Whistler's chest, pushing him back onto the damp grass. Gerald was doing his best, slowing the beast. Giving the man a chance to find something to fight back with.
This was a particularly bad moment for him to remember Rhiannon begging him not to step into trouble.
His hand scoured the grass. Fingers eventually grasped and curled around something cylindrical. The day's edition of the Clark County Beacon.
He swung it up hard, and connected with the beast's nose. "Bad dog! Bad!"
The werewolf yelped in pain when the newspaper slammed into such a sensitive spot, and it saved the agent's life as Julie's teeth had been miliseconds away from tearing out his throat. Her claws had done damage on landing, but nothing the prey couldn't survive.
It had been a hard hit, and the pain caused Julie to back away from her prey temporarily to protect herself from recieving another hit in such a sensitive area. She was moving sluggishly, and the feeling of being watched even though there was no scent still caused her fur to stand up.
The werewolf circled her target warily, watching every move and paying careful attention to the thing that had hit her snout.
Julie decided that the prey would have to be disabled before going in for the kill. She'd tried for a quick kill and failed, now she'd have to go the hard way and lept at the arm holding the offending newspaper. Her claws and teeth would turn muscle and bone into so much useless meat.
That bought him a not entirely unexpected reprieve. Animals responded to pain as much as humans. And that momentary distraction gave Whistler enough time to realize exactly who he was dealing with. And not a what. Beneath the enlongated snouth and fangs and teeth was intelligence.
And that was something he could fight against, given the chance. Which Whistler had wasted in sizing up his foe. He failed to track back inside in time, and talons ripped through his clothing, sliced deep into his upper bicep.
What's black and white and red all over?
He discarded the Beacon and went for cover, diving through the shattered entranceway.
Her attack had been partially successful, the werewolf could smell the rich coppery scent of his blood spilling out from where her claws had sliced deep into his flesh. She growled in satisfaction as her flight ended and her paws dug deep into the earth upon landing. Soon she would do more than smell, she would taste his blood as she lapped it from his shredded flesh.
The satisfaction was tempered by the sluggishness and sensation of eyes on her that the werewolf couldn't identify, and it made her nervous. Whatever it was though, it wasn't enough to deter her from her goal, and she started up the steps to the inside of the trailer where her wounded prey tried to hide. He would not escape her, she would have vengance.
Whistler scrambled for what little safety he could find in his sanctuary. Most of the furniture hadn't been replaced though he'd managed to clean up the general mess. The spartan conditions gave his attacker the advantage, as he had less places to hide and/or use as a buffer.
Damn those golden eyes. That gave him the willies.
He activated his mental google search function for werewolves. Which provided way too much literature on the subject, including a mental flash of Michael Landon in horrible make-up. He narrowed the parameters to non-lethal defences. The obvious came up: silver, fire. And a big asterisk that reminded him not to get bitten. If teeth sunk in, he was better off dead. Whistler didn't enjoy the prospect of body-shaving at each full moon.
What wasn't so obvious but important to remember was that there was an intelligence behind the animal and if that could be accessed... well he wouldn't necessarily be able to reason with it.
But it meant the Agent could do this.
He closed his eyes and focused. Attempted to get past the exuding animal instincts and find the person within.
Julie padded into the trailer, her nose to the ground sniffing the blood trail her prey left. Her movements were unhurried as there was only one way in or out of the structure. There would be no way for her prey could get past her without her knowledge.
Golden eyes locked with blue as the werewolf quit sniffing and looked up, the object of her attentions only a few feet away. The werewolf snarled, baring her teeth fully as she approached. The animal instincts that dominated her mind were after one thing and one thing only, death. Elfleda's tampering had done its work well.
Whistler's nose started to bleed. It was almost impossible to find his way inside the creature's brain. That struck him as odd, off-putting even. Waves or rage radiated from the wolf. But not just. It was tinged with paint, and... guilt? It was noxious, trying to find a mental foothold.
He took several paces back as it continued its lumbering approach. Guilt. Over what?
And it struck. She -- gender confirmed finally, helped in part by the appearance of six nipples -- was coming after Whistler with intent. Add in the swirling mass of emotions driving the attack and you got.
"Hannah."
Julie paused and cocked her head to one side, trying to understand the odd sensation in her head and the strange behavior of the creature in front of her. He had spoken to her and used the name of her packmate, the one he'd killed. It was because of him that she was dead.
He didn't get to use that name.
The werewolf snarled again and continued her advance. She would avenge Hannah's death by killing her killer and feasting on his remains.
"So there is something underneath all that fur, huh?" Whistler caught his foot on a folding chair and tumbled. Mostly his pride hurt, as fleshy underside bits connected with the metal. "And if you understand the name, it means there's a chance for reasoning.
"And that's just what I needed to know."
Whistler wiped the spackle of blood from his nostril and concentrated. He focused on the one word that got a reaction from the werewolf. Dug it in deep, used it as a door into the female's memory. And opened the flood gates. Grasped at any wisp of memory and replayed it as a loop.
'Would she really want ya killin' in her name?' he added as a commentary track. 'Would killin' me make Hannah a happy girl?'
Julie stopped in her tracks as the memories overwhelmed her, unable to do anything else but focus on the images flashed in her brain.
Flash: the first time she'd met Hannah. The petite blonde waitress slid into the seat across from her, so tiny as to even be shorter than Julie herself. "Not trying to be rude or anything, but that floor can put a hurtin' on you," she announced, and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. Most of the brown was gone now. "Need to see a menu?"
Flash: talking with Hannah about Devon's teaching her. "I never really had a lot of friends," Hannah confessed instead, and reached for her bag of Oreos. Chocolate, now that was a lifelong pal, one she could really use after that chat. "When I was little, I was sick all the time. I mean like, all the time!" She nodded and pulled a cookie out, before sliding the pack Julie's way. "Kids are mean about stuff like that. And then when my grandma died, I hit the road for a couple of years, to learn how to take care of myself. Searchlight's the first place I ever made the kind that last. And I've got some strange friends, let me tell you."
Flash: Hannah in the rescue party when Brad had captured her, injured and unconcious by the time she'd seen her. She turned her back on him and began to limp toward Kris and Matthew, who were starting to carry the others back up the stairs. Devon's scent was carried on the air currents, and she could hear him upstairs, fighting something to evidently keep the rescue party safe.
Her heart swelled with gratitude, this was her pack, no matter what anyone said.
Flash: Hannah and Julie in a helicopter ride over the Vegas skyline when the petite waitress had reminded her about Fang Noir by accident. Searching for a way to make it up to her friend, Hannah took her seatbelt off and picked up the refreshment tray. She leaned it this way and that until a few more grapes popped into view. "Look!" Hannah stabbed then with a fresh toothpick and handed them Julie's way. "Grapes!" It was a lame effort, but the blonde delivered the fruit with gusto. "You can throw them at me, if you want."
The werewolf whimpered at the memories flooding her brain. She missed her packmate. Hannah had been there for her when it mattered most, and Julie had never had a chance to return the favor. She'd let Hannah down.
Flash: Encountering Elfleda after Hannah's death. "His Agency was not of light, but of shadow," Elfleda explained, looking straight at her. "He fed her his sickness....And why should I tell you of this? Because he's gone against his nature, Julia... He's become something of a rogue. An unstable element - and your friend could be only the first of many. My interest lays in balance, not contributing to his greed."
Flash: After her unscheduled transformation to lupine form. "There, there, my beautiful canine friend... Don't feel guilt. My side doesn't do guilt," she said, smile sitll in place, as she approached the thing with a surprising lack of trepidation. Where others were feel terror, the Corruptress merely reached out hand, patting the side of the creature's head fondly and projecting actual affection. A sort of... Familial warmth. An emotional welcoming.
With that, the hand stroked to ear and down neck, Elfleda continuing to smile.
"Others might judge. I never will, Julia... What you seek is justice and no Earthly court can give you that. You have to make it, dear girl. Make it for yourself."
Something else was worming its way into the girl's aura, too. A measure of darkened additive. A little piece of Elfleda, causing whatever darkness might be there to blossom and thrive.
"Go hunt, darling... Go practice... Teach him the meaning of a hunter's moon."
Julie whined again. The werewolf wasn't sure what to do. Every instinct she had told her to lunge, to finish him off and feed off his corpse, but the memories were able to reach enough of the human intelligence within to give her pause.
"Julia." His voice was soft, plaintive. Controlled. Each memory played in wide-screen, HDTV format in the Agent's brain. He saw what the brunette did. Felt her pain. Understood.
It made perfect sense. Fuckin' Elfleda. Couldn't let Hannah's sacrifice go unnoticed, could she? A win in the white hat column, the Bride of Leviathan had to pull one final fuck you in the blonde's memory.
"Julia." Whistler spoke again. "She lies. Hannah died saving my life. I didn't take it from her."
To be safe, he kept a secure distance, propping up the metal folding chair in front of his more sensitive areas. The woman was infected with the same poison the Corruptress had instilled in him earlier. And like him, reasoning wasn't the easiest thing to do. And Whistler didn't have Rhiannon and Connor like the blonde did.
"This isn't you, Julia. You're not Brad. Don't give in to it."
Julie whined again, torn between heeding his words and tearing out his throat. With the fullness of the moon it was difficult to think past the desire for blood. Add in the influence of the corruptress on top of the normal urges of a changed were and it was practically a miracle the agent had connected with the human intelligence within the animal at all.
She'd spent the past two weeks up in the mountains feeding, living the life of a wolf without a care for human worries. Without a care prehaps, but not without the desire for vengance burning in her blood. It had taken the added intensity the full moon brought to her change to drive her down to Searchlight for the confrontation, but it would have happened eventually regardless.
The human within the wolf was repelled at the idea of becoming her maker, but the urge for blood was just too strong to ignore in the end. When it came down to it, his words weren't enough. She didn't believe him.
Her whine changed into a growl and she lunged for his throat, determined to finish it.
He really wished the Slayer was here by his side. If for no other reason than to say a proper good-bye.
The chair likely saved him from a quick(er) death. He'd kicked the brace just in time and the seat slammed out to provide a temporary barrier between Julie's teeth and Whistler's jugular. Blood gushed from his nose as he kept the link between them. Her hesitation suggested some of what he'd said resonated but it wasn't enough. The Agent knew that. He'd lived that. And given Hannah was somewhere between worlds, scouring the manual (ha! like the PTBs would hand out instructions) on how to do her new job, she couldn't exactly come to his aid.
Maybe she could.
Please let this work...
Julie lived through her memories of Hannah. Whistler decided to show her his.
A pained yelp escaped the werewolf's throat as her snout impacted the steel seat of the folding chair and her momentum sent them both sprawling onto the floor. When she landed, the dazed werewolf just laid on the floor as a set of foreign memories flooded her brain...images of Hannah from Whistler's prespective.
Flash: Julie saw the two friends meet for the first time, fellow prisoners at Beowae. "Hannah, huh?" he gestured at the dust. "With an exclamation point too. Good to be sure of yer name. Whistler." He held his hat out, as would a gentleman in greeting, before securing it back on its rightful place atop his head.
Hannah sat up fully and stuck her hand out, in case he wanted to shake it. "Nice to meet ya. Is that your real name, or you just pulling my leg?" she wanted to know, as she tipped her head back to see his face. "Cuz I'm pretty gullible," she rambled on, before letting him answer. "And pulling the leg of a gullible girl's like... the absolute cheapest of all the shots."
On and on the mental highlight reel played. She saw the two in any number of situations, good friends to the end... until it finally really was the end.
Flash: Julie watched through Whistler's eyes as Hannah tried desperately to save him from Elfleda's plauge. Watched as the poision drained out of his body and into Hannah's, seeing the fever take hold of her and sap her life force. "Oops... I guess I... overdid it."
She watched as the petite blonde cured her friend only to succumb to the sickness that had dogged her all her life.
"Guess what," she said. The perspiration on her face made Connor's jeans damp at the knee. "I almos' had sex."
And finally, Julie watched her friend breathe her last.
The werewolf shakily climbed back on all fours, ignoring the man next to her. Her head lifted toward the ceiling and she howled, howled in grief and mourning of her packmate that she'd never see again.
With each howl, the taint of Elfleda's influence seemed to lessen until it dissapeared entirely. Not that it protected Whistler entirely from the werewolf's natural inclinations in her current shape, but she seemed uninterested in taking his throat at the current time.
Flashes of light played behind the Agent's eyes. Pain racked his brain, from the temple down the base of his skull. A migraine and explosive nosebleed, however, were the last of his worries.
He carefully shifted aside the metal chair and stood wobbily. He fished out a Peter Jackson menthol and shaking hands finally struck the zippo on the third attempt. He blew out a ring of smoke, which intensified the pain he felt.
They both felt.
Was that how it played out for him? Were Rhiannon and Connor in fear of their lives when they attempted to save him? Could they forgive him for Hannah relinquishing her lifeforce to keep him rooted on this earth? And could the hatted man come to terms with it all, not let the guilt eat him from the inside, as clearly as it had Julie?
From his glimpse into her mind, he was aware that Elfleda was the cause of their shared misery. She'd have to be called to task. But not by him. He made a promise to a certain Slayer back in the hospital. He was gonna honor it.
But the bitch was going to get a beat down in the end.
"Julie?" he called out softly, tentatively reaching out to stroke her slick fur.
The werewolf whined in response to her name. Enough of the human intelligence within was at the surface that she no longer had any desire to kill him. It would be some time before the full moon set and she returned to her human form for the first time in some weeks, and that meant her animal instincts could still return front and center - albeit without the murderous rage that had been amplified by the corruptress.
Instead, the mentally drained and exhausted creature laid down on the floor and rested her head on her paws. For now she'd allow the human to stroke her fur.
The worst was over. Aside from the gash in his forearm where Julie's claws had gouged earlier. Whistler created a makeshift tourniquet from the torn shirt and, with teeth and his good hand, tied it tight. No need for a tetanus shot this time (his visit to the hospital after Beowawe had seen to that) and hopefully there'd be no need for a rabies shot either. Though he should find a polite way to ask when Julie woke up.
Human. And naked.
Oh crap.
Gingerly he slipped off his torn jacket and slipped it over the wolf, and scratched between her ears.
"I think you've got the right idea," he yawned. "Maybe we both need to rest our eyes a bit." |
|
|
