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Found 3 results

  1. [Late evening, 25 Jan 2012] I have got to be out of my mind. As she looked westward from the edge of her territory, a light and cool wind wafting inland from the coast, Sarah considered once more what she planned to do, how dangerous it was... and yet, how necessary. The land to the west of here belonged to someone else. And try as she may, nobody else came to mind for the advice she badly needed. Had this been territory back home, Sarah would have shifted to her wolf-form and let out a howl of greeting. But this was the middle of suburban Los Angeles, not a half-dozen blocks from UCLA. People noticed a wolf howling in their backyards. Nor should she leave a note on a tree or rock and hope it might be noticed. People took care of their yards here, and stray paper tacked up wouldn't last long. With one last look around, Sarah stepped out of her territory and into that of the werewolf she knew only as Owns-The-Night. Her neighbor. --- Half an hour of sniffing and scouting and furtive glances later, the Dead-Wolf stood before the door of an unassuming and tidy little house on a corner directly across the street from campus. The signs were unmistakable; the scent was strongest here, and there were tell-tale marks on the trees that were as loud a message of "Stay Away!" as anything man had ever made. Unfortunately, staying away would leave her no better off than she'd been these past several months. With no small amount of trepidation, she reached up with a cold, dead hand and knocked on the door of the wolf's den.
  2. {Wednesday, 10th August, 2011} Some nights thought Declan, as he ran down Cornstock Avenue, I dunno why I try to be nice! Of course, nice was a relative term. What Dec meant by nice, in the case of John-Henry DeWitt, date-rape-drug dealer to the morally maladjusted of the UCLA students, was forgoing his usual approach of 'chew face off, negotiate later' and simply going for the word to the wise attitude. Collaring the little shit and slapping him around the face a few times, he'd told John-Henry in no uncertain terms that if he was seen on UCLA campus once more, he'd be peddling his pills and solutions in the ICU, and having to use sign language to conduct his transactions. He'd done this from behind the dealer, and hadn't let him catch a glimpse of his face... until when he pushed John-Henry away with an injunction to move his fat ass, the fucker had turned, seen the silver eyes, and recognition had dawned. "I know you!" he'd shouted, half fearful and half triumphant. "You that psycho vet that put Ray-Ray in the hospital last year." Made bold by distance and his discovery, DeWitt had puffed himself up. "Look atchu, all playin' Batman and shit. Me and my homies c'n play TOO, fucker. We'll be seein' you around." First mistake John-Henry had made was trying to make a quick buck dealing his shit to other sleazes on UCLA, despite his other low-rent dealer buddies telling him that the place was bad luck for their kind. His second mistake was turning around and seeing Dec's face. His third mistake, and this was the doozy, was threatening a vargr. Now Dec didn't particularly care if John-Henry and his fucknut buddies wanted to come after him, but it would be inconvenient to be the victim of a drive-by or a knifing and having to explain why the holes healed up. Plus, of course, there was no way he'd let his enemies have the initiative in any struggle. One of the roles he'd played as a light infantryman was to skirmish, to eliminate enemy intelligence gathering and leave them blind. Letting DeWitt run back to his buddies with a lead on who'd been stepping on their profit margins was a bad move and gave them the wherewithal to act and put Dec on the defensive. So Dec came to two conclusions, the first one being that reasoning with bottom-feeders was a waste of his time. The second was that John-Henry had signed his death warrant. As Dec started to walk after him, DeWitt realised his peril. It was 3 am on a Wednesday night, he wasn't carrying anything more menacing than a switchblade, and some nutjob ex-Green Beret or whatever was stalking after him, not saying a word, but his lowered head and steady gait spoke volumes. John-Henry turned and ran for his car. Slamming up against the side of it in his haste, puffing and panting, he fumbled his keys out of his pocket, only to squeal in fear as a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and he was slammed up against the side of his Ford, considerably harder this time. "Leggo me! Leggo me man! Leggo me!" he yelled. Declan cuffed him around the ear and took the keys, throwing them into the nearby storm drain. Then he grabbed the squealing man, distaste obvious on his features as he gripped him around the throat and squeezed. "Shut up." he growled. "You're walking tonight, Johnny-boy. Better yet, you're running. I'm going to give you a thirty second head start, but there's conditions. You run up that way." Dec point at the nearest road away from UCLA, Cornstock Avenue. "You stay on the road or sidewalks. If you head for someone's door, I'll kill you. If you try to use a phone, I'll kill you. If you yell or holler, I'll kill you. You keep running until I say stop. If I catch up to you, I'll kill you. Got that?" he asked, then shook the man by his throat. "I said, you got that?" DeWitt nodded, and Dec let him go. Snuffling and coughing, the overweight dealer started to run, unaware of whether the terrifying man with the gleaming eyes was behind him or not. After a minute of jogging, he looked over his shoulder. Dec was about ten paces behind him, moving at a simple trot, and looking right at him. John-Henry moaned and sped up. The psycho behind him likewise increased his pace, matching speeds exactly. John-Henry knew this because when he looked back again, silver-eyes was exactly ten paces behind him still. And he was grinning. "The fuck, man. What's wrong wit' you!?" John moaned aloud. His lungs were starting to burn, the product of too much weed and nicotine and not enough exercise. "I'd save my breath in your shoes, Johnny." came that deep-ass voice from behind him. The fucker didn't even sound winded. "We've barely gone any distance, and you're already startin' to punk out on me. Oh, and I'm nine paces behind you now. Every time you look back, I close the distance. Call it incentive to watch where you're going." DeWitt moaned again, but shut up and concentrated on his running, on the slap of his shoes on the sidewalk. He tried to tell if nutso was gaining on him, but couldn't hear the other guy at all. Not even his breathing. Was he still there? Five minutes passed as his legs protested and his breath came in gasps, and there was still no sound of the other guy. He looked back. The fucking dude was behind him, alright, jogging along like he could do this all damned day. He was also barefooted, a detail DeWitt had missed before. Of more immediate importance, though, was that he looked right at John-Henry's terrified eyes and closed the distance another pace, his grin wider. "Oh shit..." John-Henry muttered under his breath as he tried to coax more speed out of his legs. "Ohshitohshit." Amazingly, fear seemed to lend him a little more strength, and he surged forwards. "Nice. But pace yourself." came the voice from behind him. "We've got a long way to go, you and me. We're goin' the distance." "f'k y'rself." John-Henry gasped, then shut up and concentrated on running. One foot before the other, his heartbeat in his ears. Time passed, they passed turnoffs, the road curving south towards Holmby Park. It was a long, neverending nightmare, the occasional lights of a house, indicating that someone there was awake, nothing more than a cruel torment. The occasional car passed, taking the two for joggers out late, and John-Henry didn't dare try to flag one down. He still couldn't hear the crazy guy behind him, but he was there. DeWitt knew it. And if he looked around, then the dude would be only seven paces behind him. Fuck that. His legs gave out and he tripped, falling at the junction of South Beverley and Cornstock. Too breathless to scream, he panted and wheezed in fear as he scrabbled to his feet, heedless of the damage to his clothes and skin. "I'm still runnin'... still runnin'!" he gasped, expecting to feel steely fingers around his throat any moment. "Relax." came the guy's voice. "You've done good, John-Henry. Real good." DeWitt turned. The dude was still looking fresh as a daisy and regarding him with an amused smile. "You fucker!" John-Henry spat. "You.." he gasped for breath. "You sick fuck. What the fuck was that running for, huh?!" He wheezed, trying to get his breath back. "Whoa, there." the man looked taken aback, raising both hands. "I thought you'd be happy we made it. I know I am." "Made it... where?" "To the park. I'm lifting some restrictions, Johnny-boy. As a present to you." As he spoke, Declan peeled off his faded sweatshirt. Bent over double as he was, John-Henry didn't see this, nor did he see Dec shuck the sweatpants and, balling both up, shove them in a mailbox. When he did look up again, though, his eyes nearly bugged out. "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed as he saw the naked man. "You plannin' on raping me now, you sick fuckin' perv?!" "Rape's your thing, Johnny-boy. Yours and those little shits you peddle to." Declan said breezily, swinging his arms back and forth. "But we are going to do some more runnin'. Don't worry, it won't be for long. The good news is..." he grinned, grinned wide, and this time there seemed to be way too many teeth for the mouth containing them. John-Henry gasped and stepped back. "..You can scream now, if you want to." Declan said with a growling laugh, and Changed. His mind flooded with primitive terror of what he was seeing, John-Henry turned and fled from the massive, horse-sized wolf, uncaring of the shit and urine running down inside the legs of his jeans as he tore with terror-renewed strength across the road and into the park, gasping, weak screams trailing behind him.
  3. July 28, 2011, The Red Dragon, 9:00 p.m. "Any other fund-raising suggestions?" Amy Zellker gazed around the table, her plump face set in cheerful lines. Amy was an Organizer. She lived to be the head of an organization, pouring her time and energy into it. It became the source of her self-worth and pride. And everyone else in the club let her, because it meant they wouldn't have to do it. August was relieved when no one else came up with anything else. They'd been here for three hours and the wait staff was starting to get annoyed. Maureen was doing her best to remain an actual customer by continuing her trips to the buffet, but even she was slowing down. August stifled a sigh as she eyed her empty glass; the staff had stopped filling them an hour ago in hopes of making them leave faster. Had this been a Film and Photography Society meeting, they would have already been done. The Graduate Cinematography SA was a different beast, far more pompous. "Then I think we're done," Amy said, still cheerful. Money appeared and was tossed on the table, until everyone had given their part. Then the club broke up into ones and twos, everyone heading their own way. August pushed through the door and into the muggy LA air. Her steps turned north, toward home. It was a longish walk, but she was short on cash until her student assistance started to pay out. Walking was much cheaper than driving. The problem wasn't the walk. It was what she might see on the way. They were always worse when she was alone. They were always worse when it was dark. This walk promised to be bad. Oneca was out tonight, Aradia didn't have a working car and August would sooner ask a live cobra for a ride than ask Saja. That chick gave her the creeps and was also hateful. August's sandals thumped against the concrete of the sidewalks. She kept her head down, trying not to see anything unusual. She didn't want to see or react to them. Sometimes they noticed when you reacted to them visibly. Clutching the handle of her backpack, she walked on, sweat gluing her shirt to her body.
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