Ryan watches her go, leaving for the slightly more secure kitchen once she was out the window. He can hear the wolf snarling and growling, and occasionally roaring in pain. God, he wants to disappear out the back door and just let her hold it off for as long as she could.
'Stop running,' she'd said. He paces the kitchen floor, removing the MP5 strap from his shoulder. It hadn't helped him then, it won't help him now. He'd have to face it. He was afraid to face it. The bastard terrified him. Not what it was, but what it could do, what it did to him. What he could do to others, to Suzi and Deitmar.
He finds he's holding the sword on the table. He stares at the blade, remembers the feeling of the metal sliding through his back.
He came here to catch a werewolf. He failed, or thought he had until Wells told him otherwise. He'd been pleased; his mission hadn't been a complete loss. Special Weapons had their werewolf. And then Witherspoon told him that Ingram had decided not to use the data. And the partially successful mission he had died for suddenly meant nothing.
His grip tightens on the hilt. That's why he's angry. He died for nothing. And he let go because he couldn't function with it. How long ago was it? How long had he been hiding in his own head?
The sword is melting under his hand, glowing red hot, then white as it shape softens then runs together. It’s searing his hand, but somehow he knows he can’t let go.
That life is over and done with. The molten metal is shining. What ever happened has happened. He can’t change that. The steel starts to reform. It’s been three years for Wells. His world’s moved on. Did he really expect it not to? The metal cools in his hand, soothing the burn. Britain has to do what’s best for herself, and if that involved negating his sacrifice, so be it. It was for the greater good. The ends justify the means.
He looks at the new sword that has formed. The blade is shining steel, hilt and pommel gold. There’s a design of chains on the grip, and set at the butt of the pommel is a dark brown tiger’s eye with a wolf’s head carved into it. Farris.
This is who he was now. And the wolf is just as much a part of that as anything else. He wouldn’t have grown close to Suzi otherwise. Deitmar would be nothing more than a sparring partner. Both would have little more meaning than as a source of income. Instead they were pack. They were family.
And, perhaps, that is what scares him most of all.
Ryan walks to the front door and it opens easily under his touch, as though the nails holding it shut had vanished. He steps outside under the waning moon, sword catching the silver light.
Rachel, he suspects, will know to let the werewolf up.
no subject
'Stop running,' she'd said. He paces the kitchen floor, removing the MP5 strap from his shoulder. It hadn't helped him then, it won't help him now. He'd have to face it. He was afraid to face it. The bastard terrified him. Not what it was, but what it could do, what it did to him. What he could do to others, to Suzi and Deitmar.
He finds he's holding the sword on the table. He stares at the blade, remembers the feeling of the metal sliding through his back.
He came here to catch a werewolf. He failed, or thought he had until Wells told him otherwise. He'd been pleased; his mission hadn't been a complete loss. Special Weapons had their werewolf. And then Witherspoon told him that Ingram had decided not to use the data. And the partially successful mission he had died for suddenly meant nothing.
His grip tightens on the hilt. That's why he's angry. He died for nothing. And he let go because he couldn't function with it. How long ago was it? How long had he been hiding in his own head?
The sword is melting under his hand, glowing red hot, then white as it shape softens then runs together. It’s searing his hand, but somehow he knows he can’t let go.
That life is over and done with. The molten metal is shining. What ever happened has happened. He can’t change that. The steel starts to reform. It’s been three years for Wells. His world’s moved on. Did he really expect it not to? The metal cools in his hand, soothing the burn. Britain has to do what’s best for herself, and if that involved negating his sacrifice, so be it. It was for the greater good. The ends justify the means.
He looks at the new sword that has formed. The blade is shining steel, hilt and pommel gold. There’s a design of chains on the grip, and set at the butt of the pommel is a dark brown tiger’s eye with a wolf’s head carved into it. Farris.
This is who he was now. And the wolf is just as much a part of that as anything else. He wouldn’t have grown close to Suzi otherwise. Deitmar would be nothing more than a sparring partner. Both would have little more meaning than as a source of income. Instead they were pack. They were family.
And, perhaps, that is what scares him most of all.
Ryan walks to the front door and it opens easily under his touch, as though the nails holding it shut had vanished. He steps outside under the waning moon, sword catching the silver light.
Rachel, he suspects, will know to let the werewolf up.