captainryan | Entries tagged with oom

It's been nearly a month since Ryan came to Milliway's.
Nearly a month since he died.
He knows he's gotten somewhat soft in that time. Oh, he doesn't mean physically. Physically he's been working himself. Some 15 kilo weights in his room see an hour of use before he sleeps, and in the mornings he's up and running before most of the birds are awake, going until the sun comes up.
He's still amazed he can.
The thing is he's never sore after any of this. At least, not for long. Working with the fire for Suzi, he's burned himself a half dozen times, but doesn't bother with first aid anymore. Whatever damage is done is always healed within 24 hours, if not sooner.

No, physically he's in peak condition.

Mentally, however...he's changed, if only slightly. He's more...open. Yes, that sounds right. He's been letting people get close to him, something he's trained himself to never allow.

And no one's a better example of this than Suzi Darley.

He cares about her. Really and truly cares, and he has no idea how that happened. How he allowed her to slip past his defenses. Even worse, it isn't just Suzi. Phillippus, too, he had begun to worry about. Less so than Suzi, to be sure, but that he had actually felt concern at all was foreign to him. And to be concerned with what Lewis Nixon thought of him after he'd only met the man twice!

What was happening to him?

He's been trying to come up with an answer to that for awhile, but it wasn't until the moon began to approach again that he even began to have an inkling of what it was.
Everything we've seen suggests the behavior of a pack.
The simple fact of the matter is that he's not the man he was because he's no longer a man. Hasn't been since that night a month ago. And he's starting to suspect that the attack left him changed in more ways than one.
He can't believe this.
It all came down to instinct and the bundle of new ones he now had. Werewolves are pack animals, social by nature. Something he learned the hard way. And being a werewolf made him one as well. A subconscious urge to bond with people. The wolf's making him open up.
How dare it?!
He's angry about this. And yet...he can't reverse it. He's a werewolf now. He has to accept that this is part of him. He may not be pleased about everything that comes with it, but he has to live with it. And...it wasn't so bad, was it? There were some definite pros to his condition. Reflexes, healing, smell, endurance. It's a fair trade, isn't it? Especially when one considers that he should be dead and not here at all. If it was one of the requirements for his continued existence, he could live with that.
But why? What is his purpose here?
"It's another chance," Phillippus had said. And Belar: "This is what we do because we can, not because we have to."
He hasn't any responsibilities.
He didn't have to do anything anymore. There were no orders to follow, no expectations to fulfill. Except whatever he may set himself.
So what did he want?
Control was one thing. He would get a handle on the moon time, at least enough that there would be no repeats of the first time. Never again.
bodies hanging from meat hooks in unmarked black BDUs
Never again.

Getting Wells off his back would be nice too.

Phillippus had offered to teach him swordplay, which he definitely plans on taking up, particularly after that session with Nixon and the SA-80. He also wants to continue with the metalwork Suzi's teaching him. He may be learning jewelry, but the methods can be applied to other items as well. Who knows? Perhaps he could even make his own sword.

And as for his new found penchant for acquaintances...well, it hadn't harmed him yet. If anything, it only seems to be offering him new opportunities. As long as he didn't start chatting up every person he sees he can cope.
As long as that's as far as it goes.
Live and learn, after all.
It's not like he has much choice.

Ryan started walking into the woods a few hours before sunset. He kept in mind what Wells had said about it getting ‘really weird’ the deeper you went, but he wanted to get deep enough that he could no longer see, hear, or smell anything or anyone from the bar.

He’s trying not to think of anything that might upset him right now.

Andrew three years Gruinard Wells gone three years

Instead he’s just focusing on breathing, on building up control for when the moon rises.

If he can only keep calm he thinks he might be able to keep control. Or at least not black out. The open space is helping. A lot.

There are no walls to close in on him.

The sun is just starting to set when he finally stops and begins to disrobe. He was holding off because, well, really, who wants to be running around the winter woods stark naked? But the sun’s going down now and very soon that isn’t going to matter.

calm control calm control calm control calm control calm control

He shakes the snow off a bush and hangs his clothes on it, putting his boots on the ground beneath. The moon is rising and he can feel it in his gut because it’s all starting to twist and rearrange itself for the new shape. He collapses into the snow and this time his claws are able to dig into the ground. He shudders gritting his teeth _{too sharp too long} and groaning.

Here it comes, don’t fight, but don’t give in. Not this time.

On the next shudder Ryan’s gone, leaving the wolf in his place. Its ears flick back and forth a moment, orientating itself. This…is not the same as last night. This is better. This is much better.

There are no moving walls.

Outside is good.

It climbs to its feet, head rising a good seven and a half feet above the ground. It hears humans in the distance, and turns to go in that direction. _{not that way.} It hesitates a moment, before taking another step. not that way, dammit It gives a whine. It’s hungry and is about to keep going when a burnt fur smell catches its nose.

A prey smell.

The wolf snaps its head around tracing the scent back to its source. The demon rabbit breaks from its cover giving the wolf a short chase before it catches it.

This tastes nasty. Much worse than the last meat it ate. doesn’t matter, it’s all you’re getting

…what last meat?

It thinks, swallowing some bunny. The meat from the den under the square tree. Before it hunted the blond one that shoved the long piece of metal in it. That meat was much better. It had wanted to eat the blonde one, too, because he was fresher.

bodies hanging from meat hooks in black unmarked BDU's

oh God, no. NO. those were…

He doesn’t remember the rest of the night.

"Bar, would you be willing to provide a change of clothes and an SA-80 rifle?" Neatly folded khaki trousers and a black tee appear almost immediately. The rifle, not so much. Bar gets a raised eyebrow. "It's not for me, Bar, and even if it was, I know the rules. Lt. Nixon was curious, and I would like to be able to show it to him." Still nothing. Ryan thinks for a moment. "What if I left it with you until he was ready to see it? And returned it immediately after?" He gets a sense of some strong hesitation from her. "I'm not planning on shooting anyone, Bar. Even if the rules weren't in place." Ryan follows the rules. Always. The rifle appears, this time with a feeling that Bar's not sure she should be doing this. Ryan picks the weapon up and looks it over, checking safety and clip, before placing it back on the wooden surface. "Thank you, Bar," he says gratitude in his voice. "I'll pick this up later." It disappears into the wood much more quickly than it had appeared.

"Bar, could I also have a 16-month calendar for the coming year?" The calendar appears, wolves on its cover. "Thank you," he says dryly as he flips through to this year's December. "Could I also have the Bar date, please?" A note appears with 'Dec. 1' written on it. He frowns at this.

Two days?! Is that all? "Thank you, Bar. I appreciate it," he says distractedly before heading up the stairs. Two bloody days. He had thought he’d have at least a week to adjust to the idea of changing again. He frowns, thinking hard. It’s more time than the last, though. He’d only had a few hours.

He liked it. That frightened him. He lost control and liked it.

He should be glad he has a bit more leeway this time. Time to prepare.

To steel himself against it. He couldn’t lose control, not again.

He’s going to have to speak with Security. He doesn’t want to kill any of the other patrons, if only because Security wouldn’t be pleased when he changed back. If he at least tells them what’s happening, they might have someway to restrain or sedate him. At the least they won’t be able to hold any accidents against him if they’ve been warned.

Ryan stalked up the stairs to his room after his conversation with Mrs. Wells. His teeth are clenched and his mind just keeps going over one thing: Wells survived. Wells survived and he didn’t. How? Wasn’t he the one with the superior training? Wasn’t he the one who had known what was going on from the start? Wasn’t he the one who had survived the previous encounter? Yet Wells survives the house explosion (what else could the blurry memories of fire, light, and noise be?) and Ryan got a bullet to the brain.

It wasn’t fair! How could Wells survive where Ryan didn’t?

Damn Cooper all to hell! Never mind that there was only supposed to be one of those thrice damned werewolves. If the Intel had been correct, none of this would have happened. Both of their squads would have been alive, Gruinard would have their bloody werewolf, and Wells’ squad probably would never have been the wiser.

Ryan sits down on the bed. He wasn’t supposed to die.

Hell, nobody was supposed to die (except, perhaps, Cooper), but especially not him. He sat on the bed, trying to adjust. Live and learn. It was his credo. You adapt to your situation, or you die. Since he was already dead, that really only left him one option. He could sit here feeling sorry for himself that he lost (to Cooper of all people, who couldn’t even kill a dog) or he could move on with his…existence. He stood taking off his jacket and throwing it on a chair. He moved to the bathroom, splashing his face with some water before staring at his reflection.

I’m dead.

He was dead. He can deal with that. He’s not happy about the way it came about, not by any means, but he can handle it. He took a deep breath and remembers something else he had been not thinking about. It was that scent from Mrs. Wells that had done it. One whiff and he had known that she had figured out what he was suspecting. It had set him on edge before he could even acknowledge her body language. Humans did not, could not do that.

In other words, he wasn’t human. He makes a mirthless laughing sound. He had been infected, and it looked like that was going to carry over to his afterlife. Brilliant. And if there were stars and sun out back, chances are there was a moon. He was going to need a calendar. And a plan. Someplace where he could stay till he could get it under control. He would control it. He wants to control it.

Doesn’t he?

He nods to his reflection before leaving the bathroom. What was he going to do about Wells, though? He knew the man was less than pleased with Ryan’s last actions. And he threw a good punch. Wells also knew he was here from two sources, both his wife and cousin, both of which recognized his name almost immediately, judging by the way Andrew had scarpered off. It might be best if Ryan avoided them for now, at least until he was more comfortable with his surroundings. Milliway’s could do with some recon work.