TIMING: Recent
PARTIES: Shan @plunderwater and Samir @razorsharpteeth
LOCATION: WR community center.
SUMMARY: Shan shows up to Samir's volunteer position and offers an agreement of sorts. Samir is suspicious, but takes her business card.
CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A
Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Shan watched her prey with keen eyes. It took her a while to find him, but she was patient. In her line of work, patience was everything. It wasn’t enough that she could gather all the relevant information she needed. It wasn’t enough that she found out where they lived or at least where they usually were, places they frequented, jobs they needed to go to, etcetera etcetera. It wasn’t enough that she knew their strengths and weaknesses, how to take them down if need be, what strategies to employ to make sure they wouldn’t be the last. At the end of the day, she had to make sure not to spook her quarry. The hunt doesn’t always have to end in blood. Theirs or hers.
Despite all that, Shan admitted to herself, as she continued watching the man do some unnecessary volunteer work, that she in fact had yet to gather all the relevant information she needed. She knew the man lived somewhere in Harborside but he also had a lot of irregular jobs that none of them seemed vital enough to be scouted. All she knew was that he was someone interesting and that he was a volunteer. What kind of people volunteer this much? Sinners. Actual or not, all fueled by guilt. This man definitely reeked of guilt. But what kind? The one that directly leads to death? Or the one born from inaction, from regret? Hopefully not the one that leads to a fight… I just had my hair done.
His hands were dirty. In a metaphorical and literal sense, actual dirt lining his fingernails. The blood on his hands wasn’t there, at least not any more, but sometimes when he saw his hands from the corner of his eyes he swore it was there. Dripping, wet and slick and sticky. Samir ignored it, whenever such visions plagued him, and continued his work. It was better to dirty your hands in a community garden and to scrub them after, to try and just make something grow, keep it alive with touch, water and care. Weeding was meticulous, dull work — but it was what he thought he deserved, what he thought was best for him to do with those damned, bloody hands.
He was fatigued, truth be told. The blue moon had taken its toll. He’d awoken foggier than usual and when whispers of the last fight had reached him, it had become clear it was because of the tranquilizers they’d used on Razor. Worse were the whispers of what he’d done in that fight. Samir didn’t much care about the injuries he’d sustained, dealt with them he always did – quietly, messily – and now just did his side job. The one meant to cleanse his soul. (It wasn’t working so far.) He glanced up, at some point, his hands itching from the weeds. There was a woman there, and he offered a smile, a small nod of his head.
Shan returned the man’s smile with one of her own. Despite the fact that he was looking a little tired and dirty, the selkie still thought he seemed…tasty. Most likely not the appropriate word but close enough. She wondered how ‘dirty’ he could truly be, unintentionally biting her lower lip. Or maybe it was intentional? It was hard to know these days, especially in her line of work. What she does know is that the smiles exchanged between them was just the opportunity she needed to broach the unfamiliarity that distanced their pair. “Hello, handsome,” she purred. Almost literally. Thank the heavens she wasn’t a cartoon wolf. ‘Awooga’ was a bad first line. “How’s the weather down there?” Not a better first line but it should do.
“Call me Aika,” she tried to give him her hand. Like an old-timey lady. From an era mostly forgotten. Unlike his, hers was clean and dainty, as if it had never seen any semblance of hard work. Perhaps not in the context of every day blue collar experiences, but make no mistake Shan’s hands have seen more hard work than they let on. If you ever get to know what she means. Once he was close enough, she’d whisper softly to him, so just the two of them would hear her. And also lure him in with her scent, with an implied intimate sensation.
“I think you may need my help, and I just so happen to be interested in some information you have,” Shan winked, despite the fact that she wasn’t even quite sure if she could help him with anything more than a few hours of delight. “In other words — you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.” And maybe we can do more together.
People flitted in and out of the community center all of the time, so he was hardly suspicious of a new face joining the fray. Some of them didn’t want to speak, some of them did. Some just wanted to be like him, crouch down until their muscles soured and weed the community garden in the hopes it might also make their own life a little cleaner. When she called him handsome, though, Samir was a little surprised. “Hello,” he said in return, not tacking on any complimentary word in return. “Well enough. Little less humid, I guess.”
He got up when she held out her hand, though. Once upon a time he’d been taught to be polite, to have manners. Working with high-paying tourists had made him all the more mannered, if the situation asked for it. Still, his handshake was somewhat rough and clumsy, a representative of his person. “I’m Samir. Did you —” want to help?
But she told him what she wanted before he could finish his question, though he couldn’t say it was entirely clear to him what she was hinting to. He was taken back, for a moment, to the person who’d brought him into the Grit Pit. I can help. He wiped his hands on his jeans, shrugged. “Don’t know if you can help me. I don’t really need any help and, besides …” Another shrug. “I’m not sure what I have that I can give you. Maybe you can be a little more clear.” If he’d not been in the town he was in, with the things he’d seen, he’d think she was maybe a bit confused, lost in the head — but Samir knew better now.
He was not interested. At least that’s what Shan thought at first. But then again, everyone’s always a little bit interested. She justified his lack of a flattering response with the gardening and the location. Maybe he just didn’t hear her call him handsome. Maybe he was just too tired from all the hard work that he didn’t catch up on it. Maybe he just needed more subtle prodding, like an experienced fish waiting on the bait to move so that it may chase after it.
At least he shook her hand. Rather clumsily, though. Maybe even a little too rough than most handshakes. Was he just awkward with these things? Maybe he just wasn’t getting enough compliments to make them a normal thing. Poor attractive manly man. “Samir? Do people call you Sam? Because I think I might prefer Samir more,” Shan gave him a quaint chuckle. She’s met more Sams than Samirs. It was like a breath of fresh air to her.
“Care to take a little walk with me then?” Shan’s offer was not meant to be necessary. Even if he didn’t care to take that walk with her, she’ll still continue the conversation. It wasn’t like she could afford not to. She was already here, and she already broached the subject. Might as well just swim into the current. “Your…job,” she kept the words as normal as possible. Just in case they had unwanted eavesdroppers around. “Not this one. I would like to hear about it, and then offer help with your…condition.” That word has never failed her in her line of work. At least not yet.
People called him Sam. His siblings had, friends back home, a large assortment of colleagues. Samir didn’t mind it. He minded it when people called him Sammy, which was a nickname more reserved for that family he didn’t speak to as often any more, those people out there across the country. “I prefer Samir as well,” he said, however, because he did. Especially with strangers. He didn’t mind friendliness, but he didn’t want to give the illusion that he was cool with people he barely knew using nicknames.
The stranger’s intentions remained unclear as she asked him for a walk and he wanted to just say no. He wanted to weed this garden, to feel as useful as the tools he used and like nothing more. Samir was ready to open his mouth and tell her that he was busy, that he had no interest in a walk — rejecting such a seemingly innocuous offer seemed almost cruel, but he was exhausted.
But then she went on. Job, she said. Condition. There was a tenseness gathering between his muscles, and he forced his jaw to remain slack. He’d been clear that he wanted a separation between Razor and Samir, that his human life should remain unaffected apart from the injuries he carried. And yet here a stranger was, hinting at things no stranger ought to know. “I don’t have any interest in a walk. Or telling you of my work — I’m a private person. And like I said, I don’t need any help.” He cleared his throat. “Where’d you hear about any of this shit, anyway? It’s … personal.”
Shan smiled. That’s one thing they had in common, and that’s one thing that should help this entire encounter sail smoothly. When an informant, well, informed her through a letter disguised as a bookmark in between the pages of a hardbound copy of Melinda Leigh’s Catch Her Death that someone ‘interesting’ was at the community center, she didn’t think much of it. When the same letter implied that this ‘interesting’ fellow was associated with a certain ‘location’ in a certain ‘neighborhood’ in town, she changed her mind. After all, she’s visited that same ‘neighborhood’ a lot, though she’s never done the same for that specific ‘location’ and thought the ‘interesting’ fellow a delicious means to a curious end.
Rooting out the ‘interesting’ fellow in the sea of selfless (ugh) volunteers had been hard. Or at least Shan thought it should have been. But with the other candidates not as ‘interesting’ to her as this Samir, definitely not as capable of surviving that ‘location’ with their lives intact, there was no better option. Her instincts served her well. That defensiveness, that…determination for what’s private to remain private, and the curiosity to hunt down the disrespectful snitch, all of these things made her feel good about her choice. “If you change your mind,” she offered him a business card with nothing but a phone number underneath a drawn image of an orchid. “I’d like to be a friend.”
“Some…of the rats in that…neighborhood can be a little chatty when their lives depend on it,” Shan shrugged, feigning disappointment at the aforementioned…rats. “Caught by the wrong people, their whispers could cost someone good and kind…” She gestured toward him with her eyes. “...their peace and even lives.” For some harmless information, harmless to him anyway, he could secure some needed…discretion. Or whatever else he wanted to trade.
Where there friendships that started off this way? Samir didn’t only doubt it, he knew it to be untrue. This was nothing if not something seedy, something born from some kind of underbelly — much like the Grit Pit itself, much like perhaps even werewolves. He took the business card all the same, though. If he was one thing, it was a survivor. He knew better than to spill his guts to this stranger, but he also knew better than to not take this small thing she offered him. A card that he could set on fire or recycle if he wished, or could save for future use.
Who knew, what tight corners he might end up in. Who knew. His position at the Pit was generally good, but it wasn’t a place of comfort or security. His contract wasn’t one that offered him many ways to go. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, though what he’d do with the memory of this interaction went unsaid. He didn’t quite know, after all.
He stared at the other as she lifted a veil, wanting to ask whether it was her who had put someone’s life in a situation where they’d felt inclined to talk. But Samir swallowed the question after he’d closed his mouth. “And would you describe yourself to be the wrong people? Are you telling me I should be worried about you … knowing what you think you know?” There was law enforcement, looking for a cause behind the trail of death he’d left in his wake, that had ended here. There were hunters. “Not saying you’re one of them rats, but you … talk to them, clearly.”
“Me? Oh, no,” Shan did her best impression of an uwu face. That usually worked, mostly because she never looked like she could pose a threat to anyone. Most of the time, that was true, especially on the surface. She wasn’t muscular, she looked dainty, and 10/10 times, she was light as a feather, easily tossed or thrown across the room. But the danger that she could be has never been physical. She has never dreamed of being a violent threat, knows she could never be one. Shan was more of a sinister threat, the kind that could strongarm the worst of people without even lifting a finger. “You’d be able to break my bones so easily, and not in a fun way.”
That was the truth. Shan didn’t think there was a need to lie about what was so easily seen. Compared to him, and most others, she was a flower. He could step on her, and if not in a fun way, she’d just wilt. “I’m more of a friend than an enemy. At least I’d like to be. You scratch my back, I scratch yours? That kind of deal,” she made sure to purr at him, which she wouldn’t have if she really knew what he was. But all Shan knew at the moment was he was a man working at a place he needed some information on. That was all she thought she needed to know. “The rats like to talk to me. Doesn’t mean I’m fond of them.” She looked him over, a playful smirk finding its way across her lips. “I’m more fond of making sure you live longer.”
Shan was a simple woman despite all the mystery and vagueness — amuse her and she’ll be on your side, but scorn her? What scorned person would remain by their scorner’s side? Only a victim would remain with their punisher, and Shan was no victim. At least not when there’s no fun benefit to it. “Are you married? With a girlfriend?” She fluttered closer toward him, a hand hovering above his chest.
She was small, sure, and not build like someone who was immensely strong — but Samir knew that didn’t have to mean much. Corinna didn’t look like someone who was physically intimidating, but she had plenty of dangerous creatures and men wrapped around her finger. Besides, information was worse than a punch to the gut or face. “I’m not asking if I could break your bones,” he pointed out. “I’m asking if I should worry about whatever you’re implying.” He wasn’t interested in violence, despite the ways he kept doling it out. Even as a human, there were people he’d hurt. Punches thrown in bar fights. A gunshot echoing against a hunter. He ignored the thoughts.
“I don’t usually make friends like this,” he said. “I still don’t see how you can scratch my back. Just hearing empty words. A vague threat. What is it you want?” Samir was growing agitated, nervous in a way he hadn’t been in quite some time. Rox had been charming, had seen an opportunity in his position as a wolf with no control — and though he was glad for the situation he was in now, as it was an improvement, he knew somewhere he’d been manipulated into it. “Why are you insinuating I might not live long?” He sounded more pressed now, showing his agitated hand.
She inched closer, talking in a voice that he might have appreciated in another life, at another place, during another time. But Samir inched back. “I’m not interested. Just talk to me straight, will you? These games, it’s bullshit. What is it you want, what you’re offering? Or is it just this, talk?”
“A man of your condition,” Shan took a gamble, like she always does, believing more fighters at that place would have something that bound them to, well, that place. A condition would suffice. Why else would anyone want to work there when they could work elsewhere, a fight club or whatever that didn’t need to hide in the town’s shittiest neighborhood? The selkie didn’t believe that a normal, ordinary, every-day, condition-free man would ever associate with that place. How could she, when she’s never even stepped foot there, witnessed what kind of solace or freedom such a job offered? If she had, she’d most likely stay away from it. “...should always be worried.”
Shan shook her head, discreetly watching anyone else that might be watching them back. This was taking a long time, the negotiation. Usually, she’d have a foot in the door by now, or maybe even a flipper. If she was lucky, if her charms worked, she’d be sitting in a chair, sipping tea, in the new…associate’s psyche. But this man was different. Like he was actively resisting being tamed. If she wasn’t distracted by the possible, unseen dangers from the Pit, she would’ve considered that a very useful clue.
“Information, Samir,” Shan stated plainly, eyes narrowed at random others around them. “...on your employer, interesting information…” When she turned her eyes back to him, she put on a smile, focusing on the possibilities of this would-be partnership. “...and in turn, I can get you any information you need any time you need it.” It was always a hard bargain. Unlike money or something else that was material, information wasn’t a treasure most people thought valuable. Until of course it bites them in the ass. “I can also deliver information to anyone you want any time you want. Full discretion, of course.”
That was true enough. And worry Samir did, albeit about different things these days than he had a year ago. He worried about the Grit Pit and what it said about him. He worried what it meant that he was an asset in their arsenal of twisted entertainment. He worried that maybe one day, he’d die in that pit and not even be conscious for it. But he no longer worried that he’d kill a random civilian, a tourist visiting the coast. “Yeah. Sure.”
What she wanted was for him to go behind the back of a fae who had so-called lesser creatures killed for entertainment and shock-value. He blinked at her, wondering why someone wanted information on the Grit Pit, what the intentions might be. Surely not something heroic and morally sound, that was for sure. And what did the woman have in return for his betrayal of his employer? Information. He shifted uncomfortably where he stood, but could at the same time barely resist a laugh.
“I don’t care about information. I know all I gotta know, you see.” Which was little, admittedly, but Samir thrived off his ignorance. Life was easier to lead with his head down in the sand. “My employer pays my bills, anyway. Don’t wanna mess with that.” And knowing Corinna, it wouldn’t just come with a warning, was he found out. He thought of the ways they treated Felix with a twisting feeling in his stomach. Ignorance made him feel heavy, too. “Tell you what. I’ll save your card, yeah? Keep it in my back pocket. And if I ever do need you, I’ll reach out.”
“That’s all I’m asking for, Samir,” Shan grinned. At least for now that was true. With someone on the inside, she could sleep soundly knowing that whatever’s going down there in the Pit, she would have a set of eyes she could call on. A bit of wishful thinking on her part may be, but it was all she had. At least for now. “Should things get…dicey on your end, for you, I should be able to help.”
The word ‘should’ really needed an emphasis but the selkie intentionally made her tone neutral. ‘Could’ she? Of course. She’s done that before. With the exiled daughter and her hunter lover. Delivered them back home, safely, the daughter with her family’s crown and the hunter with whatever fondness she had for her adoptive home. ‘Would’ she? Now that was a bit more complicated. If Samir had useful information, why not? If Samir became useful information, that would be good, too.
“I’ll get going now,” Shan purred at him, a sly wink to emphasize their discrete…relationship, for lack of a better term. With her, most relationships aren't relationships per se. Just an uneasy alliance or a brief partnership. Very hard to make lasting bonds in her line of work. Very dangerous, too.
As she began to walk away, Shan wondered how that ‘location’ manages to keep its ‘employees’ in line, amenable to risking their own lives as if their work was more important. Perhaps with a lot of money? That would make it a good ‘location’ to ‘visit’ one day. Or promises of fame and glory? Pass. Obviously led by someone more than human, preferably not a vampire or a hunter. Hopefully, a spellcaster or fae? Now that would be delicious. Her insatiable pelt would agree. All in due time. Fortunately, she was patient.
TIMING: A few days after the recent full moon
PARTIES: Monty @howdy-cowpoke and Samir @razorsharpteeth
LOCATION: Prickly Pears
SUMMARY: Samir shows up at the farm for some per diem work. Monty immediately guesses the other is a werewolf and still lets him work. Farmwork is fun, but why is it only the animals that have heartbeats?
CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A
If he had a dollar for every man that turned up on his farm looking worse for wear, he'd have two dollars, which wasn't a lot but it was weird that it had happened twice. Three times, technically, if you counted both times Gael had shown up during a full moon.
At least this one hadn't killed and eaten anything. Nor was he naked or disoriented, actually—he seemed perfectly cognizant and was here about the paying work, he just also looked a bit like he'd been put through the ringer. Which… was far closer to the truth than Monty realized as he gave the man a once-over, not particularly discreet about it though it seemed to come from a place of worry.
He knew what time of the month it was. He also knew what a magnet he was for werewolves, so—
"Sí, you can have the per diem position," he agreed, hugging one arm to his midsection and letting the other elbow rest atop it, hand pressed gently to his own face. Concern etched lines in his features as he frowned, disliking the sight of some familiar would upon yet another undeserving visage. "But… are you… all right? Have the last two nights been, ah, unkind to you?" There was a beat. "I do not mean to pry, señor Zidan, I just… I am a worrier." He offered a small smile. "Humor me?"
—
Some fights were more lucrative than others. Some fights were easier on the body and soul. But not this full moon, this full moon Samir had woken in his cage aching and more tired than usual. His usual envelope had not held a lot of money. He’d huffed, but said no more, and gone home to seek an odd job. It wasn’t like he’d not done this before: he used to hold down jobs before, albeit never for long, and at those he returned to work after the full moons as well. He did not permit himself a break.
And sure, he looked worse for wear. There was a nasty stitch in his side. A bruise forming on his jaw. But it wasn’t too bad — he could open both his eyes, and there was no taste of iron in his mouth. He was capable enough, and besides, idle hands had to be avoided. He let the other watch, despite the crawling sensation it brought. Samir didn’t like to be witnessed. He hoped Razor didn’t mind as much.
“Great. I’ll be here tomorrow again? Whatever I can help with today …” He trailed off. He would be amused by being called señor Zidan if it wasn’t all so discomforting in the first place. There was an insinuation here, sat right between them. He clicked his tongue, shrugged. “I understand. I have the worrier gene too.” It was more of a learned trait, admittedly, unless it was something he’d gained from his late father. His mother didn’t have it, though, that was for certain. “I’m fine. If … what you are trying to hint at is an issue, I’d understand. I’ll get out of your hair right away.” Workplace discrimination was, perhaps, warranted in the case of shapeshifting monsters, right? “And you can call me Samir, please.”
—
He never knew if someone else knew what they were. He hadn’t, after all, not for a long time… and Gael didn’t, despite the circumstances. So he couldn’t assume much, but to someone who had befriended a number of werewolves, the signs were pretty obvious.
“Oh!” Monty exclaimed, evidently horrified at the idea of having given the man—Samir—the wrong impression about his concern. “No, no, nothing like that! I—we—” He took a breath (that he didn’t need), stabilizing his thoughts after a beat and then shaking his head. “It’s no issue. I just want to make sure you are okay, that’s all. I have friends who are…” He let the sentence hang in the air before dropping to the dirt beneath their feet, figuring that some things could go unsaid, at least for now. If he was a werewolf, or a were… something else, there was a decent chance he’d realize that everyone on the farm lacked a heartbeat sooner rather than later. That is to say, once they were around other people. “Please. Follow me, we’ll need to speak with Daisy. I am sure she’ll have a list of chores that need doing—I can walk you through them.”
As the pair moved deeper into the property, the animals milling about their paddocks and creating a lovely ambient backdrop of bleats and whinnies, more and more hands seemed to crawl out of the woodwork. Perhaps they’d been there all along, or perhaps they’d simply been waiting for a signal from their boss that it was okay to resume work—he never wanted to compromise their safety, after all.
—
There was a look of confusion on Samir’s face, as if the simple act of consideration was enough to make him question things. In a sense, it was — it was a strange and unbecoming thing to be faced with. He didn’t talk to many fellow supernaturals, let alone werewolves, and felt like there was something stained about them. He held judgment for his own nature: so why shouldn’t this farmer?
Instead, he questioned if he was okay. “Ah. No, I can assure you I’m fine. It might not … look exactly fine,” he said, gesturing at his face, the discoloration at his jaw in particular, “But I have taken care of it. I can assure you that I’ll still be capable of whatever you throw at me.” Painkillers helped. As did his masochistic tendency to bite through the pain and just do it, but such details were not really job-interview material. Or any kind of conversation, maybe — it wasn’t like Samir was self-aware enough to verbalize them. “The others you know, are they also in town? You don’t have to … tell me who they are, or anything, I’m not asking that. This all takes a certain level of confidentiality. I just don’t meet a lot of people like me.” He smiled, despite himself. He’d met the two other wolves at the Pit, but they hadn’t even exchanged their human names. Part of that was his own design.
He moved in tandem with Monty, not sure if he liked that the other knew of his predicament. But he needed the cash, he’d made the drive and so he might as well stick it out for today. Besides, the other seemed kind, rather than disgusted. Still confusing, that. “Sounds all good. You’ve got a nice array of animals here.” Their scents mingled into one overwhelming thing and Samir let himself be distracted by it, the noise and smell of farm. That, too, was promising: if it was a lot on the mind as well as the body, he’d be tired enough to sleep at the end of a day.
—
Nodding in understanding as Samir insisted that he was fine, Monty figured he’d let it drop. For now, at least. But if the man came back looking for more work and with an even rougher appearance than he had now, there would be more questions, born purely of concern. “They are,” Monty said gently, offering a small smile of his own. “One of them has had many years to acclimate himself, the other… well. He is new to it. Learning. Accepting. It is a slow process.”
“Ah, thank you! I am sure you will get to know them quite well, if you decide to come back,” Monty chuckled, leading the man up to the main house where a tall, dark-haired woman was standing on the porch, looking over a clipboard. Monty and Samir approached the steps and she looked up, flashing them both a bright grin.
And, just like Monty, she distinctly lacked a heartbeat.
“Howdy there, friend!” she greeted Samir in a friendly, thick Southern accent, adjusting the hat on her brow before reaching out a hand to shake. “Name’s Daisy, but you can call me Dais if you’re feelin’ so inclined! Now, I hear you’re here for some work, huh? Just so happens, I got a nice long list of things I need done today while I go see a man about some sheep.” Monty smirked, giving Samir a look that said didn’t I tell you? before accepting the folded up piece of paper that Daisy pulled from her pocket.
“Now, just get done what you can, and don’t forget to take your breaks! Monty here can show you the ropes, and make sure he doesn’t forget to write down your hours, okay? Gotta make sure ya’ll get paid.” She beamed. “Sound good?”
—
Acclimation, what did that look like? Samir had to wonder. Had he become an acclimated werewolf over the past years? It hardly felt like it — he only managed to cope now through ignorance and violence. Monetizing his monstrosity. It worked, in a sense, but it wasn’t honorable, nor pretty. “It is a slow process,” he said, “One I’m not sure ever ends. I hope he has good people to help him?” He definitely couldn’t offer his services on that front. Half a decade of transformations hadn’t made him any better at it.
He gave a nod and a smile at that statement, letting his heightened senses adjust to the pace of this place. All the animalistic scents, that earthy musk. The heartbeats that differed per animal. The lack of a human pace besides his own — but Samir chalked that up to fatigue, for now.
Lips spread in a polite smile at the sight of Daisy. “Hi Daisy.” There was a gesture to himself. “Samir. Good to hear. Don’t like any empty days, myself. Best to keep busy.” The list was handed from one farmer to another, and he nodded at Monty, wondering about the relative quiet in the air between the three of them. There were people like that at the Pit sometimes, but he never stayed around long enough to really question it. He shook off the thoughts for now. “Sure, all sounds good. Just give a shout if there’s anything I gotta know.”
He turned to Monty, eyeing the list. “Alright. What’s on our to do list first?”
—
“He does, I think. I am doing what I can for him, but of course I’m not… like him, so my perspective is not especially helpful. My friends, though, they are trying to help support, yes.” The conversation about the mystery friend died down as they approached Daisy, and once their list of tasks was given, Monty took a moment to read it over before giving Samir a nod.
“Well, there are the daily things, firstly… the sheep need lunch.” There were other hands tending to the cows and goats and horses, but it was their task to make sure the herd of curly-haired sweethearts had their afternoon meal. “We’ve got roughage and hay for them in storage—come, I’ll show you.”
The afternoon continued without a hitch, the pair fixing several stretches of fencing together after feeding the sheep. After that, it was bathtime for a few of the horses, and Jicama needed to be re-shod. They were of course surrounded by other farm hands doing other farm hand tasks, and if Samir chose to pay particular attention to any of it, he’d find that not a single one of them carried a heartbeat. The only living things on this farm were the animals.
“Say, you must be getting hungry,” Monty remarked as he rolled up his farrier’s tools, setting them back on their shelf and unhooking Jicama’s lead to take her back out to pasture. He motioned for Samir to follow, flashing him a small grin as they fell into step beside one another. “If you are, I’m sure we can throw something together, unless you’d rather eat at home. But… I think we have gotten through the better part of Daisy’s list!” Just in time, too, because the sun was starting to sink very close to the horizon.
—
Those wondering thoughts he’d tried to shake off before – about the silence, the lack of human heartbeats – returned to Samir throughout the day. The sheep’s hearts were busy things, pumping around blood through those fuzzy bodies of theirs, and the horses were steadier, but present all the same. It made sense, maybe. Why else would the farmer have known of his affliction? Perhaps he had something going on himself.
Samir did his work, though, without complaining. When his aching body shot a dagger of pain through him, he winced — but never long enough to draw attention, moving through the pains as if it was his own kind of penance. There was ample distraction. Working with ones hands had always been his preference, anyway.
To ask your newfound employer pressing questions seemed like a bad idea anyway, especially in this town. Samir chose relative ignorance and took what he saw and heard at face value and with that, came to the conclusion that Monty was, if anything, a kind man. He gave a grunt in response, followed it with a, “Yeah,” as he caught up to the farmer and his horse.
“Sure thing. Am not a bad cook myself, but if you want to, you can just keep whatever we use from my pay.” Grit Pit rules. Samir missed the family meals at former workplaces. “And hey, good to know. If there’s more stuff to be done tomorrow, though…” He shrugged, leaving the suggestion hanging in the air. He looked at the horse and her steady heartbeat as she moved back into the pasture. “They’ve got it good here, the animals.” He thought of the creatures in cages at his actual job. How his wolf-side would have devoured all those sheep rather than fed them. He blinked, looked back at Monty, “Can I ask you something?” He’d rather have it out, if he were to return.
—
Monty threw him a confused look, cocking his head to the side. “What? Oh, no... do not worry about that, mi amigo. The food is on us,” the cowboy assured him, waving away the idea of having Samir pay for it. “If you wish to cook, though, by all means! I am certainly not an expert when it comes to food,” Monty laughed. “Daisy will be able to help you more than I can.” The human food was all for guests anyway, it wasn't like anyone on the farm had a need for it. But they still kept it stocked, just in case. And now, judging by the man's offer to come back again the next day, they might finally have someone to regularly enjoy it. “Tomorrow? Well sure! There is always more to be done, and we will always happily accept help.” He smiled brightly at Samir. “You are welcome to come by for work any time!”
Gaze fixed on Jicama as she trotted back into the pasture, hands deftly locking the gate after her, Monty hummed. “Thank you,” he glanced back at Samir, giving a small shrug. “We do all we can to make sure they're well taken care of.” And then, there was a question.
“Of course! What is it?”
—
He was kind, in an effortless way that made Samir feel jealous, which in turn made him dislike himself just a bit more. “Alright, alright, if you’re sure. I’ll lend a hand, then,” he said, conceding. He’d bring something along as a thanks, then, next time. As the other ensured him that he could come back any time for work, he felt himself grow a little more slack with relief. He’d like to come back, he thought. Maybe not forever, but at least for a few days the coming week. It was a good distraction. Even if his body ached from the work and the fights. “Alright. I’ll be here same time tomorrow, then. Thanks.” He frowned, but decided not to linger too long on that slip-up.
The other was thanking him too, after all. If that meant anything. “It shows.” He gave a small smile in return, and then struggled to get to his question. The other had been forward about his own nature, had pointed out his lycanthropy easily and without much hesitation — so wasn’t he in a position to return the favor?
“I’ve noticed …” He swallowed. “Well, that your heart doesn’t beat. I’m — I’ve encountered it before, I know it’s something that exists.” Samir frowned, his shortcomings self-made. He didn’t ask questions at the Grit Pit, but Monty seemed like a better person to ask things of. “The animals, they all have heartbeats, but the people don’t. I guess my question is — how?” Though what the fuck? would also be fitting.
—
The gentle, easy smile that always seemed to be present on Monty’s face turned into something a little more pointed, corners of his eyes crinkling as he let out a breathy laugh. “Ah. I was wondering when you’d bring it up. All my werewolf friends eventually do.” Pleased to have it more out in the open now, the cowboy gave a quick glance around them—not to see if they were alone, but just as a way of generally taking in the space fondly.
“We’re all dead—the hands and I. All… zombies.” The word still felt silly to say, but he wasn’t aware of a better alternative. Gesturing toward the cattle, goat, and sheep pastures in turn, he gave a nod. “That’s our main food source here. The goal of this place is not really selling dairy, though that is a happy byproduct of the work we do, but… it is more about keeping us fed.” He glanced back at Samir, brows furrowing. “Obviously the media has gotten many things about zombies, ah… what’s the word… miscon… misconstrued? But there is one fact they all seem to agree on, and that’s the brains of it all.” He shrugged. “Human, unfortunately, is the most nutritious we can get our hands on. But I’m doing my best to support these undead so they do not have to rely on that, to help keep them—and the people of this town—a little safer.” He clasped his hands, wringing them together for a moment before continuing. “I understand if this makes you feel wary about returning. No hard feelings. It is a shocking thing to realize.”
—
Zombies. It was almost laughable, but Samir had long ago lost the ability to see the humor in things. Even as his mind flashed to the video games he’d played and movies he’d watched with zombies, he understood Monty’s point not to go off them for reference. Eyebrows furrowed, staring at the dead man walking across from him, wondering what to make of it all. There was some trepidation, a natural response, but he knew above all that there was no space for him to judge.
The wolf inside had chewed off limbs and devoured other bits of humans. Who was he to now grow distasteful of people who had to do the same to survive? Besides, Monty said they ate mostly animals. “Alright.” He shook his head at the offer that he’d might not want to return. “No, it’s — I understand, in a sense. Or at least, am not in any position to judge. It’s a good thing, I guess, what you’re doing. Keeping ‘em fed.” He supposed there was something about control in play there, which he related to more than he might like to admit. “We all have to find our ways of dealing with these things, right?” He, with his position at the Grit Pit. Monty, with the thing he had going on here. “But I appreciate you sharing. Best to have it all out in the open, huh?” Samir shrugged, clasped his hands together. “Dinner?”
TIMING: August, after Parker's attempt to steal
PARTIES: Felix @recoveringdreamer and Samir @razorsharpteeth
LOCATION: Felix' place.
SUMMARY: Samir invites Felix to his place after the Parker situation and the two talk about the Grit Pit, how they got there and how stuck they are.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Abuse, gaslighting, parental death
There was an instinct to care within Samir Zidan, even if he tried to deny it. Even if part of him had tried to starve it, stave it off — a solitary existence was not one fit for someone who cared for others, and yet he had forced it onto himself. Even as a ghost, flitting from town to town, he cared. Volunteering. Stopping to help someone whose groceries had spilled. Letting someone go before him in a queue. He called it repentance, or at least an attempt at it.
This wasn’t quite that. This was something larger than volunteering for the local elderly or a small act of kindness. Extending his address to Felix Mendoza was something bigger, wasn’t it? It was born from care, sure, a willingness to have the back of his coworkers (in what was, admittedly, the most abhorrent place he’d ever worked — even fast food places weren’t this bad at following labor laws). It was more personal. It was some kind of commitment to wanting to make this place work.
He hadn’t expected them to take him up on the offer, in all truth, and yet the doorbell rang. Samir moved down the stairs, telling Cleo to stay put and opened the door. Eyes took in Felix, taking him in for hidden and visible injuries. There were scratchmarks. How many fights had he been in? He tried to bite down his anger. “Come in. Shit.” He stepped back in, half-turning around to trudge back up the stairs but his eyes remaining on the other. There was a soft yap from Cleo and he tried not to think about the mess of the place. “Come in.”
—
There wasn’t usually much solidarity between fighters in the Grit Pit. There couldn’t be. The Pit was literally designed to put you up against the people you ‘worked’ with, to make you resent one another. It was intentional, Felix suspected; if you kept the people at the bottom at one another’s throats, they’d never come for the people at the top. Make the fights last even after they left the ring, give them less money when they left each other standing and more when they drew blood. Pull on their chains and blame it on the guy beside them. Felix had never had any friends at work because they weren’t supposed to, because the Pit wasn’t built for that.
But Samir was different.
Maybe it was because it was never really Samir in the Pit, because Samir and Razor were different in a way most fighters weren’t. Even other werewolves didn’t seem quite as separated as Samir was from Razor. Felix thought of their jaguar, the one with thoughts and feelings and a mind of its own. They knew werewolves weren’t really like that, that there was no wolf’s spirit living within Samir, but it felt similar in a way it usually didn’t with werewolves. So Samir invited him over, and Felix said yes. Samir showed sympathy, and Felix accepted it. Samir opened the door, and Felix felt a little safer than he had when it was closed. It was a new feeling. It wasn’t a bad one.
“Hey,” he said hoarsely, drawn in on himself as he ducked inside. There’d been fight after fight since their return from the jaguar’s turn at the steering wheel. No one seemed to believe that their absence had been accidental; Leo had told them as much. You’ve always been a flight risk, Fe. We thought you’d learned your lesson, but I guess you were always slow with that, weren’t you? I thought you were finished being stupid. He’d sounded almost sad as he’d said it, almost sympathetic. But not in the same way Samir was. Samir seemed more genuine. With Leo, it was about control. It always was.
Felix moved into the apartment, glancing to the kitchen chair in question. He shouldn’t sit. He’d get blood all over everything. His blood, the blood of the last couple people he’d fought, maybe leftover blood from the night before that he’d been too exhausted to shower off, too. But their legs hurt and they were tired, and the chair looked like the most comfortable thing in the fucking world, so Felix looked at it and didn’t ask the question aloud but let it hang between them all the same.
—
When his father had died and his mother had checked out, it had been Samir who had taken the brunt of the load on his shoulders. Safiya had helped, of course, but she had been gone when graduation had rolled around two years later and from then on it had been him. Making school lunches. Paying the bills. Trying to figure out the paperwork. Putting a band-aid on Wael’s knee. There was purpose in taking care of others, and perhaps more selfishly, there was distraction.
This wasn’t what he was supposed to do. He wanted his connection to the Grit Pit to exist three nights and days a week, and nothing more. He wanted the pay and more importantly, the ensurance that he would remain tightly locked in a place when his wolf came out. He wanted the privilege of ignorance — not connection, not ties, not anything. But here Felix was anyway, looking worse for wear and taking him up on his own insistent invitation. Because at the end of the day, Samir needed purpose, needed to feel helpful, like the shiniest tool in someone’s toolbelt. Like something that could do more than harm.
Like something redeemable.
But this was dangerous, wasn’t it? Letting Felix into his home, offering care — it was like admitting that the Pit wasn’t as good a place as he would like to think it. Workplaces demanded solidarity, but this wasn’t just a place of work for Samir. It was a cage, a deserved one. Corinna knew of his desperation. She did not know how involved he could get with others, though, how he was not just a man running from law and himself — and his heart and spirit he would rather not give up along with his monstrous, murderous intent. She could have that.
There was no looking away from this, though. “Come on, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the array of ugly chairs he’d collected. He moved towards his kitchen cabinets, pulling a bottom one open. The pots and pans were of shit quality, but his first aid kit was good. Well-stocked. It had to be, with his nature — usually he healed, but sometimes the worst of it happened on the last night of the full moon and there was no fast-track to take. Giving himself stitches was a skill learned long ago. Samir gave Felix a one over, placing the kit on the kitchen table. “Do you want anything to drink? I can make coffee, tea … I’ve got some beer. Water?” He drummed his fingers against the kit. “If you — well, I’m no nurse. But just shout if you need anything from this, yeah? Fucking Christ. How many fights did they have you do?”
—
Relief clung to him as Samir gave him the permission he needed to take a seat, practically collapsing onto one of those wooden chairs. Felix shifted in an attempt to keep from staining the wood, which wasn’t as hard as it might have been a few hours before. They weren’t in great shape, but they’d stopped by home before coming here and that had at least given things time to stop bleeding, time for their trembling hands to settle at least a little. They still shook, but they could almost hide it now. They could almost pretend it was okay.
“Thanks,” they mumbled, closing their eyes as they leaned back in the chair. Already, they felt safer than they had at their apartment. Maybe it was the presence of another person, or maybe it was the fact that they’d seen Samir fight. Both were silly security blankets to cling to, of course. If that warden chose to attack them, he’d do it whether someone was around or not. He’d proven as much in that alley, when Felix’s screams had seemed to be little more than an irritating inconvenience to him. And Samir was a hell of a fighter when the moon was full, but Felix had no idea if he even knew how to throw a punch in this form. Still, the comfort clung to them like a warm coat, and they let their eyes slip shut for a moment.
But only for a moment.
Samir spoke, and Felix’s eyes opened as they glanced around the apartment. “Uh, no. That’s okay. I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.” They probably couldn’t handle much more than water right now, anyway. They always got anxious after a fight, even a fight they’d won. They’d done well tonight, Leo told them; made the Pit a lot of money, made themself a lot of money, too. They hadn’t even grabbed their pay before ducking out, too disgusted with themself to think about the envelope full of cash and how they’d earned it. It would be waiting for them the next time they came to work — which would be far too soon. They’d still feel sick about it. They thought they probably always would.
“I don’t think anything needs stitches.” They smiled bitterly, adding, “I won.” As if it was victory. It never felt like one. Instead, it tasted far closer to damnation. Felix rubbed at their eyes, shrugging a shoulder. “I lost count. I don’t know. It’s been — It’s just constant, since I got back. Small stuff on the weekdays, then big stuff on the weekends. Which is just — the usual. But more of it.” They shook their head. Embarrassingly, they felt like crying. “It’s fine. Just… a little overwhelming tonight. With everything.”
—
Guilt was an ugly emotion. It ruined ones state of being, broke down the very pillars on which someone was built — that and shame were the great undoers of a person, Samir thought. It didn’t mean he knew how to deal with it. He just knew it was eating him from the outside, spreading like a rot and making him the way he was now. Solitary, short-tempered, clinging to his volunteer work as if it would be his saving grace. It also meant he was getting better at recognizing it in others.
Felix hadn’t walked around the dressing room like someone who took pride in what he did. They had a certain quietness to them, a quality Samir could appreciate. They had revealed, even, that they didn’t want to be here — but the work still demanded to be done and the work came with blood and hurt and sometimes death. Enter at your own risk, they said before people entered the Pit, but that those risk were of the binding variety was omitted to both customer and fighter. It wasn’t prideful work. It wasn’t even thankful work. It was work worthy of shame and guilt — but that didn’t make it easier.
It would be easier if they were all proud of it, if they were sadistic and masochistic fucks wanting to spread violence around for profit. It would be easier. But here sat Wildcat, with their eyes closed and shame hanging over them at Razor’s dingy kitchen table. What formidable fighters they made. Samir decided to distract himself by still filling two glasses of water, placing them on the table and then grabbing a beer for himself. If he was going to risk getting closer to someone he had to most likely fight next moon, then he’d need a boost. “Water’s pretty much free.”
He pulled out a chair, settling down himself and taking a long pull from his bottle. There was a frown on his face. “Congrats,” he replied, the bitterness of the comment mingling with the bitterness of the ale. “Shit, man. And tomorrow, you’re back on too I suppose? I — I mean, I don’t fucking get why they’re doing this, but even so there’s gotta be an end to this, right? Let you recover and breathe a little between fights.” Samir wondered what they’d do to him, should the roles were reversed. Make him fight as a human? Try and force the wolf out? They were ugly thoughts, even if realistic. “No, man, it’s not fine. It’s a lot, all at once, and you’re being punished for something a hunter did — a fucked up one, at that. I’m glad you came over. I’m not sure what I can do to help, but … they say talking’s good.”
—
It was strange, Samir’s kindness. Felix had never really interacted with the other fighters outside of the ring before, something that was largely by design. Friendship, in a place like the Grit Pit, was a dangerous thing. Even a moment of hesitation within the Pit could cost a fighter their life, and in spite of the guilt they often felt for what they did and how they did it, Felix didn’t want to die. So, they distanced themself. They saw other fighters around, sometimes, and they ducked their head to avoid eye contact. It wasn’t hard — most of the other fighters weren’t particularly big fans of Wildcat, who fought hard and dirty and with a great brutality.
But Samir was different. Maybe it was because he didn’t remember the fights he’d been a part of, didn’t know what an animal Wildcat could be when Felix got scared or desperate or both. Or… maybe Samir was just a kind man who’d been backed up against a wall. Maybe every fighter in the Pit was just someone in a shitty situation doing the best they could do. Selfishly, Felix hated the thought. He wanted them to be monsters. It would have been so much easier if they were all monsters.
Offering Samir a small smile, Felix took one of the glasses of water that was placed in front of them and held it in their hands. Not drinking it just yet, but not putting it aside, either. “Thanks,” they said quietly. “I can… do dishes or something.” It seemed only fair. If anything, it wasn’t enough to repay the kindness Samir was offering them, but they doubted the werewolf would accept anything more.
They let out a hollow laugh at the bitter congratulations, wondering if any of the Pit’s fighters were proud of what they did. Maybe some of the newer ones, the ones who hadn’t realized yet just how stuck they were. Or… maybe there were people there who wanted to do what they were doing, people who enjoyed the violence. The thought was a little sickening. “Yeah,” they confirmed, blowing out a huff of air. “And the next night. Schedule’s got me in every night this week, unless I can’t fight.” The only way out of a fight once it had been scheduled was to get injured badly enough in another fight to have your name temporarily pulled from the roster. So far, Felix had yet to experience this. They weren’t sure if that made them lucky or unlucky. It felt like both at the same time, somehow.
“Maybe it’s not fine,” they allowed, “but it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it, either. It is what it is, right? I signed up for this.” Not knowingly, not on purpose, but no one had forced them to sign that contract. The higher ups at the Pit loved reminding them of that if they were ever caught complaining or fighting against the bind. “Yeah. Yeah, talking’s good. Better when you have someone to listen, so… Thanks for listening, man.”
—
Samir had been a person with friends once. His career stretched over a fair amount of jobs, many of them in hospitality and service, and they had all been marked with camaraderie. Working like hell during lunch and dinner rush, breaking open the skin of your hands on accident with knives or pots or even just cleaning agents, yelling at each other, getting lost in the cacophony of stress, smell, sound and hunger. And then, always, ending up chain-smoking, drinking beers until it was time to crawl home and redo it the next day.
Some of those people had been like siblings. People he’d fight with verbally but would always love — or so it had felt, at the very least. Things had happened, of course, since those years of working in kitchens in Floridean resorts. There had been the attack, the murders, the moving. He’d continued to work similar jobs, where solidarity and camaraderie were required to keep your head on your shoulders, but he’d never stuck around long enough for the bonds to become as strong as they had once been.
Samir had been a person built on connection once, and now he was something solitary. The Grit Pit was a place that on one hand demanded some kind of solidarity among its employees, if only because of the nature of the contracts. On another hand, any chance at it was choked by the nature of the work. There was something so very stupid about trying to get close to a person you were paid to fight. And this wasn’t like the mainstream MMA, where it was performance. Razor’s bloodthirst was real.
Who knew what would happen the next time they stood across each other in the ring.
But still, here they were. Felix offering to do dishes, Samir decisively shaking his head. “Do dishes? You’re dirtying one glass. I got it.” He shrugged. “Unless you wanna stay for dinner. Then we can do dishes together.” Cooking for people was part of his nature by now, an instinct born out of necessity, then turned into a career and now … just something he had almost forgotten about. “Every day? Fuck.” He couldn’t imagine it. Especially not being conscious for it. “What do they have you fighting?”
His ignorance about the reality of the Pit was fading in front of his eyes with every question he asked, with every expletive he used to express his discontentment. Felix mentioned the contracts without saying the word. Samir took another long pull from his bottle, wondering if they’d become one of the other fighters who’d die while signed up. “I mean, shit. Sure, I guess. It is what it is. And I don’t know what I can do. But at least we can both agree on the fact that there’s something about it that’s wrong, right?” He fiddled with the paper label on the beer bottle. “That why you tried to run?”
—
They used to be better at talking to people. As a kid, before their mom died, Felix was actually pretty damn sociable. They’d had a lot of friends in school, even if they hadn’t necessarily been a part of the ‘in’ crowd. They’d been the quiet, easygoing kind of kid that everyone got along with, able to go with the flow without issue or complaint. They helped their classmates with assignments, they sat next to whoever had an open seat at lunch, and they’d been good.
And then, a pair of terrified humans shot a jaguar in the woods, and just like that, the world turned upside down.
It was tempting, sometimes, to blame everything that happened after on their father. The way he’d handled his grief, the way he’d made his children prisoners to it, it had done a lot of damage. But it wasn’t the sole factor that contributed to Felix’s shift in perspective. It all started with that shot in the woods. It all started with two humans who weren’t built to hunt balam, but had unknowingly killed one anyway. The world became unsafe in that moment, a dangerous place. How could Felix worry about math problems on someone else’s worksheet now? How could they sit just anywhere at lunch?
The grief festered like a wound, poisoning the world outside of it. The isolation their father forced them into was almost a relief. Even the violence that came with it felt like an easy outlet, even if Felix would have never admitted it aloud. It was so much simpler to be angry, to hurt the world before the world could hurt you. It wasn’t who they wanted to be, but it seemed it was what the world wanted for them.
The Grit Pit seemed like proof of that. Being that quiet, easygoing kid wasn’t an option here, not anymore. In the Pit, you were ruthless or you were dead. Felix had known that early on, when every attempt they made to buck against their contract or unionize the other fighters ended only in more of that endless grief. The Grit Pit didn’t allow time or space for kindness.
And yet, here was Samir. Getting them a glass of water, offering to make them dinner. Felix stared at their hand, at the bruised knuckles and the dirty fingernails. “I wouldn’t want to put you out,” they said again, even though Samir had made it clear now that his kindness was for free. It was a difficult thing to accept, for Felix. It didn’t sit right in his chest.
They blew a puff of air from between their lips, nodding. “Yeah,” they confirmed, and the word felt heavy. “It’s different things. Nothing… sentient. Most of them are easy to beat. It’s just — I’m tired. You know?” And maybe he did. Maybe Samir was one of very few people who could know.
“There’s something wrong,” they agreed. “It — It’s fucked up. But there’s not anything to do about it.” They picked at their nails, feeling embarrassingly close to tears. “I didn’t really want to sign,” they admitted quietly. “I was — I was in love with someone. And he was a part of it. And I thought — I thought they’d trapped him there, you know? They told me the only way to get out of a contract is to have someone else sign in your place, to… Let someone take the bullet for you. And I thought… That’s what love is, right? Taking the bullet. So I did. But he wasn’t… He didn’t want out. And now I do, and there’s no… getting out. Just, this is me, now. This is my life. And I got myself into it. Nobody else to blame, right?”
—
It was through giving that he survived. Not just that, of course — there were other factors that had ensured his survival thus far in the face of the vicious beast he turned into every month and the hunters that had been on his trail before. Sure, ruthless viciousness had kept Samir alive as well (waking up near the corpse of a hunter, or worse, shooting one when fully conscious), but the spirit had to persist as well.
And that was done through giving. Making food for people – strangers or others – or offering small bits of kindness. Volunteering with elderly people who tended to bore or offend him to death more often than not, scrubbing pots and pans in a soup kitchen, giving back to any community he might inhabit, no matter for how long.
He wasn’t religious, but he knew somewhere that this was an attempt at repenting. There would be no redemption for him, but he could balance the scales somewhat, could he not? Samir at least figured he had to try, especially now that he was making money through bloodshed. Three nights a month he was contracted to fight and sporadically he was asked to do some social media things but besides that, he had all the time in the world for kinder ventures.
Like this. He needed Felix to accept his small kindnesses, which were nothing at all. The bare minimum of hosting. Something to drink, a seat to sit on and a listening ear. Samir shook his head. “You’re not. You’re my guest.” He swallowed the expletives that instinctually rose to his mouth.
He took a sip from his beer, the bitter and sweet mixing around on his tongue before he swallowed it. He did know, in a way. “Yeah. I know.” Not completely, not fully, but he shared a space with some of the not-sentient species that fought in the pit. Cages filled with supernatural creatures. Sometimes he’d awake when the moon had sunk and some of the cages that had been full would be empty. He’d wonder if he’d done that. “It’s fucking nonsense, that you’re not getting a beat to breathe between nights.”
There wasn’t anything to do about it. Samir knew that and he was fine with it, for the most part. He didn’t want to do anything about it, or see anything done about it. With the Grit Pit, his wolf wasn’t out and about, running where he might maul another set of tourists or other civilians. But he knew it was different for some. And so he felt guilty as Felix lifted the veil on how he’d come in.
He was quiet for a while, not equipped with the right words and ideas to say something fitting to that. What were you supposed to say, anyway? Part of Samir wanted to ask for a name, but that would mean getting more entrenched in this business, in this ugly place where he survived through self-imposed, tightly controlled ignorance. “Fuck. Shit, man, I’m sorry that he did that to you. Tricked you, that’s … shitty. At least I wanted to sign, you know? In a way. I didn’t know about all the shit that came with signing it, of course, but you know.” He’d been sweet talked, sure. Promised things that fell short, but the core of what he wanted from this all had been true. “He’s still there?”
—
Jaguars were solitary creatures. They weren’t like wolves, who formed packs to protect one another. When he was a kid, living in a house with their father and their siblings out in the woods far away from everyone else, part of Felix had felt that jaguar’s solitary nature. The way the spirit within them preferred the distance, the way it might have liked it more if the other balam weren’t there. The jaguar preferred to be alone, but Felix didn’t.
It was why they’d attached themself to Leo so quickly when he’d shown up. Felix loved their family, but there had been something so exhilarating about being seen by someone outside of it. Leo made them feel as if they were special, as if they mattered even outside of the house where they had no real control over what they did or thought or felt. Leo found those seeds of doubt in Felix’s mind and sowed them so carefully. And it felt like love. Felix wanted to believe it had been, even now. That at some point, somewhere along the way, they’d been loved.
But it was so hard to think so.
It might not have even been friendship, what Leo had felt for them. He’d rarely ever treated them with half as much kindness as Samir was showing them now unless there was some ulterior motive behind it, and Samir was only a step up from a stranger. Felix felt an ache in their chest, a quiet pain put there by someone who probably didn’t care enough to acknowledge it at all.
The Pit was fucked. All of it. Even the parts that gave Samir his outlet for the wolf were built from predatory contracts and the blood of people who might not have wanted to sign them. It was Samir’s teeth that were bloodied with flesh, but it was the people in charge who pocketed the majority of the winnings. It was Felix’s hands that shook, but it was Leo who used the money Felix earned the Pit to his advantage. (He’d always had so much cash on hand to shower Felix with gifts back when they’d been together; it was nauseating to think of now, with retrospect on their side.)
The quiet stretched between them like a tangible thing, and Felix didn’t look at Samir because they were afraid to. Because they didn’t want to see judgment on his face, even if Samir wasn’t the type to judge. Because they were afraid of pity, too, even if Samir wouldn’t mean it as an insult. When he finally spoke, Felix only shrugged. It sucked, it was shitty, but they’d been stupid, too, hadn’t they? Leo had told them as much. I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. It isn’t my fault you’ve never known what you wanted, is it? You can’t blame me for your mistakes, Fe. It isn’t fair.
They tapped their finger against the side of their glass, nodding carefully. “He’s still there,” they replied quietly. “He — They have him keep me in line, sometimes. Tell me when I’ve fucked up.” They used to think maybe it was the Pit’s attempt at softening the blow, but now they weren’t so sure. They suspected, with a sick twist in their gut, that Leo probably requested to be the one in charge of Felix’s contract.
—
There hadn’t been a lot of people in his life he was comfortable being silent around. He used to be talkative, an easy person to befriend and get to know — never particularly intimately, but still. Samir had simply never been very good at being alone, what with him growing up in a small but filled-to-the-brim home, with his teenage and young adult years having been spent taking care of these people.
But that was before a werewolf had bitten him and made something ugly of him. He had always been an angry person, that wasn’t something just awakened by the werewolf — but it seemed that rage was now even more damaging. That where it had cost walls and doors and the intactness of his knuckles, it had started costing human lives.
No longer was he a man who yelled and broke things — he was a man who turned into something murderous, that ravaged with a fury that Samir knew, deep down, he recognized. And so he’d become solitary, not just because he tended to move around but because he understood that he was no longer meant for such things. People deserved better than him. He, perhaps, did not deserve such niceties either. He was a man with blood-stained hands, a guilty conscience and with no dedication of really clearing that conscience.
He was, or at least he thought he was, a man of numbered days. But it had been five years, and he was still alive. Not out of a reluctance to die, but rather an inability to commit to dying. And because somehow, he’d evaded law and hunters alike.
Still. He was more omen than man. Not made to be a friend.
But Felix sat in his kitchen and it felt somewhat right, this extended olive branch of his. Still, he downed his beer in the silence that lingered, as it wasn’t comfortable. It was pressing. It was so very present, that he might as well take out a chair and invite it to sit as well.
Eventually Felix talked, though. Samir was glad, because he wasn’t sure what to say besides get them a beer (and get himself another one, too). He remained quiet, though, at those two sentences he was offered. Uncomfortable again.
But also angry. Not because of his own situation, or the resentment he held for himself, for his sister, his father, his mother, the world and its institutions, the weather — but on behalf of another. It had been quite a while since that had happened. Samir embraced it. This was a kind of anger that was tolerable.
“Fuck them. For that. Not just roping you in like that, but using it as a – as a tool, a measure of what, fucking discipline?” Of course Felix had tried to run. Of course they sat here now, struggling to accept kindness, a distrust marking plenty of their moves. Samir placed the bottle of beer on the table, trying not to slam it. “He ever hurt you, besides the … obvious, you know?” The manipulation of it all. The lies. He wanted another drink. He wished he didn’t know this, that he could stretch his ignorance a little further, a little more thin. “What do they do to keep you in line?” What did they do to his werewolf? He could forgive that, the measures they took against that mindless monster — but Felix wasn’t that.
—
Since the moment the contract was signed, Felix had been told under no uncertain terms that their situation was their own fault. No one forced them to do anything, no one held a knife to their throat or a gun to their head. They could have simply said no, could have walked away before pen went to paper if only they made the decision to do so. And they hadn’t. Leo had never lied to them directly — no one had. Maybe there had been implications there, but nothing Felix couldn’t have seen through if they’d really tried. It was their fault, and no one else’s. That’s what they’d been told, and that was what they’d believed.
But Samir was looking at them now with anger that wasn’t directed towards them at all. He was calling it fucked up, was righteously furious towards the situation and the manipulative net that had been cast. Maybe he was right — maybe Felix wasn’t entirely at fault here. The instinct to argue, to insist it was their fault was still there, but the words died on their tongue before they spit them out for the first time in a long time, replaced by a strange warmth in their chest at the idea that someone cared enough to be angry for them.
They looked away with a shrug, wringing their hands together. “I guess it’s supposed to be.” The contract was an easy way to keep fighters in line if they grew tired of their circumstances. Even the ones who’d wanted to fight in the beginning sometimes grew uneasy with the nonstop nature of the Pit — the way the contracts were set up were designed to ensure that no one left until the Pit was finished with them. And Felix wasn’t sure they’d ever be done with them. Too profitable, Leo said once.
They took the beer, though they didn’t drink it. Mostly, they just rolled the bottle in their hands, shrugging again at Samir’s question. There was an old desire to insist that that was ridiculous, to defend Leo, to say I was so stupid sometimes, or I didn’t understand the simplest things, or it was mostly my fault, anyway, I was always doing something wrong. Even now, with the bitter taste the end of the relationship left in their mouth, Felix wanted to insist that the blame was always theirs to carry. That everything that happened was deserved, that it would have gone differently had they been smarter or less clumsy or better, somehow.
“He got mad, sometimes,” they replied, both an answer and not one. It was too hard to say the truth point-blank; Felix was so much better at dancing around it and allowing people to come to the conclusions on their own. It was a big thing, for them, the phrasing of it. He got mad instead of I made him mad. One small step for man and all that. Felix lifted the beer to his lips and took a swig, though it was mostly just because they couldn’t be asked to explain further if their mouth was full.
They swallowed the swig as the next question settled, still looking anywhere but at Samir. “Depends on how, um… difficult I’m being,” they mumbled, mouth dry. “It was worse in the beginning. They used a taser a lot.” They’d seen the same weapon used on Razor, too, but they knew Samir didn’t want to hear about the wolf’s exploits. “A collar, for a while. But they let me out of it. Good behavior.” They smiled humorlessly, rolling the bottle between their hands again. “For the most part, they don’t need anything. The contract is… It hurts when you fight against it. It’s hard to even try, like it feels… unnatural. And when you manage it, it’s like…” They trailed off with a shrug. “It hurts,” they said again, because that was all there really was to it. “Even the jaguar. He felt it, I think, when he took control. It’s why he let me back in.”
—
Anger was a curse, he sometimes thought. An affliction much like his lycanthropy, a kind of sickness he could not be cured from. Samir didn’t tend to understand his rage, most of the time — the way it coiled and slipped out, took ahold of him. But this was different. This wasn’t an anger born from unprocessed grief or untreated trauma or whatever other explanation there might be. This was something righteous.
Because Felix had, in the short time he’d known them, proven that there was something good about them. Morality was a tough thing for the likes of him — he’d thrown his own in the wind, attempting to repent for his wrongdoings in ways that would never and could never mean enough. But Samir still thought that there was good and bad in the world and that, in a sense, some people deserved bad to be brought upon them for the bad they themself brought upon others.
Like him. He had told them, at the Pit, that he didn’t mind what they did to his wolf. He figured that whatever had to be done to restrain that beast, should be done. So sometimes he woke up with a kind of nerve pain that came from electric shock, sometimes the collar they slipped around him – with metal prongs pressed against a throat larger than his own human one – was still dangling around his neck when he woke, sometimes he watched how the other creatures were riled up before it was their turns and knew, deep down, that some of these things happened to Razor too.
But he was deserving. It wasn’t like he was masochistic, or at least he didn’t think so. He just thought of himself as something to be punished. The shame of waking in a cage was swallowed, as was the social media work. He was deserving.
Felix, however? Was not.
Yet here they sat, laying out what had happened. Some of it explicitly, but plenty of it unsaid — he got mad. Samir felt the implication hanging in the air, but didn’t prod or poke at it. There was enough to go off, wasn’t there? The methods of discipline. The treatment of the person across from him as cattle. At least Razor was a feral beast. (That’s how they liked him. That was, perhaps, how they intended to keep him.)
The beer did little to placate his restless spirit. Samir had tolerated all he saw at the Grit Pit, but now it seemed indigestible. Maybe he’d been wrong, to invite Felix here and lift the veils he refused to look through — but for now he didn’t reflect on that yet. He just sat with his rage.
“They’re better now, then? Less of that bullshit?” Samir caught himself, the meaning of those words. If Felix was more obedient now, they were just a better trained animal in the eyes of the Grit Pit. “Fuck, I mean — I know they do shit to the wolf, they’ve gotta. I signed for that, I don’t – don’t care. But you’re present.”
He took a swig. “Not trying to justify it, there’s nothing just about it. The contracts, I’ve noticed, whenever I fail to do my promotional work. Fucking hate that shit, and when I postpone it, don’t meet deadlines, I just — it starts with stomach pains, innocuous enough. Rox – she, um, brought me in – she explained it.” He ran a hand over his face. “But it’s, whatever. I’ll do it. But you —”
It was different. Samir took another sip from his bottle. “You want out. Right? I mean, fuck. You deserve to get out.” But what could he do, to help out Felix? Would he do it? He needed Corinna on his side, all the people at the Pit. Last thing he needed was for them to try and get ideas of provoking the wolf outside of the full moon. “I don’t know shit about this fae magic, though. But I know that. You deserve it. It’s not a place for you.” Unsaid, of course, was the fact that it was a place for him.
—
For most of Felix’s life, they’d been under the control of someone else. For years after their mother died, it was their father pulling the strings. He’d used grief and fear as a justification for all sorts of things, and maybe it was understandable. Felix had lost their mother, but their father had lost the love of his life and wasn’t that harder to swallow? Felix couldn’t imagine what it had felt like to him, couldn’t picture it. They had nothing to compare it to, really, nothing to help them understand. So maybe their father had done what he thought was necessary, but Felix wasn’t sure that made it okay. They weren’t sure any of this was okay.
The control the Pit had on them was a lot more restricting than what their father had exercised, of course, and so much less understandable. Sure, there’d been weeks where Felix wasn’t allowed to leave the house as a kid, but there’d always been a reason for it. Their father had seen someone near the cabin that he hadn’t had a chance to ‘take care of’ yet, or he’d heard a rumor that someone was looking for them, or something. It was never without cause.
The Pit was different. The Pit punished you sometimes just for being. Felix had seen it. Animals zapped for not being vicious enough, people who were hurt for losing a fight too badly or not badly enough. They’d seen Razor punished, too, for the smallest things. The staff seemed to enjoy riling the wolf up, and Felix hated it. The wolf wasn’t Samir, Samir insisted, but Felix still couldn’t stand to see him hurt. Not now that they knew the man behind the wolf, but really, not even when Samir had been a stranger. Felix wasn’t the type of person who could cope with seeing others in pain.
Hell of a job they’d gotten for themself, then. Wasn’t it?
“Better,” Felix replied, shrugging a shoulder. “When I’m doing what they want me to do.” Which wasn’t as often as it should have been. Felix had a bad habit of kicking against the goads, of fighting back even in small ways. It never amounted to anything, never earned them anything more than trouble, but at least it let them feel something through the shame. Like fighting back in the small ways made up for the people they hurt in the ring, like anything could.
They sighed at Samir’s anger, shaking their head. “I signed up for it, too,” they pointed out. They didn’t know what they were signing up for, sure — but had Samir? Had any of them? No one who signed those contracts did so with all the facts on their side. Otherwise, most of them wouldn’t have signed at all. “Most of us are present. That’s just how it goes, you know?” Some werewolves, like Samir, didn’t remember what happened in the ring. If Felix shifted fully in a fight, they wouldn’t remember it well, either. But most everyone else? They got a pretty clear picture of what went down, whether they wanted one or not.
Samir was angry, and Felix got that. They were angry sometimes, too. But mostly, they couldn’t do much more than sit in the pointlessness of that anger. What good would rage do? It wouldn’t free anyone from their contracts, wouldn’t stop the Pit from being what it was.
They nodded along as Samir talked about his experience with the contracts. They’d felt it too, of course. “Builds from there,” they said quietly, thinking of all the times they’d tried to leave before they really understood it. “After a while, it — It really hurts. Somebody told me, um, close to the start, that it can — It can kill you.” And that had terrified them. Felix didn’t want to die. Felix wanted anything but.
“I want out,” they confirmed with a small, sad smile. “But it’s not going to happen. The only way out is to drag someone else in. I couldn’t do that, man. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” And even if they tried, they weren’t sure Leo would let them. He liked the control so much more than their father ever had. “So what’s it matter, right? It is what it is.”
—
When anger left, there was not much left. In the face of anger there was opportunity after all: something about that burning emotion felt useful, like a weapon to be wielded or at least a push in the back. Anger had made Samir into the hard worker he was, after all. It was how he’d been able to juggle multiple jobs, how he’d looked after his siblings and kept himself afloat. It had been the burning force behind every movement, every struggle, the rock he’d clung to as an ocean of grief pooled around him.
Whenever he wasn’t angry, whenever he let go of that raging thing, he ended up hollow and empty. An echoing shell of a person. Whatever he was now, most days — someone who was pointless in his existence, who raged for his survival but saw no point it at the same time. He took good out of the world, spreading violence. He tried to put good back in, but fell short. He had nothing good to give here besides anger.
And so he offered Felix anger, because there was nothing else to give. To simply sit down and accept the reality of it all was the next logical step and eventually he would take it, but it was an ugly thing to offer. To tell the balam that they and he both just had to swallow it, all this bullshit thrown their way — well, it was true, but it wasn’t nice. So Samir was angry, because this was something to be angry about. Because to be angry in a situation like this was to be good, and he wanted to be good, despite all his previous failures to be exactly that.
There was an implication hiding within Felix words, one Samir hesitated to acknowledge for a moment. “But you don’t always?” He could understand that. He’d fought against former employers too, once he’d grown older and started understanding his rights. But those hadn’t been fae who used violence for profit.
“Sure, but under different circumstances. You didn’t have the full picture.” Had he had the full picture? Not entirely. Samir hadn’t known either, that he’d get trapped in this contract — but he didn’t mind it. He had wanted a solution to his issues and had found one, even if it was twisted and ugly and not honorable, either. “You were manipulated by some asshole. And yeah, shit. I know. I assumed maybe they went less hard on those who had more … awareness, I guess.”
He was quiet for a moment at that revelation, jaw working against itself as his teeth clenched. Fuck this shit. He bristled, got up, ripped another beer from the fridge and slammed it shut. So that was it, then: you had to stay or die. You had to bring someone else in to get out, condemn them too. No retirement plan, because the chance was big you were going to die in the ring. And maybe he deserved that, but not all of them. Not Felix.
Samir slammed the bottle open and sat down again, leaving his anger at the kitchen counter as he tried to compose himself across from Felix. “Yeah. Sure, it is what it is. Fucking seems like it. I wish I knew something we could do, something — shit, that would make it so you’ve not signed your life away to … fucking die in there.” Or die trying to get out. “I’ll — whatever, I’ll try and think, right? Of something.” Would he go against Corinna and her employees, the ones that had granted him the cage he had desired so desperately? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to be good, but he also wanted to be restrained.
—
“I used to do it more. Fight back, I mean.” It felt like the kind of confession that ought to be made in a wooden box, with a priest listening in; like the kind of thing you needed to seek redemption for, to beg forgiveness. They used to fight harder, used to be less complacent. They’d spent the first few days of their contract running, searching for their father or their siblings or anyone who might have been able to help them like a child turning to grown ups when they’d gotten themself in too deep, like something prodigal.
But it hurt. It always hurt. The contract tightened a noose around their throat, made it hard to breathe, and the punishments that waited for them when they finally returned to the Pit with their tail between their legs were no less painful. We have to set an example, Leo told them once, looking almost apologetic as he administered the retribution Felix had earned with their stubbornness. People can’t think that they can get away with this. You can’t think that you can get away with this.
So they fought back less, as time went on. In smaller ways. Acts of rebellion became small things. He showed up to work late instead of not at all, delivered less cinematic injuries to the opponents they faced in the ring, made fights a little less exciting in ways that weren’t quite as obviously intentional as they could have been. They thought their handlers in the Pit probably knew about it, and that made them feel like a little more of a coward. Like they were being placated, their ‘rebellion’ so small that it was allowed to continue. They wanted to do more. They wanted to be brave. They’d just… forgotten how, somewhere along the way.
And here was Samir, brave without even knowing it. Because it did take bravery, didn’t it, to rage on someone else’s behalf? It took a boldness, a heroic streak. It was easy to be angry for yourself and your circumstances, but it was harder to be angry for someone else. Felix and Samir didn’t even know one another that well, and still the anger burned. It was worth a lot. It was admirable, even if Felix thought it was also wasted.
“Nobody has the full picture, Samir,” they said softly. “Did you? Did they tell you everything before you signed?” He knew the answer. If the people behind the Pit were honest, no one would ever sign their contracts. Not even Samir, who claimed to need them. “I was… It was my own fault. What happened. I should have known better. Should have seen it.” They were stupid and they were in love and they’d let that turn them into… whatever they were now. Something different. Something worse. Something they didn’t want to be.
Samir went into the kitchen, and Felix watched him go. They watched him carry an anger that was not for himself, contemplated how it felt to be the reason for it without being the source. Leo’s anger had always been terrifying. Their father’s, too. Samir’s seemed different, somehow. Less suffocating, less of a threat. A dangerous thing, sure, but not to Felix.
They offered the werewolf a small, helpless shrug. What more could they do? What more could any of them do? “For, um… For what it’s worth? You’ve already helped me a lot just by listening. Nobody’s ever really listened before.” They’d been so isolated for so long, and they were only just now beginning to crawl out of that isolation. It felt better than they’d thought it would. “So, um… Thanks. Really. Thank you for listening.”
—
It was a sad statement. The fact that Felix used to, the past tense of it all. The way that they had found cruel reason to stop and cease their fight. Samir wasn’t good at being sad, though, and never had been. He was a person of action, someone motivated and moved by doing what was needed and could be done. But there was no solution to this problem, no clear way to solve the issue. There was nothing to be done, the pair of them tied down by words and contract, like verbal chains binding them down.
So he just felt anger and emptiness. Rolling over and taking it was easier when it was just he who was in a bad spot because of this. “I guess it is smarter to play by their rules. The fucking rules, though, they’re all fucked.” And they could most likely be changed and messed with, their situations and positions altered to fit their needs and wants. Samir wanted to spit on it all. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion. He wanted what he always wanted, which was a solution to a problem that could not and would not be solved.
Pointless, aimless anger it was. As always. The beer helped, the coolness of the glass against his palms. He started messing with the label, as if destroying that would help him in any kind of way. He shrugged at Felix’ question. “No, of course not. Fucking typical, of course, but it’s … it’s whatever, you know. I don’t —” care. He didn’t. Not about what happened to him there. Not whether he’d die there. It was a fate fitting for the fates he’d given others.
“Don’t say that shit. Neither of us are to blame for those shitty contracts, for whatever way we were pushed into it. I might not care as much about how it — what if means for me, but shit, you didn’t know. Neither did I. Yeah? Give yourself whatever grace you’re willing to give me.” It was wasted on him, anyway. He took a long pull from his beer, whose label was half torn off now. It was an ugly display. He’d light a cigarette, but his tense relation with his downstairs neighbors kept him from doing so.
When Felix told him that he’d somehow helped them, Samir felt strange. It was like coming back into whoever he had been a lifetime ago, that person who acted so dutifully and with the knowledge that he was most tolerable when useful. He was glad for it. “Well, then maybe that’s what we can do, yeah? Listen to each other. In other shit jobs I’ve had, I’ve learned that’s crucial.”
He looked into his living room, then back at Felix. “Maybe we should do something else now, though. You any good at Call of Duty? I’ve got FIFA too.” It’d be nice to just shoot the shit and do something to numb his brain, which was working angry over hours. “Could just hang for a bit?”
—
Play by their rules. Felix wondered how long you could do that before you became exactly what they wanted you to be, before you traded yourself for compliance. There wasn’t much choice in the matter. They knew that. They were angry at their situation, they hated being a part of it, they wanted out, but more than anything else, they didn’t want to die. It made them something of a coward, they thought; a braver person would have fought until their last breath, would have kicked and screamed and sacrificed their own life if it meant they could have their freedom. But Felix didn’t know how to be brave anymore. Felix only knew how to be alive. That was all.
They nodded as Samir confirmed what they already knew. The Grit Pit was a system built to be predatory. It trapped its fighters in unwinnable situations without telling them the rules, gave them just enough rope to hang themselves with. Samir didn’t deserve the bind holding him in place, and maybe Felix didn’t, either. Maybe none of them did. But what did it matter? The world cared so little about what people deserved. People got what they got, in the end. There was no justice but the justice you made for yourself.
“Harder than it sounds,” they admitted with a tight smile. It was easier for them to look at Samir’s situation and see how he’d been fooled. Samir had been desperate, had wanted a way to control the wolf that he shifted into once a month without fail, without say. Felix had been… an idiot in love, really. So desperate for things with Leo to be real that he’d tied a blindfold over his own eyes, tightened the cuffs on their own wrists. It was different, wasn’t it? They were more at fault than Samir was.
But they still didn’t think that meant they deserved it, sometimes. Not all the time — there were still nights they sat in the locker room with their knuckles aching and their heart pounding and someone else’s blood on their clothes and felt sure that the life they led and hated was one they’d earned through their own mistakes — but sometimes, at least. Maybe that was better than nothing.
“Listen to each other,” Felix agreed with a small smile. “I can do that.” They relaxed a little at the mention of video games, nodding their head. “Yeah,” they agreed. “Yeah, I’m good at Call of Duty. Probably gonna kick your ass, man.” The air was still heavy. Their chest was still tight. But they weren’t alone. Maybe that meant something, too. Maybe it had to.
TIMING: Recent
PARTIES: Van @vanoincidence and Samir @razorsharpteeth
LOCATION: WR Community center
SUMMARY: Van and Samir hang out after a cooking class he taught, which soon turns on its head as Van grows anxious and accidents occur.
CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A
The cooking classes were his favorite. Samir was a simple man: he liked doing things he was good at. He liked sharing the knowledge of things he was good at. During the cooking classes, he’d share a few funny stories from back in the day, when he’d cooked for the tourists in Florida. Of working in a real restaurant’s kitchen, and how mistakes were not as permitted there as they were in his class.
Most of the people that came were the same old. This, he didn’t mind. It was a steady beat. They oohed and aahed at his knife technique and asked him questions for at-home cooking. Now, with the class done, there were a few stragglers, like mrs Selic who was wondering what she was supposed to do about her daughter’s girlfriend ‘who was a vegetarian, and it’s all so much to get used to’. Samir patiently pointed her to some recipe sites, as well as the beyond meat stuff in the grocery aisle and watched her go on her merry way.
Now came the cleaning. Samir also didn’t mind this: it was different from cleaning his own mess. It was something more satisfying. He was about to start piling all the cutlery into one pot when his eyes fell on one of the people from the class. A tiny thing, which explained why he’d missed her. Or maybe it was just the full moon around the corner. “Hey,” he said. “Van … right? Not like the car? Can I help you with something?”
Van wasn’t sure what she was thinking, taking a cooking class. Of all places she shouldn’t have been, a public kitchen was definitely one of them. Her nerves were hard to shake, even after the class had concluded. She had tried her best to listen to Samir’s stories, had tried to get lost in them, even. But the thought of somewhere else only brought her back to the reality of her situation.
Even if she was in community here, at a literal community center, she still felt alone. Her thoughts broke as Samir approached. Her gaze snapped up to meet his and she opened her mouth to respond, to give him thanks, or maybe something else– to say that she was glad she came today, but it was locked beneath her tongue.
“Not like the car, yeah.” At least he had remembered. Van wasn’t sure where that came from these days, it was just something she reminded people. “Um…” She looked around her station. She had tried to tidy it as much as possible. The empty plate of what they made sat with the fork and knife hanging over each other in some dangerous balancing act. “It was good. The class was good.” That was right, right?
The community center was a saving grace. Samir had always felt this incessant need to be useful, to have at least some kind of purpose. It was something born out of trauma, but he lacked the insight to understand that — and so he just moved through the world like this. Searching for small purposes. Volunteering to help his colleague move. Working in a kitchen, where he could make people happy with the food. Fulfilling tasks here, in this community center.
It was a balancing of scales. He didn’t delude himself into thinking he was a good man: he was just a man, who was also a monster. A trail of blood had followed him to Maine. No matter how many old people he helped or how many cooking classes he taught, there’d always be those ghosts. He would never be good — but he could at least try to put some good into the world.
So he smiled at the semi-stranger. “You can leave it as is, it’s fine. I’ll clean everything. Don’t mind.” With the full moon looming and the Pit promoting his oncoming fights more than usual, he liked the menial tasks as distraction. Samir shrugged. “Thanks. I try to keep ‘em exciting. Cooking’s an important skill, you know? If you have any requests on what you’d like to learn to cook for a future class, just let me know.”
“Are you sure?” Van had been taught to clean up after herself, and even if that lesson had gone over her head in recent years with her grandma’s departure back to New York, that didn’t mean she left other places a mess. Unless it was Sly Slice, but only when Janice was working there. Now, she had no excuse but to clean up after herself.
He seemed sure, but she still felt bad. She looked around him, gaze sliding over the different components of the kitchenette. She hadn’t realized it existed until a few weeks ago, too lost in her own head to really venture out into the unknown. Van bit the inside of her cheek and nodded at his comment. “You sound like my–” My what, she thought. She didn’t have anything, and nothing had her. All she had was herself, and maybe her friends, but she was slowly turning them away as the days went by.
“Friend. Who likes to cook.” Van scrunched her nose before sticking her hands into the pockets of her too-baggy jeans. “Do you always teach them? Or do you like, take volunteers?”
“Sure. Unless you’re a superfan of cleaning, don’t wanna keep you from your hobby and all.” He said it as if it was an outlandish thing, as liking to clean was a rare characteristic. Samir wasn’t going to forbid her from helping out, though. He didn’t have the energy to do so. He even mustered a little smile.
He smiled a little further at the rest of her words, “It’s good to have friends who know how to cook. Nothing like sharing a meal, huh?” He said those words and he meant them, but they were removed from him and his current reality. Samir didn’t cook for people any more, especially not friends. Sometimes he did some mise en place at local restaurants that were short staffed, but that hardly counted. There seemed little room for him to speak his love languages.
“Sometimes it’s me. There’s another woman, too, she’s brilliant. Monica.” Cursed with a shitty name, though. “Why, do you want to be the teacher? Or …” Samir frowned a little. “Was it not to your liking?”
“A superfan…?” She blinked before shaking her head. “No, I’m not, I just–” Van thought for a moment, brows furrowed, “wanted to help out.” She made a mess of pretty much everything in her own house– outside, things were clean. Outside, she could pretend to take care of herself.
At his comment, she nodded. If she hadn't lied, she’d be able to hold onto it. Van had lost her community the day her grandmother left Wicked’s Rest. The ladies who played mahjong, the man who would give her discounted fruits at the grocery… they looked at her now as if they’d never known her at all. She wondered what kinds of things her grandma had said on her exit.
“Oh, that’s cool.” She didn’t know anyone named Monica. At his question, she shook her head. “What? No. No, I don’t–” Van cleared her throat, “I was just– small talk. That’s what people call it, right?” She’d made it tons of times, knew it like the back of her hand. The things she could avoid with small talk, to keep things busy. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t want to–” Van shook her head and rubbed her hands together. “It was cool, I swear, I just… I was wondering is all.” She wasn’t sure why this out of everything had catapulted her into the throws of anxiety, but it had.
“Ah,” he said. That made more sense. “I mean, you’re welcome to. Really. Just don’t feel obligated to!” Samir wasn’t really sure if he was helping or worsening the situation, or if he was imagining a problem. He just didn’t want the younger woman to feel like she had to.
Now he had said the wrong thing. He watched Van stumble over her words and felt his stomach sink — he’d felt so good about the lesson, about giving people some properly helpful tips when it came to cooking. For a moment, he’d felt like a tolerable person, rather than whatever he made of himself when his thoughts were dark and stormy. And here he was, anyway, making a mess of things.
“Shit, no, you didn’t offend me. I was just wondering, just wanted to be sure it was all good, you know.” He tried to keep his face clear and calm, tried to think of managing his younger siblings or even the rascals that came in here. “Just small talk. It’s fair to wonder. You’re okay, I’m glad you liked it.”
She was regretting leaving her house now. Van cleared her throat, feeling the tips of her fingers beginning to grow clammy with the unprovoked anxiety that swarmed her. She wasn’t sure why this situation had triggered her. She could feel his gaze under her skin, could pick out all of the things she was saying wrong, the way he almost seemed confused.
But he was explaining that she hadn’t offended him, but it didn’t make sense, because he had said it in his own words, was it not to your liking? “All good, yeah.” Her throat felt dry. She should go home. Yeah, she should definitely–
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the instructor’s boots had begun to melt to the floor. There was no heat signature, and there was no smell– it was just goop. Shit, shit, shit. Van looked up at Samir– that was his name, desperately. “I– I didn’t do that.” But she had, and she knew she had.
He’d done or said something wrong. That happened often, as Samir wasn’t the best communicator. He tried to be patient and open, to think along with the people he spoke to and offer them grace. But he was clumsy and tired and sometimes simply an asshole, but this time he’d really tried. And yet.
He felt frustrated with himself as he looked at the young woman, but then his attention was diverted by a strange sensation at his feet. Looking down, the cause of that feeling was very clear: there his shoes went, growing liquid around his socks. “Uh.”
That there was more out there besides werewolves had grown abundantly and horribly clear to him the months since he’d become employed by the Grit Pit. But he hadn’t seen this before. He looked back to Van. “It doesn’t — It’s not hurting?” He didn’t know science very well, but shouldn’t this hurt? What else could make leather act that way. He raised a leg and his shoe dripped from his feet, all sticky and gooey. “What the fuck?”
It’s not hurting?
That was good, at least. Van wasn’t sure what it felt like, mostly because her abilities typically tapped into melting actual objects, never any living creature. She opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut almost immediately. She wasn’t sure what to do. She was only here for a stupid cooking class.
Van glanced down to his boot, watching as the plastic and rubber became some kind of goopy mixture, dripping back down onto the linoleum. Her gaze cut back up to meet his, eyebrows pinched together as apologies began to build themselves up at the back of her throat.
“I– it doesn’t hurt.” It wasn’t happening to her, so clearly he’d put two and two together, right? “That’s good.” The words left her before she could stop them and she was already taking a step back, stumbling towards the closest exit. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t do that.” She had already practically admitted it was her. “I’m sorry!” Van gasped out as she turned, running away from another mess she’d created.
The plan had been to clean up behind him and then make his way home, take out Cleo for a long, long walk on the beach and think of nothing but the crashing waves. But as he stared at his boots, the way they were growing sticky and fluid around his socks, he had a feeling it would not be that easy. Samir blinked back up at Van.
“It’s not …” Good? Your fault? A problem? He was dumbfounded, not sure how to answer this, what to say to her suddenly insisting that she didn’t mean to, implying that she had done it. Somehow. Though Samir knew there was magic in the world, he didn’t understand it, and would never claim to.
“Hey, no – wait!” His voice echoed after her, and Samir attempted to run after her — wanting maybe an explanation, or at least a solution. Or to tell her it was okay, but that she couldn’t just run off! (Even if that was what he had done, every time his inner wolf had covered himself in blood once more and killed more than just an animal.) As he tried to lift his feet to chase her though, he found himself slowed by the melted boots and did something he’d prefer not to admit.
He tripped, falling on the kitchen floor and looking at Van’s disappearing feet, somehow feeling like this too was his fault.
One can only hope. More?? How many you got? Ah, [...] work pleasure. Boston got to be a bit much. Wanted something quieter. [...] And then this place exploded with mystery ooze, so I dunno if I made the right call.
One too many, man. One too many. Shit, wait, you came here for the quiet? Wrong place, for real. Though this ooze is definitely new. I hope you didn't settle in Worm Row, at least?
There are the portable ones, but the reviews always say bad things, so I never know who to actually trust, even if something is an upwards of four stars. I think there's some kind of rule about looking at things with less than x amount of reviews to get the truth, but I can never remember it.
Online shopping is a nightmare, if you ask me. There's always some buckwild reviews and I never know if I should take em seriously and then just don't buy anything. Going to an actual store's better, I find. Dunno if there's one in town that has the portable ones, though.
Do you [...] wish we didn't know each other? [...] I don't blame you, Samir. I know you're not yourself when you're shifted. I get that. I'm not myself when I shift all the way, either. You don't have to feel bad about what happened. I'm okay. The arm will heal, and it's not that bad.
[.....] It was easier when I didn't care about know you. Can't really undo that. Guess it's more on me than anything else, though. Clinging to ignorance or some bullshit, as if that was doable forever. [....] Dunno. I'd like to think that I can't be held accountable for what the wolf does, but [....] I still feel like shit. I am sorry.
In-units are nice and all until they break and you've got a ton of water on the floor. Not sure what my vampire landlord wanted to do with a washer and dryer, maybe he figured it'd sell the place better. But it works, so I guess you're right. Going into town for laundry isn't that great, but it's uh [....] broken right now.
Yeah, absolutely fair point. I've had that happen and it was a shit day. Having to buy a whole new machine? Not funny. Sorry to hear yours is broken, though. I hope you can get it fixed sooner than later.
It's okay. I got a couple days, and it's a lot better now. They put me on easy fights for a while, and it barely hurts doesn't hurt at all now. [...] Just my arm. Nothing important.
[pm] Sometimes. It's nice to drive. And make some money.
You don't have to downplay it. [User hesitates.] Look, I'm sorry. I think this is only more shit now that we know each other, right? I can't [...] help what I do in the ring, but I still [...] feel like shit for what happened. You need that arm.
It's not a bad idea, shows it worked at least a little bit. But you got your quarters back, isn't that what mattered? Clean laundry is a plus, plus you could've gotten yourself a snack.
[pm] Yeah, been okay. Just been working. Other jobs.
They give you good medical help, though? I heard some of what went down. People won't shut up about it. [del: I wish they'd | del: I can't bel ] I hope you're healing alright. [del: I'm sorry]
[pm] That's good. Are you [...] enjoying [...] the other jobs?
They stitched me up. Had to make sure I'd be ready for when I go back into the ring, right? I'm sorry people are talking about it. I know you don't like to hear that stuff. [...] I'm good. Healing okay. It wasn't that bad. People are probably talking it up.
Fuck, Felix. Don't apologize because of something out of your control. I can't avoid these things forever. I'm glad they stitched you up, wished you would've gotten some time off. [.... ] I heard the wolf I took a bite out of you.
Sounds like some of the boys I grew up with. Minus the mid-life crisis, of course. Right, well, I will make sure to be none of those things. And you'll be happy to know that I don't drive a smelly old truck, so I don't think we need to be nemeses.
TIMING: Last full moon
PARTIES: Devi @spice-and-fire and Samir @razorsharpteeth
LOCATION: The Grit Pit
SUMMARY: Razor doesn't want to go back into his cage post-fight. Devi is here to save the day!
CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A
Worm Row was home to a lot of sketchy places, including the underground fight club called The Grit Pit. Not everyone knows about this place, not everyone wants to be in this place, but rebellious teenagers sometimes sneak in to get a little peek at all the action. Sometimes, some of them just get dragged here by their friends, unable to say no because of peer pressure. Other times, troublemakers need a fall guy to pay for their tickets and get blamed by their parents. Case in point: A familiar face currently surrounded by two of his classmates, both sneering like privileged punks.
Devi heaved a sigh, pushing her way past other audience members to put a hand on one of the bullies, much to their surprise. “Danny, who are your new friends?” Danny was a good kid, but he’s never been lucky making friends. Most of his peers took advantage of him, and despite these new guys’ protests, it was clear as day that not much has changed. Danny mumbled the same thing about them being his friends while one of the buttfaces arrogantly asked who she was. Devi simply shook her head, heaving a sigh. “I’m security,” she stared daggers at the kids, trying to intimidate them both. “You two should scram. There’s nothing here for you. I see you near Danny again… You’ll find out why I was hired to work security in this hellhole.”
As if on cue, a loud scream pierced the room, and other people began running toward the entrance. Danny did the same, following his two other classmates, before Devi could say anything else. When she turned around, she heard another guy scream her name. “Devi! One of the fighters… It’s bad!” He then started running elsewhere, further in. Devi could do nothing else but follow his lead, tsk-ing her way to the cause of all the commotion.
—
The wolf was furious. There had been a time where he had ran free, paws crashing against forest floors or else sandy beaches. There had been attempts to keep him restricted before, of course — with a dog crate, with chains and padlocks, with thick walls, with sedative drugs to keep him down. None had ever taken quite well enough, up until now. These past cycles he kept awaking in a cage that could hold him, leashed by something that could not be scratched or bitten off. These past cycles he had been witnessed, by more eyes than ever before. The applause confused the beast, but he did know one thing.
Fury. Violence. Of course, that was what they wanted, but Razor was not privy to what these humans wanted. He did not even know what the person he was during the day wanted — but he knew part of him wished to rage against the world the same way he did. So he raged. He raged on that podium, all claws and teeth and howling when his opponent was out. Part of him liked the challenge, the way these others fought back unlike so many of the others before this. But there was always this.
Back in the cage where he went to sleep and woke. It was pure, furious instinct that overtook the wolf that belonged to Samir – that was part of him – and he refused, jaw snapping at the employees of the Pit. Razor, they called him, for the sharpness of his teeth and claws. Growling, he intended to prove they’d been right to call him as much.
—
When Devi arrived on the scene, all hell had already broken loose. Or at least some hell had already started. Every damned fight was a little bit of its own hell, sure, but so was getting the fighters out of the ring, sometimes even into the ring. This time shouldn’t have been any different. Until Devi realized who, or what, this fighter was. “Ugh, the heck is this guy’s problem?” the tempered phoenix grimaced, realizing that if this went on for too long, not only was the next fight going to get delayed, but also employees including security could get hurt. Seriously hurt. Not to mention this troublemaker as well.
With that in mind, Devi tried to calm the situation down. With arms outstretched toward the other employees, including security, she had them take a step back and not further agitate the fighter that was clearly still on an adrenaline rush. “Hey, everyone just calm down,” she motioned for them to lower their pitchforks, weapons and tools, and give the wolf some space. “Take a step back! Don’t get too close! He’s just a little wound up from the fight, ain’t that right, champ?” A little flattery there should have gone a long way, if not for an overzealous employee drowning in fear. The little guy, out of Devi’s sight, got too close to the wolf’s backside and ended up shoved off. Devi couldn’t blame the wolf. She wouldn’t have wanted him that close to her backside either.
Unfortunately, that brief physicality worked against Devi’s attempt to de-escalate the situation, with everyone back to screaming and literally poking the figurative bear again. “Just great… Ugh! GUYS, STOP! YOU’RE JUST MAKING THINGS WORSE!” Devi tried again but to no avail. Some of the employees found themselves pushed back after trying to push the wolf into its cage with broom handles and stun batons. When Devi tried to help another guy off the floor, she inadvertently got thrown back as well. “Urgh... We've got ourselves a tough cookie!” She groaned after landing on the hard floor close to a different guy who was already prone and unconscious.
—
It was true, the wolf was a monster — but then what were these others? The humans and others that carried weapons against it. They riled him up. Sticks, whips, batons, electric currents. They did it before the fights, because Corinna liked the wolf at its most feral, like an animal driven in a corner that had to fight through to get to the other side. (Where, of course, there was another corner.) But sometimes the wolf didn’t want to stop fighting when the bell had rung, and sometimes the collar and chain-leash weren’t enough and that was how it was now: a bellowing, blood-hungry monster demanding more, because his hunger had been awakened.
Corinna liked him feral, but only against opponents. Samir would wake with a cut taken out of his pay for the damages done, but the wolf didn’t care about that. He cared about the yelling, which was too much, and his restricted movement. It was almost about to be alright, as a new figure joined the scene who seemed to calm all those prodding and poking. But then there was another one on him, at the back, and the wolf kicked furiously.
He was the monster, but he had no concept of such things. He just knew he was angry, that there was a bloodlust coursing through him and that there was all these people on him, trying to get him back in that small space. The wolf refused, roaring against attempted restraints and using its full body weight to push some of them over, paws finding target after target. It was almost fun to the wolf, to watch them fall. He stepped his paw onto one of the still bodies, still warm under his soft paw-pads. His claws sunk into the flesh and he roared once more, the smell of blood comfortable in his nose, eyes settling on the woman who’d once tried to restore peace.
—
“You asked for it,” Devi snarled as she got herself back to her feet, refusing the help of a faceless employee who sprinted toward her. The sight of the unconscious man on the ground reminded her of a past life, where all she knew was war, all she could do was survive. With furious eyes, Devi stomped her way toward the beast, reloading her biceps, which were obviously smaller than Henry Cavill’s, so the gesture looked less intimidating and more confusing. With a scream akin to a battlecry, she threw herself toward the wolf, and threw a mighty punch! A superman punch! Or in her case, a superwoman punch. “You’re dead meat!”
Unfortunately, despite her determination and rage, the wolf was still the bigger creature. It was more formidable than someone with brittle bones who was tempering their flames. It was more dangerous, with its dagger-like fangs and sharp nails that could easily rip apart her flesh. It was, in every sense of the term, the apex predator between the two of them, maybe even among every living, breathing thing in that room. Devi was determined, yes, but with all these facts and more, the only thing she would actually be able to do was boop the doggo in the snoot and then get flicked back on the ground.
—
The wolf knew hostility. He met it every day on that strange stage, the place surrounded by shouting faces. But it barely ever came in this shape: a small human, lifting a fist. It was strange, even to his simple mentality with lacking philosophy, to be met with this kind of aggression. And though the other moved with all her might and aimed for the face, the wolf barely seemed to feel it — but still, he responded with a look of confusion, as if almost stunned. Not in a way where he would keel over or pass out, but just … confused. As if his instincts were trying to figure out what the best response was to this strange kind of aggression. His head whipped, and he tossed the human onto the ground with it.
But then he let out a noise, head turning the way that of a dog might who’s trying to understand what is being said. Ears turned flat as the wolf exhaled deeply, almost as if assessing if any damage had been done to his nose by the boop it had experienced. But no, there was none. Actually, the wolf found it had felt rather nice to have his snoot booped. Another whine escaped him and he nuzzled closer, nudging his wet nose against the small woman’s hand.
—
I done messed up, was the last thought Devi had before she got (wo)manhandled down onto the ground. Hard. She heard the thud as her flesh and bones collided with the floor, felt the coldness and the firmness of that collision. Like getting slammed in the back by a car, a familiar feeling in itself from her murky past of regrettable decisions, all of which fueled more by adrenaline than brain cells. Oof! Her breathing was staggered. She realized that a few seconds later. She tried to catch up with it, tried to calm herself done, all the sensations rushing into her all at once. Pull…yourself together, Devi…
And then there was the unexpected wetness on her hand. Blood? No, something else, something more solid…and a little more fun. When Devi realized what it was, she couldn’t help but smile, slowly sitting up on that very ground, except with no more urgency in her. “Well, how about that…” When the others tried to rush the distracted wolf, Devi gestured for them to stop. The fight was over. They’d all won. If victory was peace, at least that would be somewhat true. Carefully, warily, she got herself back to her feet, making sure she wouldn’t spook the wolf accidentally. Peace was always fragile. This one was uncertain, too.
“Does someone want some jerky?” Devi gently took some from her back pocket, a cheap product meant to keep her satiated somewhat until the job was done, until she could get a better meal, which in her head was a cold glass of beer and whatever that day’s payment could feed her with. With a warm smile on her face, she gave the wolf a taste and then tried to lure it back to its cage with what remained, eyeing the other employees with a glare that discouraged them from interfering. She’d rather not get tossed around some more. “Pretty good reward for a good boy, huh? Or a good girl. Whatever works for you.”
—
Wolves were pack animals in nature, but Razor had never been so lucky to have fellow wolves to care for. He was a solitary creature, the love his human had encountered not even registering in his animalistic mind. Things like a kind touch were foreign to him, both as deliverer and recipient — and so he was confused, yet intrigued. The sound that left him sounded like something he’d never heard before, but it made sense, instinctually, to make it. Something like satisfaction.
The smell of dried meat was enticing too, of course, perhaps even more so. The wolf followed it, nose wiggling as he sniffed the air for it, paws hitting the ground rhythmically. He might as well be a comic book character, enticed by the smell of a freshly baked pie, floating in the air behind it. Maybe it was the tone of the person holding it that kept him from attacking, ripping it from her hand (and perhaps her hand with it), and in stead following meekly.
Into the cage, that place that he hated. Unrest started stirring in his body and he nipped for the jerky, digging his teeth into that metaphorical carrot on a stick and chewing with furious fervor. It was enough distraction for the employees to push him further in and close the door, locking the wolf in place where there was now nothing left for him to chew on the jerky and wait for the moon to leave the sky.
—
Devi heaved a sigh of relief. This time assured by the sight of the wolf retreating into the cage and finally the cage door being shut closed while it stayed still inside, no longer a threat to anyone and everyone. There was a sense of triumphant pride in what her eyes were seeing for Devi. But that was immediately replaced by a tinge of sadness. Was it fair that the animal was being held inside a steel trap, isolated from the rest of them like a criminal? Based on its uncontrollable actions, maybe, but the situation still didn’t look so far to the tempered phoenix.
Another sigh and Devi approached the cage with a frown, with sadness in her eyes, empathizing with the creature. She had done her fair share of brutality as well, on innocent folks as well, and despite the change she’d mustered for herself, shouldn’t she also be locked up like the wolf? Maybe, but she’d rather not. No one in their right mind would want that fate. Not when they have the option to remain free, no longer the rabid and violent person they once were. “Sorry about all this,” she shook her head, still frowning. “Go get some rest. Soon as I can, I’ll set us up some good grub.”
That meant waiting for the rest of the employees to calm down and cool off. The ones that were knocked unconscious to get carted off to the backroom and checked. And for the boss to not come in scowling and pissed off. Soon as a few minutes passed and all that gets checked off, Devi reckoned she could probably scrounge up a good meal for her and the poor doggo. From her share of course. Just a little better than the usual fare for the fighters. Mostly because she brought it herself.
—
He had once been a free wolf. There had been plenty attempts by Samir to control the beast within, but they had always failed — until now. This cage, the wolf hated this cage. He hated the collar around his neck, the shocks that jolted his body, the prods and pokes before he was dragged out into the pit, the way even after all of that, it wouldn’t cease. People would stare at him through the bars, shout things he couldn’t fathom. He only liked the fights. He only knew the fights, so of course he was snarling at the person across the bars. Even if she was soft-spoken and apologetic.
The wolf didn’t know apology, nor pity, nor kinship. He was a solitary creature made of a rage he didn’t understand the source of. And so he raged, even when left alone. He raged, and it seemed to get louder and louder as the moon sunk away. Bones cracked, changed shape, adjusted placement. Organs moved around, grew in size or shrunk. A fur made place for a scarred human skin, bare and uncovered until Samir properly became himself again.
He ached. He always ached whenever he came to again, and not just because of the transformation. Samir wasn’t sure what happened when he was a wolf, wasn’t sure what measures they used against that part of him, what they’d pit it against — and he didn’t want to. He wanted an advil, a glass of something strong and to go to bed. He got up, yanking the robe from the corner of the cage and throwing it around his body, waiting for whoever was going to come to undo the cage and hand him his winnings of the night.
—
The wolf reacted accordingly. Devi bore the creature no ill will. If she was in its shoes, or paws, she wasn’t sure she’d have reacted differently. Maybe she should be in the cage instead, though. She’d committed more nefarious, treacherous, deathly crimes against loved ones than she believed the wolf had, even though she knew nothing of the wolf’s own past, even though the wolf was an instinctive predator with more animalistic survival instincts than societal burdens of legal and emotional criminality. To her, compared to what she had been in her past lives, everyone else was a saint. This one a Saint Bernard. Nailed it.
But then something happened to the wolf, something that shocked Devi and worried her…to the point of turning to the other employees for help, employees that just shook their heads and shrugged, making her remember that the wolf was one of those guys. The shapeshifters. The people who turned into beasts whenever and wherever. She’d fought some of them before. Never been a blast. As she watched the wolf-man in the cage transform, she winced and grimaced, realizing this must not be a blast for them, too. And then a random thought crossed her mind, something she thought hilarious, inappropriate but hilarious, something that could maybe ease the pain of their terrifying change.
“Hey, you,” Devi began as soon as the man fully resurfaced from all of that wolf, realizing she would never get the same opportunity ever again. At least not in this place. “You’re finally awake… You were trying to cross the border, right?” She shook her head, arms crossed over her chest, as if her entire spiel was real and not just a recently learned meme. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush… Same as us…” To add to her effort, he turned to one of the employees, a grouchy man who immediately scowled at her in confusion. She gave him a nod and ignored his sigh of annoyance. “…and that thief over there.” For the pièce de résistance, she took a deep breath and raised her fist at the ceiling. “Damn you, Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along!” An audible groan from the same grouchy employee was heard nearby.
—
As the string of his robe was tied, one of the employees started talking and it took him a while to catch up to what was happening. Part of him didn’t want to understand, wanted them to just unlock the cage, give him his money and send him on his merry way. He hoped Corinna wasn’t going to call him in — she did that, sometimes, when he was exhausted from the fights and transformation and not as sharp as he usually hoped he was. She did usually supply some coffee, at least. Samir couldn’t fault her for that.
But this guard got under his skin, this woman who was quoting what he thought to recognize as something from a video game. A past life — he had no console any more, nor did he have friends he played with. Back in Florida, he’d play them before shifts at the restaurant with colleagues, but these days the escapism of video games was no longer a luxury he afforded himself. Samir just stared at her, with a tired expression and none of the appreciation he’d be able to muster if this was just another day. But the truth was that he’d just transformed in front of all these people, that they’d seen him go from monstrous wolf to the naked, harmless man he was now. He had some pride left, and his pride demanded he leave.
“Skyrim,” he muttered, signaling that he understood the reference. There was no judgment in his tone, because if there would be, it would be angry — and Samir knew better than to be angry here. Anger was for the fighting pit, not for coworkers. For people not trapped in fighting contracts. “Can you let me out? I’d like to get a coffee.” And a painkiller. Shit, did his body hurt, but in a strange way, one that seemed stuck in his nerves. Must have been stun batons, or something of the sort. “Or … do you want to recite another video game monologue or some shit first?”
—
Devi maintained eye contact with the resurfaced human underneath the wolf that had been, in a way, a fucked-up way, his clothing. Werewolves, were-anything, animal shapeshifters… These were always tricky to the now-tempered phoenix. Were they the human underneath, the animal just a temporary mask or armor? Or were they more the animal their humanity had been repressing until it could no longer? Whatever they were, at the very least, they always put up a good fight. “Ah, good,” she smirked, nodding at the request. “Means you’re human enough again.”
Devi turned to another employee, gave them the eyebrow dance, and took a step back. She could have opened the cage herself and freed the guy, but this was more practical. If one person did all that, the guy in the cage could’ve used the distraction to shove his way out of there and transform again. Happened once before. Never again. This way, though, while the hapless employee gets trampled by an escaping fighter, Devi could pounce on the guy before he could get closer to the Pit’s exit. What did the kids call that again? A big brain move? Devi might not have finished school, but she’s experienced enough of the world to be somewhat useful.
“Coffee’s that away!” Devi didn’t wait for the guy to fully get out of the cage, immediately gesturing for the pantry’s direction with her lips. “And some meds, if you need them, but they might take those out of your paycheck.” They didn’t. Most of the time. But if Corinna gets in one of her moods when she hears about that little backstage kerfuffle, she might take more than the meds out of this guy’s paycheck. “Nah, that was all I got. Can’t afford games these days,” she heaved a sigh, before showing him the remaining jerky in her hand. “Barely even afforded this, which I split with you to calm you down before someone got hurt.” The guy who opened the man’s cage scowled at them: “I got hurt.” Devi just laughed and shooed him away, giving him a mere thumbs up for a job well done and downplaying his battered and bruised left rib with a chuckle, much to the guy’s dismay. “Someone more…expensive, I mean.” She turned to where the higher-ups were. Or at least where they should be.
—
There was a level of trepidation around him that Samir wasn’t used to. He looked from the woman to the other employee, who was looking at him as if he’d done something to him, rubbing his leg. He closed his eyes for a moment, then cast his gaze up and waited for the embarrassing procedure of his cage being unlocked to be done with. He was glad for the bars and the containment they offered, but there was something awfully degrading about being stuck between them as a human.
He remained a pace or two removed from the door before moving out of the cage, glad that it was big enough to house his bestial side and thus, big enough so he wasn’t force to crawl out of there. “Appreciate it,” he said, to both the skittish employee and the chatty woman, who was waving some jerky around. “Uh, I’m sure the wolf appreciated that also.” So something had clearly happened. Maybe a more curious person would want to know, but Samir had embraced ignorance. He gave a quick look to the hurt employee, one he hoped seemed apologetic but he didn’t utter any words of apology. To do so was to acknowledge that what the wolf did was something he did.
He pulled his robe a little tighter. “Right. I’ll just get of you guys’ hair then.” If he was going to stay, he’d be asked, or worse, told whatever had transpired here. Besides, was it just his fault? The Grit Pit wanted a feral werewolf on its roster, which came with consequence. Samir was off the clock now. He just wanted to get out. “Will be back in tonight. Until then, if you’re on the schedule, and otherwise enjoy your night off.” And with that, he disappeared into the direction of the changing rooms, wanting to cover himself in his own, human-smelling clothes and pretend for half a day that he was nothing if not human.
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