#luchthonn.writing

[trans-lykanthropie]

cw: transformation, blood, some gore, vomit, descriptions of pain

Edit: fixed the typos

I'd finally had enough.

The days upon days upon days of pressing, aching pains. The agonisingly slow creeping destruction of the last of my humanity. The pathetic attempts to cling on to my old self. No more. It ends now.

The wound on my back was the epicentre of my misery. It had taken control of my life, pulled me from one place to another, and all the time slowly chipping away at me, rotting me away. But it was time to take back that control. This is my life. And I had a plan.

I pulled my old leather map folder from my pack and studied it, leafing through the sheets the best my stiff fingers would let me. Not far from here is an area marked with red hatching, with an exclamation mark adjacent. A roundhouse for the pre-war railways, where huge old world engines waited to pull trains across the width of the continent. Left to rust and fall apart, their powerful fusion cores leaking as their hulls crumbled away. The whole place was flooded with radiation, and that's where I now headed.

I was working on the assumption that whatever I had worked similar to ghoulification. If I could at least speed up the process, maybe I could at least get past the pain. The old me would be gone, atomised. But I could at least start again. I was desperate.

A day and a night of travel brought me to my destination. I look at the grey stone building through the chain link fence for a moment, wondering how close I'd need to get to it. A flutter of fear almost had me giving up on my suicidal plan, but the grim resolve soon took its place again. I walk the perimeter until I found a gap, squeezing through it with my pack in hand. I crouch, fishing through the contents until I found the old geiger counter I'd used as a caravan guard what seemed like a lifetime ago and switch it on. The needle jumps and settles at a steady, low background level with only the intermittent click. I place it back in my bag, shoulder it, and start walking towards the building.

By the time I reach the outside wall, the counter is ticking regularly, like the dripping from a leaky tap. Infrequent and irregular, but persistent. I find a fire exit and manage to pull open the peeling metal door, stooping ever so slightly to enter. The hall inside is huge, the dull sunlight of the early evening filtering through cracks and holes in the ceiling high above. The place is a mess of fallen metal beams, gantries, cranes, and other heaps of twisted rusting metal. But the berths are mostly unoccupied. Perhaps the engines had been moved to safety in the days before the Great War.

One locomotive still waits in its berth, however, far on the other side of the hall. In its time it would've been a magnificent streamlined machine, perfectly designed to fly along the rails, pulling passengers in luxury from West to East and back again. Now the paint has flaked, the metal thinned and crumbled to mineral, abandoned, forgotten. I walk closer to it, geiger counter clicking faster in new panic. I start to taste metal and itch all over, but I keep walking in grim determination. I round a heap of scrap metal and can see the great steel wheels of the engine, see the faint blue glow of ionised air behind them. My counter starts to scream, I feel my steps falter and weaken. I drop my pack and double over, dropping to all fours and violently vomiting a dark bloody bile. The pressure, the ache that's tormented me for weeks or months reaches a crescendo, I scream inaudibly and claw at the last remaining patches of human flesh that until now have clung to my body, tearing my tattered, ill-fitting clothed to ribbons. I crawl forward, reaching out and watching through tears as vicious, lethal claws tear my fingers apart from within. That horrible tortuous pressure in my head continues, a creaking of bone like a tree seconds before being felled. I manage only a few more feet before slipping, falling hard on my side against the rails, crying out. Something feels like it's trying to pull my spine out through the small of my back. I writhe and curl up, unable to ignore the feeling of my legs shifting and reshaping, clutching at my head with my hands, eyes screwed shut tight. The sound of the geiger counter, like hail on a metal roof, suddenly cuts out. This is it, I thought through the swirling red fog of agony, I'm going to die here....

....but I didn't

I don't know how long I lay on the floor of the roundhouse. I lost all sense of time. Eventually though, the pain started to subside. From agony to painful. From painful to uncomfortable. Finally, for the first time in a long time, from uncomfortable to nothing. It was that above anything else that made me open my eyes. I took a few moments more, lying on the sleepers, breathing heavy ragged breaths. But still breathing. Get up. Get up. Get up.

I somehow manage to shuffle into a kneeling position, head still swimming. Then, with a herculean effort, I get shakily to my feet.

I look down at myself, eyes wide. The patch of ground where I'd been lying looks like the worst back alley brahmin slaughterhouse you could find. Blood and torn scraps of flesh cause me to step backwards instinctively, uneasy on my feet. I look at them. I can scarcely believe they're mine. Curving, onyx coloured talons and crooked, animalistic legs with rough hide and hard dark scutes. If I didn't know better I'd say I was hallucinating.

I practice a little at walking and finding my new centre of balance. It's much further forward than I'm used to, but my long reptilian tail naturally balances me out. A few times I slip, even falling to one knee on occasion, but I get the hang of it quickly. The air no longer has that metallic taste to it, something I discover by instinctively flicking my tongue out like a snake, recoiling a little at the impulse. I manage to make my way over to my pack, gingerly trying to open it with claws clearly ill suited to anything requiring fine motor skills. The geiger counter sits on top of the contents, the display unlit, the glass hazy. It's well and truly dead. I decide to keep it for now, in case I can get it repaired. Picking up the bag, I gather myself, get my bearings, and head back to where I came in.

I soon discover that I'm now too big to fit through the door I came in by, and have to find another way out through the yard, eventually barging my way through the fence with my shoulder. Once again reaching the road, I sit down on the floor, dazed, stunned. What even was I now?

I look up at the sky, emblazoned with countless stars. For once the world is quiet. For once my mind is calm. Resignation or acceptance? That I'll have to work out in the weeks to come.

I curl up on the ground and fall asleep.

[trans-lykanthropie]

Ship of Theseus

Ada Deathclaw story, Fallout universe

CW: Body Horror (particularly teeth and skin), vomiting, blood

Doubling over, I gag and retch until the Cram I've just eaten comes back up with a vengeance with a sting of stomach acid. I'd thought I'd won the lottery when I found a few tins in a ruin not far from here, the seal and metal still intact, almost pristine. But something about it had just tasted rancid. No, it wasn't just the Cram. Everything I've eaten over the past days had either refused to stay down, or only done so with some serious mental effort. It can't be that everything I'd eaten was bad. I'm unlucky, but not that unlucky.

Taking a few shuddering breaths and wiping my mouth on an old rag, I sit back upright and glare at the tin in my hand. The aching from my teeth is causing my entire head to throb painfully in sync with my rapid heartbeat, clouding my judgement, pushing me to the limit.

"Fuck!"

I throw the tin as hard as I can. It covers an impressive distance, landing with a quiet thud. I still don't know my new strength yet, clearly. Hugging my sides, rage is replaced with panic. Am I going to starve to death? What's happening now?

Unintentionally, my fingers brush against the hard scales spreading from my spine and across my back, my thin threadbare t-shirt pulled tight against the cold ridges. The sensation causes me to flinch and let go of myself. With a sinking heart I look at the ivory coloured points that have pushed my fingernails out of the way, the dried blood still nestled in the crevices on either side. With equal trepidation I follow that same ritual; I feel the rough stubby horns on the sides of my head, look behind myself as best as I can at my slowly emerging tail, and tenderly run my tongue over my teeth and gums. That last check shoots a jolt of pain along my nerves, humming like wires as my eyes water. Almost as if to torment myself I do it again, pushing my tongue against the back of each tooth in turn, whimpering and hissing with each agonising pang.

One tooth on the right comes loose. For a moment I can feel it rattling against the others, clinging pointlessly to the gums. Filled with the kind of dull horror I'm used to by now, I slowly reach into my mouth and pull it free with only the slightest flinch of my eyes. There's very little blood, the metallic taste already starting to disippate amid the caustic saliva. There's already a new, different tooth ready to replace it, somewhere deep in my jaw....

I look at the canine tooth in my hand, wondering for a moment if I should keep it as a memento of what I was. It's almost comically small, no wonder my changing body had jettisoned it as useless. After a long pause I drop it to the floor, kicking the dirt over it to hide it from sight. Parts of my old life physically dropping away.

A gust of wind blows across the scrubland, causing me to shiver and try to pull my old duster coat around me for warmth. It's slowly getting tighter and tighter all the time, and I don't know how I'm going to react once it doesn't fit. It's a last vestige of before, even if it also reminds me of the 'friends' who abandoned me. Left me to become....whatever it is I'm becoming...

As if I didn't know deep down what I was becoming. The scales, the claws, the horns? It certainly wasn't radiation sickness or ghoulification. But nobody had been able to explain it, and now they won't even see me at all. I scratch idly at where the scales meet skin on my arms, a shower of white translucent flakes falling out of my sleeve and floating to the floor. I tell myself I need to get up and get moving. But go where? Settlement after settlement has turned me away, other wanderers have given me a wide berth with hands on weapons. I've not found anything reflective in a while so I don't know even know how I look to them.

A metal sign somewhere nearby rattles against its post. The block of concrete I'm sat on is getting increasingly cold and uncomfortable. The sun is slowly approaching the horizon, diffused by the haze of the sky.

Without enthusiasm and with dwindling hope, I stand and pick up my tatty duffelbag.

Nothing else to do but keep walking

[trans-lykanthropie]

To Arkham, Massachusetts

The windows rattle in answer to the door swinging shut. Droplets of moisture draw snaking trails through the condensation on the plate glass, avoiding the peeling paint that reads 'Plainview Café'. The small, ramshackle diner feels busy, but only because six customers would be considered a crowd in such a cramped space. The sounds and smells of cooking food waft from the kitchen and over the heads of the patrons, most of whom only break their silence to talk to the waitress.

Artemis wrinkles her nose at the aroma of fried meat, but doesn't break her concentration from the scrapbook in front of her. Her yellow eyes flick from left to right, scanning the pages for anything she might've missed, any additional clue or lead to follow. She doesn't even look up at the sounds of heavy footsteps approaching, the tall broad figure casting the table into shadow.

"And?" she asks without looking up.

The opposite seat of the cramped booth creaks ominously as the figure sits down.

"We're in luck. They've got one room, two beds. No questions asked kind of place, perfect for us."

"Perfect?"

Artemis finally looks up from her studies with an eyebrow raised.

"Two rooms would've been more to my liking, Enyo."

Enyo, dropping her hat onto the table, grins back.

"I'm hurt Art, you really don't want to spend time with your dear sister?"

Artemis tuts and returns back to her notes.

"I think we'll be spending enough time together in the coming weeks.....and don't all me Art."

Enyo leans back, arm casually resting along the top of the seat.

"Well, we should count our lucky starts we didn't have to sleep in the motorcar. Speaking of, I found the petrol station too, down the street from the hotel. I think this town is just the one street actually. We can fill up the Stutz and should reach Arkham by tomorrow evening."

Artemis makes a non-committal noise and carefully picks up her glass of water, having to concentrate on the movement of her fingers and hand to take a sip. She was already looking forward to getting to the hotel and out of sight of Joe Public after days travelling by train and by car.

From the corner of her eye she sees the waitress appear beside the table, and Enyo shifting in her seat to sit upright elicits a fresh groan from the wood. The waitress clears her throat and, with a slight tremor of uncertainty in her voice, asks:

"Can I get you anything?"

"Sure thing hun..."

Artemis grimaces at her sister's unconvincing attempt to sound like a local.

"...I'll take some toast, just a stack of it, as much as you can make."

Her answer convinces Artemis to glance up again, in time to catch a look of slight confusion flicker across the waitress's face.

"My taciturn sister will have the same, please" Enyo adds, gesturing across the table.

At this the waitress fixes her slight frown on Artemis instead. Artemis knows exactly why she looks so uneasy. The disguises she successfully conjured for herself and Enyo are miraculous, but not perfect. She knows there's an uncanny aspect to them, from the amber yellow eyes with horizontal pupils, to their careful, stilted movements, and to their greater than average height. She shifts uncomfortably in her own seat. Another side effect was a persistent sensation of wearing clothes that are too tight, which takes some concerted effort to ignore. She simply nods in confirmation and tugs down the brim of her cloche hat.

"Coming right up..." the waitress says, scribbling down something in her notepad and walking back to the kitchen. When she leans around the doorway to get a second look at the strange pair, Enyo gives a conspicuous wave and smile, causing her to quickly vanish again.

"How many times have I told you, don't bring attention to us," Artemis hisses at Enyo across the table. This time it's Enyo who raises her eyebrows at her sister.

"And they wouldn't remember the two hulking patrons with yellow eyes who are also rude? Really Art, you know nothing about how humans work."

"I told you....you're the 'hulking' one anyway."

Enyo waves her hand dismissively to see off the argument.

"What's our first port of call when we get to Arkham anyway."

"The local newspaper archive, I've been in correspondence with the editor. We're writing a book on local folklore."

"Us and every investigator from here to Boston. Couldn't you have thought up a better cover?"

"You're the brains of this outfit too now, are you?"

"I'm hurt Art"

Enyo digs around in the inside pocket of her heavy wool coat, pulling out her billfold. Artemis's stomach lurches at the brief glint of silver from a holstered pistol and glances around to make sure nobody else saw it too. The other patrons are gloomily focused on their own problems.

"How much do you reckon this food is going to cost? It's not on the board..."

"I'm sure they'll tell us."

"It can't be more than a dollar I don't think..."

As if on cue, the waitress weaves her way over to the table, two chipped enamel plates stacked with toast in hand, setting one down in front of each of them.

"Here you go. That'll be thirty cents."

Enyo clumsily pulls a two dollar bill from her wallet and holds it out to her.

"Keep the change, erm, doll."

The waitress's eyes widen as she takes it.

"You got it!"

She heads back to the counter, seemingly rejuvenated. Artemis glares at Enyo.

"....doll?"

"I heard it in a radio drama, it's what Jimmy 'Two Guns' McClerk always says."

"Two Guns McClerk is a gangster, so what do you reckon she thinks we are now?"

An expression of realisation dawns on Enyo's face.

"Oh....well, there's worse things to be outed as."

She raises her hands to her head, index and middle fingers extended, grinning again.

"Deer people, for example?"

Artemis grunts and returns to her research. Enyo grabs a slice of toast and wolfs it down, tapping the book her sister is so focused on.

"Eat. You must be starving too."

Artemis hates to admit it, but she's right. Resisting the urge to eat as quickly as her sister, she delicately takes a slice of toast, taking considered bites. Enyo shows no similar decorum, munching on her food noisily and talking with her mouth full.

"What's the lead at the paper then?"

"If you can avoid spitting crumbs at me for five seconds, I'll tell you."

Artemis thumbs through her book and points at a newspaper clipping.

"Animal attacks, victims left unrecognisable, local police and coroner baffled."

Enyo leans over, suddenly serious.

"14th September 1924, only five months ago?"

"That's at least the latest clipping I could find at least, hence the visit to the Advertiser. I suspect there will have been more. We'll probably have to stop by the University too."

Enyo looks uneasily at her sister.

"You want to see....are you sure that's necessary?"

"We'll have to play it by ear, we might not have another option."

Artemis moves to take another slice of toast, only to notice the plate is already empty. She'd been hungrier than she thought.

[trans-lykanthropie]

I sit on a rock overlooking a shattered, hollow town. About an hour before I'd been rooting through the piles of debris, splintered houses, and crumbling office buildings, searching. Throwing an assortment of finds into a box, I left the old world graveyard be and headed up to the hill where I now sit, drinking in the cold sunshine.

After a while I hug my knees, listening to the wind whistle over the hill and down to the town below, the light fading and brightening as the clouds roll by. I think my sense of hearing is much sharper than before, and it's taking a lot of getting used to amid the onslaught of sensory information I now receive. Sights, smells, sounds....the only thing not wildly sharpened is my sense of touch.

I look down into the box. A few soggy books, a faded magazine, and an old battered radio. I pull the radio out and turn the volume switch with a soft click.

Nothing happens.

I shake it roughly.

Nothing.

Growling, I hit it on the side with the flat of my palm.

The radio flickers into light, the dial illuminated in a warm yellow, a burst of static from the speaker grill. Eyes widening with surprise, I gingerly turn the tuning dial. The machine is so small and feels so fragile between my claws.

"....ation levels remain dangerous. Residents of Release Band A are instructed not to leave their shelters for more than two hours per day. Residents in Release Band B should not...."

A forgotten automatic message drones from the radio in a bland, matter of fact voice. A chain of three claxon-like buzzes makes me jump, then the message repeats. How many times has this played since the war, unheard?

"....ation levels remain dangerous. Residents of Release Band A are instructed not to leave their shelters for more than two hours per day. Residents in Release Band B should not...."

I take a deep breath and grumble, eyes shut tight with focus.

"levvvvvel....ban....thannn....hhgghouurrrsss"

I try repeating the message over and over, just like the recording. My larynx clearly isn't made for speech. It's optimised for growls, snarls, and roars, which come naturally and scare me every time. It's disorientating to hear and feel such sounds rumble through my own voice box. No, I had to see if it was even possible to go back.

"hggtthhannn....bannnn-d....grrrr.....ttgheirrr"

My 'voice' is rough and deep, but just about comprehensible. It takes a lot of effort and concentration to form even basic syllables, modulated by a kind hoarseness similar to the kind that comes with a very bad cough. But it's a start.

I turn off the radio and place it delicately into my pack, hoping it'll turn back on again later. Again I look over the town below me. There's a lopsided old billboard, one I'd seen many times during my travels around the wastes, the paper poster tattered and blowing in the wind.

Fancy Lads: A big delight in every bite!

"Fannngghh....Laahhhggrrr"

I've already lost the knack. There's a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, I dare to feel a scrap of optimism.

Maybe I could still find a way to live after all? Maybe I could adapt, or even thrive?

I can't help but laugh to myself. It's more of a quick exhale through my nostrils.

But who'd want to talk to a deathclaw?

[trans-lykanthropie]

cw: blood, injury

"Don't havvve to...."

I hold my hands in front of me, palms facing away, gesturing at the man shivering in before me. It's about as reassuring as I can manage. My practice at speaking has seen some impressive progress, but nothing like natural human speech. It's not helped by my fixed skull-like grin and lack of other means of expression.

The man is breathing rapidly, double barrel shotgun raised, sweat pouring down from his forehead and saturating his clothes. I suspect he thought some game had gotten lost in this abandoned supermarket and come to hunt it for food, not reckoning on the sight in front of him

"Not....worthhhh..."

I try again with my deep growling speech, but it doesn't seem to help. The man readjusts the shotgun against his shoulder, his knuckles white around the grip, feet rooted to the spot by fear.

"How can you...you're not talkin' right now....I'm losing my mind...stay back!"

I shuffle on my feet, hunched over in an attempt not to overshadow the man. It's an unnatural and very uncomfortable pose.

"Won'ttt...."

I stumble a little on the scattered debris on the floor. A few tin cans crumple under my weight. The tiny move is enough to trip bundles of neurons in the man's mind, his instincts kicking in.

He pulls the trigger with a yell. The air splits apart. The scattergun blasts back in his shaking hands, exploding lead shot and gunpowder residue directly at my chest. I close my eyes quickly, but the sensation is like being sprayed with hot water. I barely move backwards as the buckshot slams into my scutes.

I open my eyes and look down. Flecks of powder still smolder, smoke curling upwards, lightly singeing my natural armour with the cloying smell of burning hair.

"Sssstop"

He screams again and pulls the second trigger. Another blast echoes around the hall, coupled with a gout of flame and a billow of smoke. This time a few of the balls of lead meet the comparatively weaker hide of my shoulder. It stings, and immediately a boiling rage fills my head. In an instant the man is framed by a black vignette in my vision, crystal clear and white hot in the centre, the rest of the world falling away to drive all focus on his fragile body. Impulse takes over as muscles and tendons sing and fizz, ready for the chase.

"Stop that!" I yell, only it doesn't sound like it. Instead a primal, furious roar, strong enough to blow the man's clothes against his body, smashes the silence. He steps backwards and falls, shotgun gripped tight in his hand, rolling onto his front and scrambling to his feet, wailing and screaming. I drop to all fours, swiping forward with my right hand, obliterating a decrepit column of shelves and launching the contents across the room. The man cuts a straight line for the exit, but it only takes a step to close the distance. A swipe from the left clips his arm as he stumbles right, enough to gouge two deep furrows into his flesh. He screams again, lurching over onto one leg, but uses the momentum to burst through the doors and across the smaller atrium of the building, shotgun cradled against his chest. Unable to follow, I bellow at his back, enraged by his escape. It takes a long time for the fury to subside, my head spinning and breathing rapid as I stalk around the hall. As calm returns, I look down at my claws to see the man's blood.

Oh shit.

I leave through the collapsed wall I'd entered in, smelling and tasting the air to lead me back around the entrance, and to the dotted trail of crimson heading down the street. I could probably track him easily, but tracking brings me dangerously close to the feral state I'd just lost myself in. I decide it's not worth it.

Better to let him go.

A very human feeling of guilt chills my blood. I run through all the possible outcomes for the man in my head, and the outlook isn't good.

It's just a surface wound, he'll be fine, he'll be out of action for weeks, it'll turn gangrenous, he'll lose the arm....

The last idea is truly the worst one of all

....he'll end up like me

[trans-lykanthropie]

Helping Hands

Deathclaw Ada, Fallout universe

CW: Pulling out a tooth

"I can't see it..."

~

"It's in there, right at the back"

"Use the torch, look harder, on your left."

".....I think I see it, but I don't know if I should..."

"Oh just use the long nose pliers, I won't feel it."

"It's just...."

"Stop being such a wimp. It's like you've never pulled out a tooth before. I had to do all the others myself."

You can't help but wince at the idea.

"I always let the sawbones do it for others."

"Well congratulations on your promotion to party medic. Now get busy, it'll come loose on it's own anyway and you don't want me choking on it, do you?"

You steel yourself and gesture to me to open my mouth again. Torch in one hand and pliers in the other, you squint and catch sight of it again. You reach in and grip the human molar right at the back, getting good purchase around the middle of it. You give it a timid tug but nothing happens, only eliciting a slightly annoyed grunt from me. You notice my scowl, take a deep breath, and pull harder. It shifts every so slightly, rotating a little and definitely bereft of any socket it originally sat in. I make an impatient noise and say something that sounds like 'un ohn!', instinctively grabbing you by the shoulders to push you away from me as if to help. With a third pull that feels far too violent, the tooth rips free with a dull crack. The subsequent momentum makes you stagger backwards, molar triumphantly gripped by the pliers. I shiver from my head all the way down to the tip of my tail and breathe out in relief.

"Oooof, that's tons better, thanks. Let me see it."

You show me the tooth.

"The last one..." I say pensively, ".....that's the lot now."

After only a moment of silence I stand up to my full height, stretch, and head back over to where we left our gear.

"Hey, do you....want this?"

Your question seems stupid, but you feel like you have to ask.

"Hmm? No, what would I want it for? Just throw it away somewhere."

You look down at the tooth, now in the palm of your hand as you drop the pliers into the toolbox with a clatter. You can tell that this means more to me than I'm letting on. You jog to catch up as we head back to our pile of stuff, tools jangling in the metal box at your side.

"I'm....sorry about all that."

"Sorry? What for? It's not your fault I'm like this."

"All the same, it must've all been really tough...."

A shadow flits across my eyes, the mood chills rapidly for a brief moment.

"It was. It's almost over now."

The air seems to lighten as I give you an expression that you generally interpret as a smile, a gruff optimism papering over the crack you just glimpsed

"At least I can chew with both sides of my mouth now. And you'll be thanking your lucky stars you met me the next time we find a truck with a leaking atomic battery. Want to get moving? It's a long walk to New Reno."

[trans-lykanthropie]

Instincts

tw: blood, animal death, emotional distress

You sigh in frustration and sling your rifle across your back, stuffing the handful of meagre supplies and scrap into the haversack hanging by your left. Ada was supposed to be keeping watch, but as you blink in the scorching daylight you find she's wandered away from her post. Again.

You try and fail to not be annoyed about it.

"Ada!"

You call out for your travelling companion, expecting her to appear sheepishly around the corner having found some pre-war machine to fiddle with. This time though.....nothing.

"Ada!"

A little louder this time, edged with apprehension. Something about this doesn't seem normal. With eyes scanning the immediate area you head back to the road, wondering where she could possibly have got to.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel a wave of relief when you spot the familiar shape crouched down on her haunches some way into the dusty verge. Frowning more in curiosity than in your previous annoyance, you trudge off in her direction across the hard scrubland. The fine sand is merely a thin layer hiding the tangled mess of roots belonging to the sharp, dry plants you carefully pick your way through.

"Hey," you call out as you get closer, "what's the deal with running off? Do you want to make me panic?"

"Oh Ada, you didn't try eating the tinned food again....listen, when we get to New Reno we'll find someone to explain it, don't you worry. But you need to stop making yourself sick by trying over and over to eat this stuff, yeah?"

The hunched figure doesn't reply. You see how her shoulders move, hear the heavy breathing and the patter of liquid on stone. A familiar pang of pity grips your chest for a moment.

No reply.

"You ok now? Need some water?"

No reply.

"Ada?"

You frown and listen closer. The heavy breathing isn't the aftermath of someone throwing up....it's the deep gutteral growls of a feral creature.

You look between the clawed feet, eyes widening in slow realisation. A sticky red puddle spreads slowly across the ground, pooling around her talons and snaking out in tendrils along the crevices of the rocks, interrupted only by the droplets falling from above. Ada finally stands up to full height, revealing the eviscerated carcass of a wild Brahmin broken upon the ground. You can't help but step backwards, voice failing in your throat as fight or flight takes over.

She turns. Long shreds of sinewy flesh swing from her exposed teeth. Her pupils, usually beacons of emotion in the otherwise inhuman face, are gone. Only two searching, hungry, blank yellow eyes glare at you.

In.a heartbeat you turn and run, flying over the rough ground, running entirely on instinct as you find the best route of survival through the shrubs. You only stumble once, quickly regaining you footing in time to hear a feral roar from behind followed by heavy grinding footsteps. You seem to stretch yourself forward, grasping at the air, begging to reach the safety of the abandoned gas station you'd only minutes before been searching through. Your mind tells you the pounding running sound is mere inches behind you, you imagine the cruel claws ready to swipe down and gash you open any second now. This is where you will die, cut in half at the hands of your friend.

It's little relief when you slam through the door of the shoddy building, wood swinging wildly open as the grimy glass shatters into viscous shards, razor sharp. You spin on your heels, scrambling backwards as your shaking hand finally pulls your pistol free of its holster. Wading through the detritus of the old world scattering across the floor, inevitably you stand on a something curved and fall, revolver gripped tight, crawling to rest your back against the counter, heavy terrified breathing blocking out all other sounds.

You stare with laser focus at the doorway. The silence alone is agony.

You wait. And wait. And wait. You expect a huge silhouette to block the light from the door, a body out of control to slam into the wall, a hand to smash through the boarded windows, something. Instead....

"Help!"

A voice, soaked in fear, desperate and pleading.

"Help?!"

You can hear the tears in the tremor of the voice. It's familiar.

You take a long moment to clear your head of adrenaline. Eventually, with slow, careful movements, you stand and walk to the open doorway. The short journey feels like a thousand miles. You look outside without emerging from your shelter.

Ada is standing on the road, streaked in slowly oxididing crimson. You watch as she breathes in short, scared gasps, searching wildly, crouching low on all fours like a wounded dog one moment, standing to scan the horizon at another. She screams again, the cry tinged with the roar you heard moments before.

"Where are you?!"

Every fibre of your being screams in protest as you push hundreds of thousands of years of survival instinct aside to reveal yourself to your friend. You keep your gun gripped tight in your hand, knuckles white, as you push yourself to walk over. Your reply is hoarse and quiet.

"I'm here. I'm here."

She whirls around at the sound, eyes full of tears. You didn't even know deathclaws could cry until this moment.

"What....what happened? Where...?" she whispers, before suddenly crumpling in exhaustion, sitting slumped forward on the hot asphalt, hands gripping her head.

If only you had an answer to give her.

[trans-lykanthropie]

I sit up in my bunk with a jolt, narrowly avoiding cracking my head against the ceiling of my cabin. It takes me a while to get my bearings, frowning and stretching, my alarm clock beeping at me relentlessly until I eventually growl and turn it off. Through the tiny circle of thick reinforced glass set in the hull I catch a distorted glimpse of the inky blackness of space flecked with stars.

Another day on duty.

I swing out of bed, landing heavily and grumbling as the impact with the metal floor vibrates through my joints. With a long yawn I shuffle over to the sink in the corner, staring bleary eyed into the shiny metal mirror.

I still have an hour or so before my watch is set to begin, I'm up early as I need to have breakfast and visit the showers before reporting in. Out of morbid curiosity I check my squawker ("It's called a hailer, Luchthonn") and sigh at the four new maintenance orders already pending. You wonder if science could invent a space freighter that remains intact for more than 24 hours ship time.

I don't look more wolfish, but I certainly don't look more human either. Pointed ears edged with reddish fur, an uncanny truncated snout, muttonchops to envy a 19th century industrialist merging into a coat running over my shoulders and down my back. I look over my shoulder and catch sight of my stubby tail. This is manageable.

I pull on my off-duty togs and grab my washbag and a towel, slinging the latter over my shoulder. I'd better go eat first before all the decent food is gone, then hope there isn't a queue for the washroom. After a moment of trying to adjust my trousers to accommodate my tail, without success, I slide my cabin door open and promptly yelp in surprise

Cassie, stood in front of my door with her usual careworn stoop, takes a small step backwards as her lenses wirr and click behind her LED eyes.

"I'm so terribly sorry Ms. Ada, I did not mean to surprise you, I just thought you might want company for breakfast" she says, voice muffled like an old radio as usual. I take a moment to breath as the adrenaline subsides.

"It's ok Cassie, you just....surprised me is all. I'd love the company, you know I always do."

I've tried to convince her she doesn't need to refer to me as 'Ms. Ada' but it hasn't worked. I suppose I am technically a junior petty officer, but I don't like to stand on ceremony.

We head off in the direction of the mess, the sounds of clattering of plates and the droning voices of fifty simultaneous conversations getting louder. Cassie is still wearing the Starfarer Freight company hoodie we gave her last week. We managed to dye it pink using a questionable concoction of chemicals salvaged from maintenance section supplies and when off duty she's not been seen without it since.

"Your form seems to have stabilised recently, Ms. Ada" Cassie remarks as we walk. I scratch behind my ear subconsciously.

"I'll take it, it's better than constantly shifting. Still, makes wearing my boiler suit a real pain."

We head in to the mess and already I can tell I'm not ready to deal with the noise. It's too early, or maybe all sounds are just louder at the moment. I grab some food, then Cassie and I look around for a space at a table, preferably with some other people we know.