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001 ☾ tick tick boom
[SPAM]
[He wakes up in bed with a mouth full of ash, or at least that's how it tastes and a splitting headache like the vodka he'd been mixing his punch with finally caught up to him. But Scott said that didn't work for them, that they couldn't get drunk, let alone hungover, and anyway it wouldn't explain the taste in his mouth.
Slowly, it comes to him. The pulsating sound in the back of his head, the feeling of being drunk even when he shouldn't have been. Getting dragged somewhere, blurry, dizzying shapes passing by, looming. Hard, cold metal at his back, and then getting doused in kerosene, the shadowy figure with the booming voice asking him questions, and once everything caught up, he bolted out of bed. Lunged for the door, jerked at the handle a few times before finally just pushing. It gave way easily as panic rose, as the rest of sense memory returned; the buzzing in his head, the harsh smell coating his skin, the inside of his nose, the blurry image of cops standing over them, and he could feel himself losing it, claws pushing out of his fingertips, the growl building in his chest, but he didn't care.
They tried to kill him. It wasn't new but he was sick of it, sick of getting hurt, sick of being afraid, but he wasn't the only one who'd gotten hurt because of him this time. Scott, Malia, he needed to find them, needed to make sure they were okay, like the shadow-man had said they would be, and the howl that clawed its way from his throat as he stepped into the hallway, as he scampered down the hallway in search of familiar scents, desperate and plaintive like it had been when he was stuck in the well, was all instinct.
Help. Pack. Where are you.]
[PUBLIC -- Video]
[Later, after he's had a chance to calm down, after everything's broadened out, dulled into something he can process, something less intense, he retreats to his room. He remembers now, more clearly. He washes the gasoline off, scrubs and scrubs until he can't smell it anymore, trashes the clothes and finds the phone that isn't his, sorts through the functions before getting it set up.
Not that he has any clue what to say.
He looks more than a little lost. Looks entirely too young to be on the ship at all, but he can't do anything about that now, and judging by the determined set of his jaw he doesn't seem to think it should matter too much. He chews his lip absently, takes a breath.
Okay. He can do this. No sweat. Never mind that he's already made an impression in exactly the way he didn't want to.]
Hey. So you got stars here. That's...cool, I guess?
[Yeah nobody mind the kid who was running around as the wolf boy earlier. He's fine. You didn't see that, right?]
[He wakes up in bed with a mouth full of ash, or at least that's how it tastes and a splitting headache like the vodka he'd been mixing his punch with finally caught up to him. But Scott said that didn't work for them, that they couldn't get drunk, let alone hungover, and anyway it wouldn't explain the taste in his mouth.
Slowly, it comes to him. The pulsating sound in the back of his head, the feeling of being drunk even when he shouldn't have been. Getting dragged somewhere, blurry, dizzying shapes passing by, looming. Hard, cold metal at his back, and then getting doused in kerosene, the shadowy figure with the booming voice asking him questions, and once everything caught up, he bolted out of bed. Lunged for the door, jerked at the handle a few times before finally just pushing. It gave way easily as panic rose, as the rest of sense memory returned; the buzzing in his head, the harsh smell coating his skin, the inside of his nose, the blurry image of cops standing over them, and he could feel himself losing it, claws pushing out of his fingertips, the growl building in his chest, but he didn't care.
They tried to kill him. It wasn't new but he was sick of it, sick of getting hurt, sick of being afraid, but he wasn't the only one who'd gotten hurt because of him this time. Scott, Malia, he needed to find them, needed to make sure they were okay, like the shadow-man had said they would be, and the howl that clawed its way from his throat as he stepped into the hallway, as he scampered down the hallway in search of familiar scents, desperate and plaintive like it had been when he was stuck in the well, was all instinct.
Help. Pack. Where are you.]
[PUBLIC -- Video]
[Later, after he's had a chance to calm down, after everything's broadened out, dulled into something he can process, something less intense, he retreats to his room. He remembers now, more clearly. He washes the gasoline off, scrubs and scrubs until he can't smell it anymore, trashes the clothes and finds the phone that isn't his, sorts through the functions before getting it set up.
Not that he has any clue what to say.
He looks more than a little lost. Looks entirely too young to be on the ship at all, but he can't do anything about that now, and judging by the determined set of his jaw he doesn't seem to think it should matter too much. He chews his lip absently, takes a breath.
Okay. He can do this. No sweat. Never mind that he's already made an impression in exactly the way he didn't want to.]
Hey. So you got stars here. That's...cool, I guess?
[Yeah nobody mind the kid who was running around as the wolf boy earlier. He's fine. You didn't see that, right?]
[Private]
A little. We don't have them where I come from but there's a few on the boat. My boyfriend's warden is a werewolf in fact.
[Private]
[Clearly.]
It's not really something everybody knows about though.
Your boyfriend's...?
[He trails off to consider. He only knows of a couple here; him, Scott, that other guy he never met until he got here. Kira's a kitsune, Lydia's a banshee.
But then he gets it. The girl who died. He met her too.]
Allison.
[Private]
Still, she knows it's not easy to talk to parents about such life altering circumstances. It's not easy to talk to anyone about it. It's easier to keep the secret, or so it feels at the time.]
Yes, Allison, that's exactly who it is. Are you by any chance from the same place she is?
[Private]
[He already put them through hell with all the stuff at Devenford Prep, saddling them with the werewolf thing and the deadpool thing seems like too much. Even if they believed him. Even if they stuck around after they saw.
He nods at the second question.]
Yeah. Beacon Hills.
[Private]
That's wonderful--you'll have a couple people here who are already familiar with your situation then.
.... Assuming they're from the same general point in time, of course.
[Private]
[He still doesn't seem all that convinced. There's putting them through the wringer and there's destruction of property and getting expelled and court-mandated therapy sessions and having to transfer to a whole new school because they won't take you back.
But then again, it's easy to worry about things like what-ifs when the people who could solve it once and for all aren't anywhere you can get to.]
They're not, they haven't met me yet. Where they're from. But they've all been really good about it so far?
[Private]
I'm glad they're taking in to the fold though. Or the pack, I suppose--that's the right term, isn't it? [Sorry, Liam, she's not really up on PC terms as they apply to werewolves.]
Re: [Private]
But why would it be a problem if you know things he doesn't? I mean ..if bad things happen, wouldn't it be better to know them ahead of time so you can deal with them better later?
[Private]
She shakes her head slowly.] If I knew he could go home and do something about it, I'd probably tell him, but he's an inmate so he's not going anywhere for the duration. I don't want to see him in pain over something he can't fix and hasn't even happened to him yet.
Re: [Private]
[He frowns. It's Not Good.]
Yeah, that makes sense. That really sucks.
[Private]
It does indeed suck. However, he's deliberately avoided talking about home thus far so that makes it easier. In the meantime, I truly hope it comforts him to have a few familiar faces around. I know it does me.