Oooooo! Double Whammy! Cool!

  This is a fascinating continuation, in the fact that you start to build up a slight glimmer of hope and contentment as Steven and Alex reminisce over times long gone, and then stomp on it and obliterate it with Crowell walking into the room.
  You've been watching Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy again, haven't you?
  Just kidding, Just kidding...
 
  I found it an interesting development that as both Steven and Alex continued to find some measure of happiness to dull the pain of their circumstances, trying desperately to find a way to take their minds off of their plight, Alex was continuing to deteriourate, losing his strength and coherency to the silver infection. It just adds to the dismal, hopeless feeling in the scene, infusing it with finality and doom, verified by Crowell's return. It's really heart-wrenching to read this segment, and only makes the reader more desperate to find out how they will get out of this, if at all.

  Even with what you already have, I can only imagine that the climax is going to be astounding. I can vividly see your readers clutching their chests, out of breath from taking this journey.

  And so it should be, Punx.

No! You can't be serious!
This is so torturous, cutting it off right there. Suspense or what? haha
I feel so sorry for Alex and Steven, what a horrible way to go, at the hands of a cold hearted lunatic.
That's just the way things are rolling for them, at the moment.

Once again, nice work. I'm totally hooked

Thank you all so very much. You were all helpful and I was going to wait for another two days to post, but I don't think I can wait any longer. It's a bit short, but hey.
I agree with you, Grayle
NightStalker and Fuzzball, thank  you as well. You make me feel so much better about my writing.

Chapter 30 – Death 
The sound of the gunfire reverberated around the hallow room, causing Alex’s ears to ring and wince slightly. He screamed and struggled, a sense of intense urgency causing a flare of strength. It seemed in slow motion that he witnessed Steven’s hazel eyes grow wide.

Alex’s heart was hammering in his chest, although it plummeted to his stomach. A torrent of emotions flooded him as he gazed at his friend slowly dying.

The bullet struck the hallow below Steven’s right ear, failing to penetrate to the other side. Nonetheless, a small spray of crimson spattered the walls and Steven’s agape expression dissipated, emotionless and unflinching. His eyelids slithered shut over his glassy eyes as his lifeless body slumped to the ground, the grizzly bullet hole exposed. It seeped blood through his hair and down his neck, congealing immediately on the concrete. His chest remained motionless, like the very atmosphere in the room.

Tears cascaded freely from Alex’s eyes. Though immense pain rippled through his abdomen with every movement, he lashed out, the emotional trauma far surpassing the physical. His arms flailed as he tried in vain to spring toward his friend, to somehow aid him and perhaps launch himself at Crowell.
He had never experienced such raw emotions before. Though tears blinded his vision, he was able to see Crowell’s dark silhouette and a smug expression on his face. His gun was poised at his side and his lips were lifted slightly.

Despite the silver, Alex’s eyes flared yellow, so dark that they almost appeared scarlet. His face was contorted in anguish as he fought the pairs of arms that restrained him. He wriggled and scrabbled to free himself and was willing to die than let Crowell escape unscathed. His mind flickered in and out of consciousness as the beast began to retain control. He allowed it to consume him, but wanted to remain conscious as he watched Crowell die.

However, the sole of Crowell’s foot pressed against Alex’s chest and pinned him to the floor. He spoke with vehemence in his voice. “Now you’ve seen what I’ve lost,� he hissed, a flicker of fury flashing on his face. His gun was positioned directly at Alex’s face.

Alex spat a string of curses; his eyes still alight with their molten hue. The steel bands of muscles along his arms and neck flexed, causing veins to protrude. He snarled, bearing his sharp teeth and Crowell withdrew, allowing his soldiers to restrain him.

His gun was still pointed at Alex, as if prepared to shoot. His finger tapped the trigger and his eyes were hard with hatred.
The feeling was mutual.

So much grief overwhelmed him that he thought he would die from it. He no longer cared whether Crowell pulled the trigger and watched, his face burning with his untamed fury and his chest heaving to bite back a howl. Perhaps it would end his emotional suffering, put him out of his misery. But he would not grant Crowell with the responsibility of killing him. The thought repulsed him.

Then, as Crowell’s eyes probed Alex, his gun lowered and he peered over his heavily hooked nose, his expression undecipherable.
His cold gaze averted to his soldiers and he spoke, his words flowing like liquid, “Bind him to the walls. This time, make sure he can’t escape.�

His soldiers obeyed curtly and grasped Alex in their vice grip.

Alex, tears still trailing his cheeks, allowed the two men to carry him to the other side of the room. He watched his friend, realization failing to settle in. ‘It can’t be,’ he convinced himself. He half expected to see Steven leap to his feet and smile his wide, toothy grin. But he never did. The thought caused another wave of hatred, sadness, and rage to sweep over him.

The two soldiers hurled him against the wall and Alex’s back struck the brick walls with a loud SMACK. He ignored the intense pain that seared through his ribs, clenching his teeth and staring with utter detestation at Crowell, unwilling to reveal his physical pain. His arms were bound once more, and connected to a bolt in the wall. The chains were thicker and the bolt sturdier. But he knew he would be unable to free himself. Not now.

As the soldiers began to trickle out of the room, Crowell was the last to remain. His expressionless face continued to stare at Alex before he, too, disappeared through the steel door. The door shut with thunderclap and the walls shuddered, the sound resonating around the room and shuffling Alex’s thoughts.

Though everyone had left, Steven’s body remained, growing colder and paler with each passing minute. They dared not bring the body with them, and Alex surmised the technique be used to crush him further – the worst form of torture. He tried to look away from the lifeless body, a wave of sobs consuming him. His knees curled to his chest and his shoulders trembled with each weep. The sound of his own cries filled the room and an empty void twisted in Alex’s chest.

Crowell would return, he knew, to finish the job. But he would wait until the torture would cease, then resume his initial task to kill Alex.
---

Thanks, Grayle. I was really torn about killing him off, but when the idea initially came to me two years ago, I already had his fate sealed. I might chage it, but I dunno...
Short and sweet
---

Though immense fatigue consumed him, he found his mind stirring with thoughts. Every muscle, every nerve in his body screamed in pain. Blood was thick upon his brow from the laceration. The wound refused to congeal and he could hear the odd pitter-patter of his blood striking the concrete, filling the silent void in the room.

He was beyond tears now. His heart murmured slowly in his chest, as if responding to the emotional anguish he felt. His breathing was slow and controlled, his fists balled tightly at his sides. With his knees drawn to his naked chest, he rested his chin in the dip between his legs, too weak to support. He tried to close his eyes, but the horrific reminder flashed in front of his eyes – Crowell’s twisted smile, Steven’s wide, dying gaze and his motionless body slumping to the ground. He tried to steady his breathing, but it came out harsh and erratic. He could feel a deep rumble in his chest, from the very core of his being, and a snarl issued from his lips.

He could not move, however; only visualize lunging at Crowell, plunging his teeth into his throat and crushing his larynx, watching as the icy glint in his flawless features dissipated, replaced by fear. It was all that kept him alive as he bit down hard on his cheek.
It wouldn’t be long now, he was certain. The silver was almost completed it’s task, and now that it had penetrated his flesh, it would kill him faster, and much, much more painfully.

He kept his eyes averted to the steel door, watching, waiting for it to swing open and to peer into those burning sapphire eyes. It was all he could do from glancing at the lifeless heap and the thought pained him, causing him to wince. He tried not to focus on the past, but it hastily loomed upon his, despair renewing itself.

It had seemed a lifetime ago that he and Steven we casually conversing, though both facing the possibility of death, hoped they’d die together. Nothing could ever have prepared him for it. He thought it impossible for a human being to be capable of such, and covey such satisfaction.
It disgusted him and a wave of nausea lurched in his gut. But he bit it back, his defeated eyes transfixed on the door.

He heard the footfalls before the door opened and his breath caught in his throat. His jaw clenched and his eyes gazed apprehensively at the door as a figure appeared.

As it had been earlier, Crowell’s face was devoid of emotion, his lips pressed in a cold, thin line. His eyes were hard and emotionless. He was attired differently, in a longer, yet still sheik jacket. It was black suede and the interior was silky scarlet.

Crowell gazed fixedly at Alex, his lips twitching into the slightest trace of a smile. His hand fluidly swept beneath his jacket, at his flank, and the flash of silver steel suggested it was a pistol. But it wasn’t the same one. It was craftier and sleek, as though moulded into perfection.

The hollow nozzle swung toward Alex and the gun clicked as a bullet entered the chamber.
Crowell’s eyes were dark and hard, far from their previous state. His lower lip was still swollen, but the wound was showing signs of closing.

The gun remained perfectly still in Crowell’s grasp, the muzzle pointed at his chest and prepared to fire.

Hey Night Runner! Nice to see you perusing the Cafe again, albeit in a different form..

  Very interesting continuation Punx - your description of Alex's internal torment was superb, but I also found it ironically disturbing that Crowell would come in, gloat, go out, come in, beat up Alex and shoot Steven, go out, come back in dressed for the occasion of his final triumph, and point his gun at Alex... and Crowell barely said more than 3 sentences through the whole thing. That's pretty cold, and pretty sinister too. It fits his character well.
 
  I'm assuming by now that Crowell has killed off the rest of the pack - he certainly wouldn't keep them alive. And now Steven's dead, too. About the only three outcomes I can predict right now are:

1. Crowell kills Alex and wins. He may lose his plans for Codoxin or he may be able to salvage it, but he wins nonetheless.
2. Alex kills Crowell, but dies in the process. The End.
3. Alex kills Crowell, but since his plight is exactly like Crowell's (His entire life destroyed by one man), Alex doesn't stop there and begins destroying perceived evildoers or humanity as a whole, similar to what Crowell did against werewolves. After all, what would happen to the mental state of anyone who has lost as much as Alex?

  Now that I listed those, I'm guessing Punx is going to take us down a different road that's going to make us go "Wow!", just like she always does. Either way, this story is both tense and heart-wrenching, and it screams originality along with tragedy.
  My word, this is a great story!

Last edited by Grayle (2008-09-22 15:12:55)

The Night Runner wrote:

Grayle wrote:

Hey Night Runner! Nice to see you perusing the Cafe again, albeit in a different form..

  Very interesting continuation Punx - your description of Alex's internal torment was superb, but I also found it ironically disturbing that Crowell would come in, gloat, go out, come in, beat up Alex and shoot Steven, go out, come back in dressed for the occasion of his final triumph, and point his gun at Alex... and Crowell barely said more than 3 sentences through the whole thing. That's pretty cold, and pretty sinister too. It fits his character well.
 
  I'm assuming by now that Crowell has killed off the rest of the pack - he certainly wouldn't keep them alive. And now Steven's dead, too. About the only three outcomes I can predict right now are:

1. Crowell kills Alex and wins. He may lose his plans for Codoxin or he may be able to salvage it, but he wins nonetheless.
2. Alex kills Crowell, but dies in the process. The End.
3. Alex kills Crowell, but since his plight is exactly like Crowell's (His entire life destroyed by one man), Alex doesn't stop there and begins destroying perceived evildoers or humanity as a whole, similar to what Crowell did against werewolves. After all, what would happen to the mental state of anyone who has lost as much as Alex?

  Now that I listed those, I'm guessing Punx is going to take us down a different road that's going to make us go "Wow!", just like she always does. Either way, this story is both tense and heart-wrenching, and it screams originality along with tragedy.
  My word, this is a great story!

Lol yeah! I couldn't tell the difference between my screen name's posts and "Midnight's" lol So I changed it to Night Runner...

Wow I've never looked at it that way...especially number 3.

But yes I agree with all of that!

Hey, Midnight. I'm glad to see you here
And Grayle, you could be wrong, but you could also be right. Who knows? All of them are really good guesses, though.
I'll post more on Wednesday, since I don't want to post too much at once. It can get a little overwhelming.
Thanks

Gah! Thank you so much, Edo! Your words are so appriceated and definately unnecessary. I don't feel I'm worthy of such praise, but thank you!!
I guess I'll post more

Olivia sat as she had for the past several days. She had lost count of time, as it was meaningless here. Her only objective was to stay alive. The ache in her bones was worse than ever. She clenched her teeth together and grimaced from the slightest movement. The silver was inhibiting her muscles. Her breathing was short and hoarse, similar to her pulse.

Her body was already numbed from the cold that crept through the meagre walls and gripped her tender, exposed flesh. She shivered, but it only sent another ripple of pain across her body and she stifled a groan. The best way to avoid being beaten, she knew, was to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Her dark, wary eyes darted to the door where she heard a clamour of voices outside. She stiffened, uncertain whether they would enter her cell. But two soldiers flitted by the small, grimy window in the steel door. But she did not yet breathe a sigh of relief.

She waited in anticipation, her ears pricked to the source of the noise. The two men were conversing loudly, obviously unaware that she was eavesdropping. Though their sounds barely penetrated the thick door, she could hear a glimmer of their conversation.

“Crowell finally caught him,� the first soldier huffed, “he thought he would never get him. The stupid bastard,� he was referring to Alex!

Her stomach tightened and all hope dwindled, ebbing from her like her very life. Alex had failed, she thought with glum horror. He had been wrongfully condemned earlier. She knew who the culprit was – Jason – her very own pack, she mused with disgust.
A pang of sorrow twisted in her chest and her fists balled despite the pain. Her head dropped between her knees, which supported her chin.

The men continued, the second one evidentially perturbed. “I heard a gunshot earlier. I think Crowell killed him,� he said, almost conveying sympathy for the victim.

Her heart flittered in her chest and her breath caught in her throat. “No,� she whispered, her dark tresses concealing her pained face. For the first time since she could remember, a hot tear trailed down her cold cheek, scalding it. She suppressed further tears, containing her composure.

Crowell would come to kill her. It wouldn’t be long. Though she had lived for centuries, she knew she was not yet ready to die – not in such a dishonourable, wicked environment. Her slanted brows knitted and a cloud of fury bubbled to the surface. She refused to make it easier for them. There was still a chance of escape, though meagre as it was.

She closed her eyes briefly, composing herself and wishing her kin good luck before her eyes opened, this time burning their golden hue. Her face was sombre and shadowed, like a demonic goddess. She inhaled deeply, seeing a slight wisp of fog as she exhaled.

With little time to doubt herself, she brought her right hand to her left, probing and assessing her manacles. They were pure silver. The pain urged her onward as she grasped the left shackle in her right hand. Within, she could feel the razors beginning to bite into her flesh. They were angled in such a way that prohibited movement.

She conceived a plan, hoping that the notion would work. If the razors were positioned as she had speculated, her escape would be hasty...even painless.
With a grunt, she squeezed the left cuff around her wrist within her hand. Her arms trembled with the power required to withdraw the razors. They pressed threateningly against her skin as she squeezed, but, with immense relief, she could feel them inching slowly away. She slammed her eyes closed against the pain, her muscles quivering from it.

The silver was now burying lightly into her skin, but enough so that it caused overwhelming pain. A small trickle of blood soaked the interior of the shackle and she cursed, biting her lower lip as the razors disappeared.

Relief flooded her when the razors were no longer taut against her skin, and so she began the delicate process of slipping the bracelet from her wrist. Her chocolate-hued skin was shimmering with sweat, despite the cold, as the shackle began to inch off of her wrist. It was a slow and painful process. If she was too hasty, the razors would reposition themselves.

She used her blood as a lubricant to heave the searing metal from her wrist, contorting her hand so it would slip through the opening. Her protruding knuckles made it difficult, but she finally managed to slip the heavy manacle from her wrist. It clattered to the floor louder than she would have expected and she winced, in a momentary stupor, her breath constricted for anyone that might have heard her.

But she heard nothing besides the thundering of her heart and the laughing men outside her cell.
With renewed confidence, she repeated the process, this one easing off her wrist faster than she anticipated. And now she was free. The silver no longer had influence on her and she inhaled sharply, her heightened senses returning.

Her limbs were stiff from their constant position. Before she did anything else, she stretched, the warmth flooding back into her extremities and an unfathomable strength pulsing through her muscles.

When she got to her feet, she staggered slightly, the motion foreign to her. But when she maintained her balance, her mind no longer hazy, she closed her eyes and willed the shift.

It was slow and arduous due to the silver poisoning, but she could already feel her body ridding of the harmful substance. Her throat seared and her knees buckled. She pressed her burning palms against the wall for support, her chest heaving with power. She clenched her teeth, as she had learned to. It eased the brief spasm of pain that rippled along her skull as it writhed and bubbled. Her eyebrows furrowed and thick, black talons protruded from her fingertips, biting into the concrete surface.

Her vertebrae bubbled and popped as it lengthened and twisted itself into a slightly hunched stature. A gangly tail extended along her tailbone, twitching and writing as a reaction to the pain. She growled and the sound was more animal than human. Rounded leathery ears slid atop her head, not yet sheathed beneath the coat of fur. 

Thick shafts of coarse fur jutted from her quivering flesh, which tingled with delight. She shivered; the action no longer painful as her body continued the transition to her lycanthrope form. She stood several inches taller than her previous form, her lithe body condensed with steel muscle. It rippled along her shaggy mane like a bed of wriggling worms. 

Her black nose twitched, scenting the air and she could smell the foul odour of death and blood amongst numerous stank odours. But it did not belong to Alex. Her ears twitched and her heart flitted with relief. Alex was still alive – for now. She was determined to save him, as with herself – to spend the remainder of her life with him.

Heavy set wolf-like feet touched the floor, yet made no sound. She was stealthy and swift as her golden eyes leered out of the smoggy window. She could see the two soldiers, still chuckling and unaware of the imminent threat. She smiled a sharp, toothy grin, milling the flawless plan through her calculated mind.

She slouched to her hands and feet, invisible amongst the darkness as she crept through the room. Her shoulder brushed against the wall, and she pounded it with her burly fist. She waited, her ears swivelled to the door, listening to the perplexed and bewildered human voices that muttered outside of her door.

The two were approaching, hands grazing their guns. The first, more courageous soldier stepped towards the door, his hand gripping the knob.

Olivia positioned herself in a lethal crouch, her burly legs prepared to spring with pulverising force. She licked her lips in anticipation, her dilated pupils transfixed on the door, as a wolf to its prey.

Then, the door inched open, revealing a sliver of light into the room.
She made her move and lunged. Before the men could comprehend, her sturdy form launched into the slightly ajar door – that both men stood in front of – and smashed into it. The powerful force of the blow caused the steel door to explode off of its hinges and hurl into the bewildered men. The door whipped through the air, catching both men and crushing them immediately. Through the sound of twisted metal, she heard the definite crunch of bones and the slap of flesh.

The sound would alert numerous other soldiers, so she sprang among the ruins in search of her pack mates.

Edo wrote:

Wow
Ever since I found this story, two days ago, I haven't stopped reading while I was able to read.
Your ability to never allow the reader to know what will happen, and your writing which makes the story part of my universe makes this the best story I've read in years, what am I saying, maybe ever! Well done!
And please don't be afraid to overwhelm us with this amazing story, because you already have, in a good way
I'm dying to know how it ends!

Well Said, Edo!
See, Punx? See?
I told you you're great, but you didn't believe me. Why didn't you believe me? Well, now Edo takes the side of me and Night Runner. You're officially outnumbered, so you might as well accept that you're a stupendous writer.

  I'm rather surprised that Olivia is still alive - I wasn't quite expecting Crowell to allow that at first, but he does kind of fit the profile of a 'collector', if you take my meaning. As to Olivia herself, it only makes sense that her age and experience would allow her to escape before any others. Her patient and thoughtful actions in removing the shackles as well as strategically attacking the guards is also to her credit (as well as yours). The TF sequence was also very well defined and described, I might add.

    Wonderful job, Punx! I hope you get to post more soon - maybe over the weekend if you get the chance...

Grayle wrote:

Edo wrote:

Wow
Ever since I found this story, two days ago, I haven't stopped reading while I was able to read.
Your ability to never allow the reader to know what will happen, and your writing which makes the story part of my universe makes this the best story I've read in years, what am I saying, maybe ever! Well done!
And please don't be afraid to overwhelm us with this amazing story, because you already have, in a good way
I'm dying to know how it ends!

Well Said, Edo!
See, Punx? See?
I told you you're great, but you didn't believe me. Why didn't you believe me? Well, now Edo takes the side of me and Night Runner. You're officially outnumbered, so you might as well accept that you're a stupendous writer.

  I'm rather surprised that Olivia is still alive - I wasn't quite expecting Crowell to allow that at first, but he does kind of fit the profile of a 'collector', if you take my meaning. As to Olivia herself, it only makes sense that her age and experience would allow her to escape before any others. Her patient and thoughtful actions in removing the shackles as well as strategically attacking the guards is also to her credit (as well as yours). The TF sequence was also very well defined and described, I might add.

    Wonderful job, Punx! I hope you get to post more soon - maybe over the weekend if you get the chance...

Yeah, Hi Edo! I'm with you on that too. I usually just post on the other website she posts on, though--Werewolf.com, because then I can force her to work for all her responses...

i.e.-she has to change the URL, wait for it to load, cancel out of all the little PM boxes, work her way down to the story section, then find her story. :-p

Anyways, Awesome section! I love your descriptions! The blood is cool. I have to say that Grayle brings up some awesome points that I didn't think of when I commented on werewolf. (as usual) I can picture the scene pretty straight-foward in my head. And I really like the way you describe her eyes!

So yeah...nice job!

Holy Guacamole!
  Wonderful post, Punx! I loved the descriptions of tearing metal and rending flesh, as well as the increased excitement of this post breaking the tension built by the last few. Excellent!

  I also found it very interesting that you kept Alex's disposition acclimated toward doom, expecting the werewolf to slaughter him even though he was "bound, wounded and half naked to the wall" (btw, you might want to reposition that prepositional phrase in later drafts). With all that Alex has been through and recently witnessed, it only makes sense that any kind of hope would be beyond his mental reach.

  I must admit that I find it to be perhaps a bit out of character for Crowell to be so indecisive. I'd kind of expect him to burst with anger and perhaps a bit of panic, but not frozen with the feelings, if that makes sense. Even so, it's still clear that a final showdown between him and Alex may still be in the future - but whether immediate or prolonged is uncertain.

  Very very nice scene, Punx! Please bring on some more soon, okay? I mean, if your schedule permits....

As to your question, I can see where you're coming from and where you're going, but I just perceived Crowell as more of a 'runner' than a 'freezer', if that makes sense.

  As to your post, it's incredible. The description of the carnage may be a little more than I'd want to visualize, but it's difficult to get around describing it - I mean, it's all over the place!
  Just Kidding.
  Your descriptions of Olivia, and especially Lottamay, were fantastic, and the cooperation between the two was also lovely to read. The primal instincts and feelings developing in Alex were marvelously depicted. As to the indicated mushiness, I couldn't find it. I couldn't find any mushiness. It all sounded like realistic reactions, and relief to quell the brutal amount of despair in which Alex has been unwillingly drowning.

  The pace and the tension has continued, reinforced by reinforcements and the possibility of escape. But now Olivia has ran right into a barrage of bullets, no doubt silver.
 
  Crap.

  But, you've surprised us many times before, so let's see what you have in store for us now.
  Bring on some more, Punx!

Last edited by Grayle (2008-09-30 19:54:58)

I said "Crap" as a derogatory expletive before. I was wrong.

It's more like "Holy Crap!"

  This was fantastic. I can see this big dark room, bombarded by the strobe flashes of chaotic gunfire, with intermittent images of men and werewolves tearing at each other. Even though we can't see much, it's still extremely vivid. The way you described the brutality of the beast savoring the carnage was also disturbingly delicious - kind of like all this blood would be to Lottamay! Ha!

  Wait - why is that so funny?

   The way you described this scene was intense and brilliant, and it's something I can definitely learn from. I try to shy away from giving details about large battle sequences like this, but I think I can learn a lot from your example in how to write them.

  The only thing I can think to add would maybe be a sadistic smile on Lottamay's face as she dives into the carnage. Granted, one or two of the descriptions of speed could be individualized, but that's a tiny thing. Other than that, I can't think of any way this could be done better, and I'm going to be reading this multiple times to get a better feel on how to write a scene like this.

  Wonderful Job, Punx! Very nice indeed!

Gah! Thank you guys. You're really making me blush - no lie. Grayle, I think you do your scenes wonderfully and it's flattering that a writer of your magnitude thinks so highly of my works. I will most definately take your advice on Lottamay.
And werer, thank you, too. It means alot to me, and I am slowly catching up on your story, too, so no worries (schedule is a bit hectic at the moment - I'm reading a 400 page story and editing it for someone at the moment)

However, its influence remained strong, like a vice grip. His lustful eyes scoured the crowed room and Alex lunged into the bustling skirmish of man and werewolf. The beast was wild in his mind. Alex tried unsuccessfully to turn back, to flee the building, but the beast was in control.
Gunfire roared in his ears and bodies pressed in from all around him, brushing along his flank. Soldiers fired, but Alex moved too swiftly. Bullets struck their companions as Alex dodged lethal bullets.

The beast had no fear, only the thrill of the kill. He spotted a soldier, his back turned and firing at a flitting shadow – a werewolf. It was considerably small, but it moved like liquid beneath people’s feet until it disappeared.
Alex’s lips curled into an unsightly smile, his blood-stained teeth flashing and thin crimson threads of saliva spewing from his chops.

He lunged, the force of his charge knocking others over, breaking bones and crushing flesh. The man could not react to the abrupt assault, his oblivious back turned to him. He was still transfixed on locating the stealthy werewolf.

Alex’s dagger-sized fangs curled around the back of the man’s neck. He could feel him struggling and screaming. It was shrill and Alex’s massive digit-grade paw crushed the man’s hand, causing the gun to disappear beneath the sprawls of bodies.

The man’s skin popped from the pressure and ivory canines scraped against bone, devouring flesh and tearing through blood vessels. The man’s screams became muffled gurgles as he struggled to pry the massive jaws from the back of his neck, but to no avail. His vertebrae splintered and the man twitched once, rigid and dead.
Dark scarlet blood dribbled from Alex’s frothing muzzle and his untamed eyes were burning with rage and satisfaction.

In the back of his mind, Alex was struggling to re-acquire his control, but his will power was drowned out by the raw fury he experienced, the lust and need for violence. It was feeling satisfaction in the killings, as though it would change the fact that Steven was dead – as though he was getting even. But no amount of killing would satisfy the anger. Despite this, he gave in.

He was stronger, faster than those around him. His golden talons grazed along soldiers’ faces, massacring the flesh and crushing their skulls. His pelt was crusted with blood as a man laid screaming and writhing beneath the barrage of attacks. His death was slower and so Alex sprinted away, leaving the dying body in search for another victim.

In the short span of a couple minutes, he ravaged the crowd, relishing in each kill, his own snarls thundering amongst the chaos. He escaped near misses with stray bullets, keeping wary, but maintaining his gaze on his prey.

He discovered a small pocket of soldiers as they fired aimlessly into the crowd. A stray bullet struck a white furred werewolf as it was attacking a soldier. Its massive, gangly body slithered to the ground, soon engulfed by the battling barrage of humans and lycanthropes.

The group of huddling men spotted Alex and bullets sprayed the air. Alex darted away from the hail of gunfire, disappearing behind a wall of bodies. He slunk beneath the crowd of people, furtive and his molten eyes transfixed on his prize. He licked the congealing blood from his muzzle and sprang.
Wind whipped his fur, flitting up his nostrils and filling his lungs. He sprang towards the flank of the crowd, where they were open for attack.
The men could not react in time.

However, before Alex could collide with the congregation of soldiers, something solid smashed against his flank.
Lights danced in front of his vision and the beast was temporarily stunned from the massive blow. The force of the collision caused him to hurl into five other soldiers, who gave way immediately to the crushing weight. When he hit the floor, he could feel writhing bodies pinned beneath his body, but he ignored them and sifted through the crowd for the culprit. He shook his massive head, ridding of the spinning sensation he experienced.

His gluttonous eyes settled upon the dark-furred werewolf. Its milky blue and molten lava eyes taunted him and its muzzle flashed a teasing grin.
Bile rose in Alex’s chest like rivulets of fire and he snarled, flashing his own intimidating canines.

Shubert was unfazed by the gesture and loped forwards, his heavy gait causing the ground to quiver. A swell of heat flooded Alex’s muscles and he sprang from the ground to meet the attack.

In a flash of fur, the two colossal beasts collided, sounding like two boulders clashing together in a cacophonous symphony. Snarls erupted from both beasts’ throats and Alex’s surroundings melted away. This was the revenge Alex sought and a challenge for the beast.

Jaws snapped and saliva flecked from both ravenous jaws. Talons plunged into muscled flesh as both beasts collapsed in a mangle of fur and muscles. Bones whipped the ground as the two beasts engaged in a bloody battle, the sounds splitting through the discordance from all around.
Shubert’s lengthy fangs lunged at Alex’s throat, but Alex avoided the attack and slammed his fist against Shubert’s muzzle.

Shubert reeled back, a pink, bleeding wound on the bridge of his muzzle. A snarl of pain issued from his throat, but his eyes were fierce with anger. He refused to surrender.

He showed no signs of attack before he sprang. In one lengthy stride, he launched towards Alex. The beast jerked out of the way, but a flash of glistening fangs snagged his shoulder. A howl escaped his throat. Anger, white hot anger pulsed through his veins, plunging Alex into the abyss of his mind. And though Alex was no longer in control, he experienced the pain, felt the anger.

The teeth dislodged from his shoulder as quickly as they had entered and Shubert’s hefty, short silhouette disappeared. The beast snarled, his digit-grade paws clenched in rage and its scythe-like talons ready to strike.

But no attack came – yet. The beast warily scoured the vicinity where Shubert had disappeared, but saw nothing besides the flailing of bodies. He smelled nothing but the sweet reek of death and the pungent odour of gun powder. Fear, he smelled that, too. So thick it made his chops salivate, so tempting he was prepared to lunge back into the crowd. But common sense, a small whisper in his ear, advised him to remain on the outskirts of the crowd to gain vantage point on his enemy.

His eyes caught the flash of dark fur, a glazed blue eye, and a charging werewolf.
Snorting audibly, he crouched slightly and watched from the corner of his vision as the lumbering werewolf neared, then lunged.