ukan | spam; the last journal post

spam; the last journal post

[Getting on board was a moment of chaos. He remembers turning a corner, expecting to find fur and blood in his mouth, expecting maybe to get torn up in return, expecting maybe a bullet from above to take him down, too-

But instead he's somewhere metal, somewhere that smells of strangers and strangeness, and he's bleeding a trail but he runs for safety anyway. If there is any. If there are doors, anywhere, that he can open without changing back, because this has to be the FBI's work and so long as they think he's just a wolf, maybe they won't slit him open and poke around inside.]

[ooc: Lark is a wolf, for now. He'll have to change back sooner or later even if he doesn't want to, so feel free to tag him as human or wolf, just lemme know which.]

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[ Considering how frightening, how much more powerful, the female wolves are, that's a compliment. even if Furiosa doesn't know it.

He whines low in his throat and takes another faltering step closer. Maybe she has somewhere to hide him.]

Good girl. Come with me.

[Getting to her feet, and leading her on.

Her room isn't far. She slips the door open, and holds it behind her for the wolf.]

[He heels at her side--it's a habit, it's a sign of deference that he showed the first two females of his pack (and later showed to Lisbeth, though that memory is gone). It also marks him as an animal that isn't quite as wild as he first appears.

Especially when, with the bluntness of any dog, he limps into her room and hops up onto her bed to begin licking his wound.

He watches her, all the while.]

[It shifts his leg in such a way that Furiosa an see that he's no bitch.

Dogs aren't neutered in her days, so she isn't surprised at all to see him intact. She just goes for the kitchen to get him a bowl of water, and on reflection a little of the meat she'd brought home.]

[His tail thumps eagerly when he sees the meat, and he gulps it down, swallows water with the sheer joy you only find in very thirsty dogs, and then he cautiously holds his head out and licks her hand. It's not like he can say 'thank you' any other way, after all, but he's bursting with questions about her.

And that arm.]

[Once he does, she begins stroking his face, scratching his ears, shifting closer so she can keep him distracted while she looks to see how bad his wound is.

As far as she knows, he is just a dog.]

[He hopes to keep her thinking that as long as it takes to heal and figure out if any of his pack survived. But then, he has no idea there's a time limit on his shifting on the Barge.

What he does know is that her hand is calloused and strong and he really, really has needed some show of kindness. He whines quietly and leans against her, and his eyes close so he doesn't notice her looking. It's a very deep cut; it needs stitches at the very least. It needs to not be licked, but some instincts just seize hold when he's in pain.]

I need to get you to the infirmary.

[She murmurs, reluctantly, patiently.]

I know. I know, I was afraid too. But you've got to do this if you want to live the night. Come on.

[She's getting to her feet. Clicking her fingers, pointing, down.]

[He has a distinct 'do I hafta' vibe, in the way his ears are down and his tail tucked. He hops down anyway. He does need help, he knows that; he just hopes desperately that she'll keep people from looking too closely at him.]

[Furiosa sets off to go bring in her newfound dog.]

[He only snaps once while having his leg taken care of, and that's only because it's what a dog should do. Lark himself doesn't mind the medical work a bit, though at the end he tries to crawl to Furiosa for 'protection'. And that part is real enough: he does not want to be here. And if he can't get off whatever this thing is, he might as well have someone nearby who will watch his back while he sleeps.

He plans to wait until she is asleep before he changes back and goes to get more intel, figuring this will be as safe and comfortable as living with Bonnie had been.

Except he feels his blood beginning to turn. It starts as just an itch, a receding of his very sharp senses.

It's not supposed to happen without his control. Not ever.]

[Oh, by then, she is getting ready for bed. Has indulged in a small dinner more meat for him, and her usual two glasses of water and piece of fresh fruit. She is stripping off the buckles for her arm, when she begins to notice something wrong.

She has just set it on the desk when the suspicion is confirmed, and he roils.]

[It is agony. And it is never a simple thing to see; people back home have gone mad, have gouged out their eyes, from seeing it happen. And even though Lark is used to it, he's still sweating and gasping and shuddering when he's human again.]

[The transformation is bad. Ugly. Not easy to watch, and very quickly she ends up turning away, with a growl, a mental bid for self-preservation.

When she turns back around to check, her 'girl' is a naked man, sweating and gasping on her floor, and that is almost worse. He was through her locked door. He was in her bed.

It can't even really be called a fight, it's over so fast. Furiosa is on him, a knee to the side (the injured one, brutally and deliberately) and a punch to the face that only barely just falls short of breaking bone.

She takes him by the throat, while his head is still rolling, and growls at him, pure interrogation. What she's asking she isn't sure, but he had better start talking or he will join the ranks of the neutered.]

[Lark is not bad at hand to hand--or even hand to weapon--but he is most lethal as a wolf. And even then, he doesn't fight every day or even every week the way Furiosa clearly has.

He can't answer with her hand squeezing the way it is, and he snarls (soundlessly) and thinks about fighting-

But instead tips his head back a fraction of an inch, giving more to her, baring the rest of his throat, and his stomach, and fighting down every single instinct he has to do it.]

What did you think you were trying?

[She snarls, and only belatedly gives him enough air to answer. Barely, then letting go entirely, because she is a warden (even though it's taking her a second to remember it right now.) She slips all the way off him, and gets to her feet, ready to kick him if he tries to stand. Face or solar plexus, either is fine by her.]

Not what you're thinking.

[He keeps his hands up, his head back.]

I'm trying to find someone. He's like me. He's-

[The thing is, she's not the first person to see a wolf change. But Lark has made it a rule, a law, to kill the witnesses and devour every trace of them.]

They're cutting him up. He's still alive and they were already-

[The emotion, this time, is not fake. It's not even the slightest bit exaggerated. He's never seen anyone in as much pain as Blue had been, and he has never even imagined a worse fate than what those Marines had in store for him.]

If they know what I am, they'll do just as bad to me. It was safer to stay a wolf, get mistaken for someone's pet, and try to find him on my own.

Then you have no idea where you are.

[Furiosa says, flatly, and gives him a look, head to toe.

She stalks to the dresser, and digs in for a pair of pants, something the Admiral chose to supply in a linen, with a belt. Loose on his hips maybe and short around the ankles, but she throws them at him anyways.]

Put those on. And first of all, content yourself that time has stopped moving. Whatever is happening in your home, nothing changes, not with a single second that passes here.

[He doesn't believe her, of course. There's no real magic where he's from (lycanthropes notwithstanding) and even if he did, what comfort is that? To know that there's a scalpel stuck in Blue's liver, instead of a scalpel moving?

He doesn't say it. Blue is dead by now. The rest of the pack, too. He's here alone, and something has clearly been damaged in him if he can't control the change.

He pulls on the pants and moves back against the wall, still sitting, still very pointedly beneath her.]

Where am I?

[His voice is so raw he almost winces.]

You're on the Barge.

[She isn't practiced enough to deal with this, but has to start somewhere.]

It's an afterlife. You've been brought here because someone in charge thinks you're doing something wrong. If you become better, you go home.

[She's acutely aware as she says it, that she sounds insensitive and deranged, in equal measures.]

We should find you your room and your communicator.

[So he's trapped by a man with a grudge. Fantastic.]

I'm sorry.

[Looking up at her then, and then at his leg.]

I shouldn't have hurt you.

[A reluctant twist of a frown.]

What's your name?

[She offers him her hand. A help up.]

No, you should have. I would have.

[He chuckles wryly and takes her hand, gets to his feet]

My name is Lark. What's yours?

Furiosa.

[And from this angle, they can see her windows.

She points him at it.]

Oh, God.

[The softest whisper, but in the quiet of her room it's audible.

He is a master of control, but he has never been torn away from home like this, he has never been so far away from the wolves who need him, who are dying without him there to at least take their bodies home.

He isn't shaking. He's very still. You could mistake what he's feeling for wonder, unless you saw his face and the grief there.

And the rage.]

spam; the last journal post

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