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Wendigo
Member
Todd was a city animal. Not by breeding – not really, if his abilities were any indication. But he’d adapted to a city environment like a fox to back alley scavenging from the very beginning. A suburban childhood gave him the cultural experiences, and foster care in large families had given him the necessary social training to sit quietly and listen, smile and nod when asked.
And the concrete jungle was full of people who thought they were predators, and that made them cocky. Cocky prey was dead prey, if they attracted the attention of a real hunter. Swagger got in the way when you were forced to run.
The Jackals had quieted down, and Todd wanted to keep a low profile with their competition until he figured some things out. It’d been a rough few weeks, that was for sure. But he did need to keep active, and so he went down a different avenue entirely, shifting his attention from drug trade to trafficking. Todd was pretty sure Scott’s wasn’t a front so much as a hangout for one of those groups, one of the ones that used their hunting club as a front for something a lot less honorable than the chase.
Most of the sweaty, puffed-up men were annoying, but probably innocent. Assholes, but they were too busy telling the stories of their accomplishments at full volume to notice the thin man sipping a rum and coke at the bar, the seats either side of him open. They were too busy with their groups to notice how he wasn’t completely focused on the space ahead of him with his eyes – or they wrote that off as his drink. They wouldn’t notice the slight tilt of his head toward an overcrowded booth that was using the volume of the bar around them to hide their conversation from human ears. For hunters, they really didn’t account for something with above average hearing when they mentioned a time and an address. Those had been written down on a napkin, and tucked into the pocket of Todd’s vest.
With the information he’d come for acquired, Todd was planning to just finish his drink and go home to pick up the hunt tomorrow before the bar door opened, and the night air interrupted the cigarette smoke and beer and sweat with a breeze of something much more wild.
The scent caught something in Todd’s instincts enough that he turned his head halfway toward the door. It took him a few seconds to recognize the herbs, mixed with other plant life. Trees, dirt, general outdoors. Not unusual. Even the wet dog wasn’t that unusual for a bar like Scott’s, or the blood – animal blood, not human. He couldn’t tell what animal from here, not with his experience, but his best guess was deer. Most of the guys here were deer hunters. Nothing odd about it.
It wasn’t until his instincts urged him to look that he understood why they were abuzz.
The man wasn’t that tall, but he was heavy. Any implication Todd’s inner carnivore might draw from that was diverted by the way he carried that weight, carried his whole being. As he took in the set of his shoulders, the casual power he brought with him that made even the humans subconsciously step out of his way, Todd completely understood that he was looking at a predator.
Todd turned back to the bar, where there were a number of open seats away from him, and resumed sipping his rum. He shifted his body language to pull back, to relax and blend in. Social camouflage was Todd’s strong suit, and he wasn’t in the mood after the week he’d had to appear as a threat to the other animal.
And the concrete jungle was full of people who thought they were predators, and that made them cocky. Cocky prey was dead prey, if they attracted the attention of a real hunter. Swagger got in the way when you were forced to run.
The Jackals had quieted down, and Todd wanted to keep a low profile with their competition until he figured some things out. It’d been a rough few weeks, that was for sure. But he did need to keep active, and so he went down a different avenue entirely, shifting his attention from drug trade to trafficking. Todd was pretty sure Scott’s wasn’t a front so much as a hangout for one of those groups, one of the ones that used their hunting club as a front for something a lot less honorable than the chase.
Most of the sweaty, puffed-up men were annoying, but probably innocent. Assholes, but they were too busy telling the stories of their accomplishments at full volume to notice the thin man sipping a rum and coke at the bar, the seats either side of him open. They were too busy with their groups to notice how he wasn’t completely focused on the space ahead of him with his eyes – or they wrote that off as his drink. They wouldn’t notice the slight tilt of his head toward an overcrowded booth that was using the volume of the bar around them to hide their conversation from human ears. For hunters, they really didn’t account for something with above average hearing when they mentioned a time and an address. Those had been written down on a napkin, and tucked into the pocket of Todd’s vest.
With the information he’d come for acquired, Todd was planning to just finish his drink and go home to pick up the hunt tomorrow before the bar door opened, and the night air interrupted the cigarette smoke and beer and sweat with a breeze of something much more wild.
The scent caught something in Todd’s instincts enough that he turned his head halfway toward the door. It took him a few seconds to recognize the herbs, mixed with other plant life. Trees, dirt, general outdoors. Not unusual. Even the wet dog wasn’t that unusual for a bar like Scott’s, or the blood – animal blood, not human. He couldn’t tell what animal from here, not with his experience, but his best guess was deer. Most of the guys here were deer hunters. Nothing odd about it.
It wasn’t until his instincts urged him to look that he understood why they were abuzz.
The man wasn’t that tall, but he was heavy. Any implication Todd’s inner carnivore might draw from that was diverted by the way he carried that weight, carried his whole being. As he took in the set of his shoulders, the casual power he brought with him that made even the humans subconsciously step out of his way, Todd completely understood that he was looking at a predator.
Todd turned back to the bar, where there were a number of open seats away from him, and resumed sipping his rum. He shifted his body language to pull back, to relax and blend in. Social camouflage was Todd’s strong suit, and he wasn’t in the mood after the week he’d had to appear as a threat to the other animal.
Wendigo
Member
He continued to watch the other predator, but not with his eyes, not directly. He couldn’t help but be aware of the sheer force of presence there. He heard his order for whiskey. And he felt the tension from across the room, the tension that brushed up against his animal from the other predator, a tension that did not scream run but whispered, be ready.
Todd Fowler had no formal training when it came to his instincts. Like his fighting – at least until he met Sam – he let intuition guide him, and especially in situations like this one, intuition could save a life.
He felt the weight when the larger predator turned his eyes in Todd’s direction. He didn’t shrink from the gaze, kept his casual relaxation, didn’t change his behavior. This was less a matter of out of sight out of mind, and more a resistance of prey instinct. Intuitively he knew that he was less than this other predator, but if the other predator realized that, there would be consequences. So Todd remained, and did not look at him again. It wasn’t a challenge, but it wasn’t an acceptance of implied challenge, either. He wasn’t acknowledging dominance, he was taking a neutral stance.
He needed to do something, though, because his instincts were at war. Part of him knew that this wasn’t a fight he could win, if an actual hunt broke out, and that he needed to leave first and acquiesce dominance, let the other hunter have the day. There was another part of him that knew better, that knew that to run was to draw attention, that predators chased by instinct anything that ran. And there was still another part, the quietest but most dangerous, that said mine, the part that held onto this place and its people as only a predator can hold them, hungry violence that took and kept.
It wasn’t because of the other predator, but because of that part of himself, that Todd tipped back the rest of his drink. He was about to put his money on the counter and leave, when the bartender set another glass down in front of him. Todd arched his eyebrow at him, but the man just shrugged and gestured to the other predator.
“Compliments of the ginger. He says one hunter to another.”
Todd couldn’t help but smile, the polite, close-lipped smile he wore with long practice. Some of the tension under the surface eased. He thanked the bartender, then looked over at the other man, more deliberately. He didn’t meet his eyes, but he did catch his face, focusing on his chin. When he felt the weight of acknowledgement, he nodded to the other man and raised his glass, then looked away.
To leave after that was now out of the question. Todd could manage, for the span of another drink.
Todd Fowler had no formal training when it came to his instincts. Like his fighting – at least until he met Sam – he let intuition guide him, and especially in situations like this one, intuition could save a life.
He felt the weight when the larger predator turned his eyes in Todd’s direction. He didn’t shrink from the gaze, kept his casual relaxation, didn’t change his behavior. This was less a matter of out of sight out of mind, and more a resistance of prey instinct. Intuitively he knew that he was less than this other predator, but if the other predator realized that, there would be consequences. So Todd remained, and did not look at him again. It wasn’t a challenge, but it wasn’t an acceptance of implied challenge, either. He wasn’t acknowledging dominance, he was taking a neutral stance.
He needed to do something, though, because his instincts were at war. Part of him knew that this wasn’t a fight he could win, if an actual hunt broke out, and that he needed to leave first and acquiesce dominance, let the other hunter have the day. There was another part of him that knew better, that knew that to run was to draw attention, that predators chased by instinct anything that ran. And there was still another part, the quietest but most dangerous, that said mine, the part that held onto this place and its people as only a predator can hold them, hungry violence that took and kept.
It wasn’t because of the other predator, but because of that part of himself, that Todd tipped back the rest of his drink. He was about to put his money on the counter and leave, when the bartender set another glass down in front of him. Todd arched his eyebrow at him, but the man just shrugged and gestured to the other predator.
“Compliments of the ginger. He says one hunter to another.”
Todd couldn’t help but smile, the polite, close-lipped smile he wore with long practice. Some of the tension under the surface eased. He thanked the bartender, then looked over at the other man, more deliberately. He didn’t meet his eyes, but he did catch his face, focusing on his chin. When he felt the weight of acknowledgement, he nodded to the other man and raised his glass, then looked away.
To leave after that was now out of the question. Todd could manage, for the span of another drink.
Wendigo
Member
The other man was going to approach him. Todd felt it in the air before he actually saw the man move to do it. He didn’t turn his head to watch, but there was the slightest shift of posture so he could tilt his ear to better listen, to know which side the other man would be coming from.
He wasn’t worried about a fight here. They’d expressed mutual nonagression, and the man seemed civil enough to recognize the value of time and place. The worst that was about to happen would be if the other predator asked him if he wanted to take it outside. There was a chance, after all, that he’d taken the response the wrong way, that Todd had transgressed somehow.
But he stayed relaxed, and the worst didn’t come to pass. The man sat beside him, an d asked Todd a question that was normal for their setting, an oddly phrased version of do you hunt?
That was concerning, though, because that wasn’t the question. The question was are you hunting. There was nothing to hunt here, except for the bodies moving around them, the warmth of each calling out to the predator that by long practice would ignore them. The other predator knew what he was, then. Could smell the blood and meat the same way he could. It made the prey-thing in him cringe, but the exterior remained calm as he laughed, softly.
“No, no. Just enjoying the atmosphere.” He looked sidelong at the other man, smile warm and hiding his teeth. The statement could mean that he didn’t hunt and just liked the noise and the sweat and the smoke, but the two of them would understand.
It would be rude not to ask a question in return, but it might also be a challenge to maintain the conversation. Todd’s instincts didn’t cover that angle, as far as he could tell, so he needed to make a decision. He caught the bartender’s attention with a hand gesture to his new companion – a drink in return for the drink he’d gotten would at least keep that leger neutral.
He needed something relevant, but not prying. He decided to keep up the facade of two ordinary men, even as his instincts tried to edge him toward the door while the new hunter’s scent started to fill their shared space.
“You come by here often?”
He wasn’t worried about a fight here. They’d expressed mutual nonagression, and the man seemed civil enough to recognize the value of time and place. The worst that was about to happen would be if the other predator asked him if he wanted to take it outside. There was a chance, after all, that he’d taken the response the wrong way, that Todd had transgressed somehow.
But he stayed relaxed, and the worst didn’t come to pass. The man sat beside him, an d asked Todd a question that was normal for their setting, an oddly phrased version of do you hunt?
That was concerning, though, because that wasn’t the question. The question was are you hunting. There was nothing to hunt here, except for the bodies moving around them, the warmth of each calling out to the predator that by long practice would ignore them. The other predator knew what he was, then. Could smell the blood and meat the same way he could. It made the prey-thing in him cringe, but the exterior remained calm as he laughed, softly.
“No, no. Just enjoying the atmosphere.” He looked sidelong at the other man, smile warm and hiding his teeth. The statement could mean that he didn’t hunt and just liked the noise and the sweat and the smoke, but the two of them would understand.
It would be rude not to ask a question in return, but it might also be a challenge to maintain the conversation. Todd’s instincts didn’t cover that angle, as far as he could tell, so he needed to make a decision. He caught the bartender’s attention with a hand gesture to his new companion – a drink in return for the drink he’d gotten would at least keep that leger neutral.
He needed something relevant, but not prying. He decided to keep up the facade of two ordinary men, even as his instincts tried to edge him toward the door while the new hunter’s scent started to fill their shared space.
“You come by here often?”
Wendigo
Member
Todd nodded as the other predator explained himself. He could sense the truth in his words, his body language, his mixed clarity. He wouldn’t ask after his hunt – that would be rude, and judging by scent alone, the man wasn’t after human prey, not the way Todd was. He took it all in stride, calm and cool, and drank while he turned the words over in his head.
Just supposed to be passing through – that was a familiar feeling. He believed the hunter, but like the man said, you never knew. He hadn’t been planning to stay in Pittsburgh, but then there was Vik’s, and the Jackals, and Sam, and now Obsidian – Ethan. Life happened, and Todd was here.
If life happened to the stranger, Todd would normally leave. But he’d made a few promises that wouldn’t allow for that. Which meant some sort of agreement needed to be made.
“I’m familiar with the road,” he said, conversationally. “Being a stranger in a strange place isn’t ideal for anyone. Hard to put down roots that way, and good hospitality’s hard to come by.”
I’m a traveler myself. I hold nothing against you for passing through. It was the next part that was difficult – admitting that he had no issue with another predator in his territory was a display of weakness and incompetence. But to leave the issue hanging would be a problem, if life happened. So someone had to at least bridge that gap.
So he held out his hand to shake as the bartender came by with the whiskey for the new carnivore. He wasn’t conceding – in fact, this satisfied both the predator and man. The man by acting on good manners. The predator by taking the initiative on the matter. Never once did his smile waver.
“That reminds me, where are my manners? I don’t think I caught your name, friend. I’m Todd.”
Just supposed to be passing through – that was a familiar feeling. He believed the hunter, but like the man said, you never knew. He hadn’t been planning to stay in Pittsburgh, but then there was Vik’s, and the Jackals, and Sam, and now Obsidian – Ethan. Life happened, and Todd was here.
If life happened to the stranger, Todd would normally leave. But he’d made a few promises that wouldn’t allow for that. Which meant some sort of agreement needed to be made.
“I’m familiar with the road,” he said, conversationally. “Being a stranger in a strange place isn’t ideal for anyone. Hard to put down roots that way, and good hospitality’s hard to come by.”
I’m a traveler myself. I hold nothing against you for passing through. It was the next part that was difficult – admitting that he had no issue with another predator in his territory was a display of weakness and incompetence. But to leave the issue hanging would be a problem, if life happened. So someone had to at least bridge that gap.
So he held out his hand to shake as the bartender came by with the whiskey for the new carnivore. He wasn’t conceding – in fact, this satisfied both the predator and man. The man by acting on good manners. The predator by taking the initiative on the matter. Never once did his smile waver.
“That reminds me, where are my manners? I don’t think I caught your name, friend. I’m Todd.”
Wendigo
Member
They weren’t the same. Like-minded, maybe, a fellow hunter, but Todd felt in the strength of Connor’s grasp, the warmth of his skin, that he was a whole different animal from his own predator. He’d known that from the outset, of course. But there was no way to address it at the moment.
“Likewise,” he agreed, as he pulled his hand away. He continued to not quite meet Connor’s eyes as he went into his wallet and put cash on the counter for his drinks, then nodded to Connor again.
He looked like a Connor. Todd had been told pretty often he didn’t look like a Todd, which was fair enough, but Connor suited the hound playing at humanity. He committed Connor to his memory while repeating his polite smile. The monster was satisfied, and now it was without shame that he said, “Good hunting, then, Connor,” and stepped away from the bar.
As much as he didn’t like turning his back to the other predator, there had been enough civility between them that he could abide by human customs and walk out with confidence. He could feel Connor’s senses on him, but he wasn’t followed out the bar doors and into the night, where the air was free from dog or smoke.
He paused beside his Malibu, nose wrinkling a little. He glanced at the car beside his, a tattered old Range Rover that looked like it was one off-road expedition from falling apart at the bolts. There was no mistake about who the poor old SUV belonged to, and Todd sighed the dog smell and shook his head.
If the man wanted to go too much farther with that, he was going to need to get that looked at.
“Likewise,” he agreed, as he pulled his hand away. He continued to not quite meet Connor’s eyes as he went into his wallet and put cash on the counter for his drinks, then nodded to Connor again.
He looked like a Connor. Todd had been told pretty often he didn’t look like a Todd, which was fair enough, but Connor suited the hound playing at humanity. He committed Connor to his memory while repeating his polite smile. The monster was satisfied, and now it was without shame that he said, “Good hunting, then, Connor,” and stepped away from the bar.
As much as he didn’t like turning his back to the other predator, there had been enough civility between them that he could abide by human customs and walk out with confidence. He could feel Connor’s senses on him, but he wasn’t followed out the bar doors and into the night, where the air was free from dog or smoke.
He paused beside his Malibu, nose wrinkling a little. He glanced at the car beside his, a tattered old Range Rover that looked like it was one off-road expedition from falling apart at the bolts. There was no mistake about who the poor old SUV belonged to, and Todd sighed the dog smell and shook his head.
If the man wanted to go too much farther with that, he was going to need to get that looked at.
Todd had gone home, slept, worked for the day, gone home, and suited up. He had a date at 2AM, and he wasn’t going to be late for the delivery. He wore the Kevlar, wore the bagh nakh, wore the recently repaired mask. With the overcoat on, he felt like a different person entirely. It fit him better than most of his clothes, which he tended to layer to reduce the obvious emaciation in his form. Now it was just him, a black turtleneck, the vest, and the coat – and the prey.
He did bring his kit. He made sure Sam wasn’t home before he brought it down to the Malibu and put it in the trunk, just in case something went wrong. Recent events told him to be prepared for anything, and he wasn’t going to ignore lessons learned any more than he’d ignore his instincts. But he wasn’t going with the intention to kill – never did. Maim, sure. Break some bones, tear a few guys up with the claws, make sure they couldn’t run. But he’d have to make sure to control himself.
There was a reason he didn’t usually go for traffickers. It wasn’t that he thought they weren’t worth his time – quite the opposite, they were actually probably the only people he’d describe as deserving to die the way he could kill them. But traffickers, especially in the middle of a delivery, meant victims. Victims were frightened, defenseless prey, people who moved like prey, who acted like it. He needed to be careful of them.
Tonight he’d be going in prepared because of them. If he got damaged, there was the fallback of the tools in his Malibu to reassure his predator before they decided to take an easier target than an armed trafficker. It was what let him convince himself to get into the Malibu, and drive back down toward the Strip.
He still ditched the car a few blocks away and hoofed the rest. As he got closer to the location, he let his predator unfurl, softening his steps, increasing his pace, pulling tightness into his muscles. He was early, but not by much. It gave him time to slow down as he closed in on the location, time to spread his senses out and look, not just with his eyes, but with all his senses.
In the distance, there was the sound of an engine in desperate need of repair. On the wind, there was the scent of cigarettes and the soft muffled sounds of conversation not yet clear even to his ears, but growing steadily closer as he closed in. It was one of the few times he let himself have the hunt, the part that was stalking, the part that was violence.
The reason for the slow, long-distance approach was the patrols. Living cargo might mean one of them ran, and so a handful of armed men were going to be walking around waiting for runners. They were also extra guns down the line. Best to handle – or distract – them now, and deal with the rest later.
He heard the first one, boots on pavement. He paused around the block from him, gauging direction before moving to intercept him at the next intersection on his patrol route. Cryptid was faster, with the kind of long legs that let him cover more distance in a stride, and he waited with his back to a wall.
The man walked right past him. Under his mask, his mouth curled up, starting to show teeth that his target would never see. He took one step forward, then a second, before murmuring, “Boo.”
From a block and a half away, someone was going to hear him scream as the Cryptid hamstrung him, before hitting him hard enough in the back of the head to make him crumple. Finally, he darted off down the alley, back along the patrol route, to take the opening the downed man and his scream would create. Others would start running to this spot. Cryptid could already hear them coming, and went around the next corner, steps still silent, ears still peeled.
This was going to be a good hunt. He could feel it, all the way down in the cold of his bones.
He did bring his kit. He made sure Sam wasn’t home before he brought it down to the Malibu and put it in the trunk, just in case something went wrong. Recent events told him to be prepared for anything, and he wasn’t going to ignore lessons learned any more than he’d ignore his instincts. But he wasn’t going with the intention to kill – never did. Maim, sure. Break some bones, tear a few guys up with the claws, make sure they couldn’t run. But he’d have to make sure to control himself.
There was a reason he didn’t usually go for traffickers. It wasn’t that he thought they weren’t worth his time – quite the opposite, they were actually probably the only people he’d describe as deserving to die the way he could kill them. But traffickers, especially in the middle of a delivery, meant victims. Victims were frightened, defenseless prey, people who moved like prey, who acted like it. He needed to be careful of them.
Tonight he’d be going in prepared because of them. If he got damaged, there was the fallback of the tools in his Malibu to reassure his predator before they decided to take an easier target than an armed trafficker. It was what let him convince himself to get into the Malibu, and drive back down toward the Strip.
He still ditched the car a few blocks away and hoofed the rest. As he got closer to the location, he let his predator unfurl, softening his steps, increasing his pace, pulling tightness into his muscles. He was early, but not by much. It gave him time to slow down as he closed in on the location, time to spread his senses out and look, not just with his eyes, but with all his senses.
In the distance, there was the sound of an engine in desperate need of repair. On the wind, there was the scent of cigarettes and the soft muffled sounds of conversation not yet clear even to his ears, but growing steadily closer as he closed in. It was one of the few times he let himself have the hunt, the part that was stalking, the part that was violence.
The reason for the slow, long-distance approach was the patrols. Living cargo might mean one of them ran, and so a handful of armed men were going to be walking around waiting for runners. They were also extra guns down the line. Best to handle – or distract – them now, and deal with the rest later.
He heard the first one, boots on pavement. He paused around the block from him, gauging direction before moving to intercept him at the next intersection on his patrol route. Cryptid was faster, with the kind of long legs that let him cover more distance in a stride, and he waited with his back to a wall.
The man walked right past him. Under his mask, his mouth curled up, starting to show teeth that his target would never see. He took one step forward, then a second, before murmuring, “Boo.”
From a block and a half away, someone was going to hear him scream as the Cryptid hamstrung him, before hitting him hard enough in the back of the head to make him crumple. Finally, he darted off down the alley, back along the patrol route, to take the opening the downed man and his scream would create. Others would start running to this spot. Cryptid could already hear them coming, and went around the next corner, steps still silent, ears still peeled.
This was going to be a good hunt. He could feel it, all the way down in the cold of his bones.
Wendigo
Member
The only thing Cryptid could really think when he saw the wolfhound was man, that’s a big dog. It didn’t have the muscles of a mastiff or pitbull, much more common strays around here, but like Todd it had a wiry frame that was almost completely leg. He kept contact with its eyes as he matched its head tilt, and took in its scent by proximity; there was something familiar, not about the dog, but about one of the smells it carried. He didn’t need to place that right now, though. It was probably nothing.
The dog only watched him for a few moments before turning away, apparently coming to the same decision all animals came to: this wasn’t a threat. Cryptid didn’t prey on animals, after all.
And there was a lot of game here. He could hear the guards over some kind of comms system, maybe even just radios, and knew he didn’t have a lot of time to work with. That was fine by him. He didn’t have all night, either, and now that they were aware of him, they’d be focused on finding him. Keeping to ground level wasn’t an option here. So, he went up, taking a route he’d passed by already to get from a dumpster to a window ledge to a rooftop. From there, it was a straight line to the central warehouse, where he could hear an engine pull in and then die out.
He came to the edge of the more even rooftops, and came to a crouch overlooking the loading area. There were men with guns all around the transport, a smaller delivery truck. A lot of bodies could fit into a truck that size, although it was hard to pick out any scents that wafted up to him over the throughline of fear. It made his predator want to stir, made his monster yearn to make this a real hunt.
It was a good thing his self-control was intact, because that would be disastrous for the innocents involved. Instead he slid silently down the side of the building, silently to human ears, anyway, and used the information he’d gathered as a human hunter, not a monster. Six to ten men on the outside, unknown number of victims, probably more of both on the inside. The attack was going to require stealth, speed, and care, or else he was going to get mobbed, and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.
He gathered up all his tension, all the hunt-song that managed to slip through his control, all the fear, all the anger he felt about the situation. He grounded himself in scent and sound, in the night air. His fingers curled, showing off his recently repaired bagh nakh to nobody, yet.
Patience was his predator’s virtue. Wait, listen, watch. And patience was necessary here. With that much fear and the victims in the middle of the conflict, he couldn’t trust his animal to behave itself, and he wouldn’t put those women through witnessing him at his worst, not after everything they’d already been through.
So he had to wait until they were inside, out of reach. He kept his ears peeled behind him, trained on the other men watching him, but his eyes glared into the night at the truck, at the thin, stumbling figures pulled from it that registered to his senses as prey. From the oldest woman, who was probably younger than her apparent 40s; to the youngest girl, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He had to bite his tongue so he didn’t growl when he saw her. Instead he let the cold anger burn, spread out, and waited.
The dog only watched him for a few moments before turning away, apparently coming to the same decision all animals came to: this wasn’t a threat. Cryptid didn’t prey on animals, after all.
And there was a lot of game here. He could hear the guards over some kind of comms system, maybe even just radios, and knew he didn’t have a lot of time to work with. That was fine by him. He didn’t have all night, either, and now that they were aware of him, they’d be focused on finding him. Keeping to ground level wasn’t an option here. So, he went up, taking a route he’d passed by already to get from a dumpster to a window ledge to a rooftop. From there, it was a straight line to the central warehouse, where he could hear an engine pull in and then die out.
He came to the edge of the more even rooftops, and came to a crouch overlooking the loading area. There were men with guns all around the transport, a smaller delivery truck. A lot of bodies could fit into a truck that size, although it was hard to pick out any scents that wafted up to him over the throughline of fear. It made his predator want to stir, made his monster yearn to make this a real hunt.
It was a good thing his self-control was intact, because that would be disastrous for the innocents involved. Instead he slid silently down the side of the building, silently to human ears, anyway, and used the information he’d gathered as a human hunter, not a monster. Six to ten men on the outside, unknown number of victims, probably more of both on the inside. The attack was going to require stealth, speed, and care, or else he was going to get mobbed, and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.
He gathered up all his tension, all the hunt-song that managed to slip through his control, all the fear, all the anger he felt about the situation. He grounded himself in scent and sound, in the night air. His fingers curled, showing off his recently repaired bagh nakh to nobody, yet.
Patience was his predator’s virtue. Wait, listen, watch. And patience was necessary here. With that much fear and the victims in the middle of the conflict, he couldn’t trust his animal to behave itself, and he wouldn’t put those women through witnessing him at his worst, not after everything they’d already been through.
So he had to wait until they were inside, out of reach. He kept his ears peeled behind him, trained on the other men watching him, but his eyes glared into the night at the truck, at the thin, stumbling figures pulled from it that registered to his senses as prey. From the oldest woman, who was probably younger than her apparent 40s; to the youngest girl, who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He had to bite his tongue so he didn’t growl when he saw her. Instead he let the cold anger burn, spread out, and waited.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid’s vigil was rewarded with another scream. The hackles he didn’t have went right up; the part of his brain that acknowledged higher predators warned him, and his body almost lost the tension of the hunt to the tension of fear. And that was before the roar.
The roar was almost human. Like there was something underneath it, the way Todd’s growl felt in his throat when it came loose. It wasn’t familiar at all, not a voice that even his inner records could catch through the animal rage and his fear. But he wasn’t the only one who felt the pull of fear when the roar came, when it echoed in the warehouse and around it. Suddenly the fear doubled in the air from upwind, and the men started to shout. The victims all covered their ears and dropped, and two of the men slung up their guns to start dragging them back to their feet. The fear, their fear, was enough to let Cryptid’s other instincts stir back to life, and he closed his eyes for a second to hold onto them.
This was his territory, these were his prey. This was his hunt. He was not prey.
The mantra didn’t repeat in his head as words, but a wider sense, in scent and hearing and the beat of his heart and the rush of his own blood, in the instict that said mine and the hunger that sat cold in his bones and bled out into the rest. He focused on the hunt song as the men ran inside, leaving four behind with what was left of the cargo. Cryptid wasn’t going to be the one to turn down an easy chance, even if it meant ignoring his other instincts.
So, letting himself go into the hunt-song, he struck. To say he ran would not express the speed or grace; to say he pounced would not be human enough for the fluid motions. He was silent when he ran, landing so the placement of each step created the least noise possible under the shouting and renewed crying and the rise of gunfire from inside the building.
The nearest one had his hand on the arm of one of the younger women, dragging her to her feet, growling almost incoherent swears and insults to hide the shake in his voice. But he couldn’t hide the stink of his sweat, and with his hands full, there was no way for him to catch his balance when Cryptid dropped behind him to sweep his legs aside. Despite how well the silent slasher thing would’ve worked out, he couldn’t help himself.
“Watch your language. There’s a kid here.”
He hit the ground hard, and Todd punched the bagh nakh into his hip joint before continuing his momentum in a circle toward the next target, who was busy trying to drop one of the other girls and scrambling with his gun. Gunfire might not be a problem this time, at this range, in this position at the edge of the herd, because that might damage the huddle of victims who now pulled together in a tight knot and dropped back down to their knees with their ears covered.
He just didn’t know if they’d realized that yet.
The roar was almost human. Like there was something underneath it, the way Todd’s growl felt in his throat when it came loose. It wasn’t familiar at all, not a voice that even his inner records could catch through the animal rage and his fear. But he wasn’t the only one who felt the pull of fear when the roar came, when it echoed in the warehouse and around it. Suddenly the fear doubled in the air from upwind, and the men started to shout. The victims all covered their ears and dropped, and two of the men slung up their guns to start dragging them back to their feet. The fear, their fear, was enough to let Cryptid’s other instincts stir back to life, and he closed his eyes for a second to hold onto them.
This was his territory, these were his prey. This was his hunt. He was not prey.
The mantra didn’t repeat in his head as words, but a wider sense, in scent and hearing and the beat of his heart and the rush of his own blood, in the instict that said mine and the hunger that sat cold in his bones and bled out into the rest. He focused on the hunt song as the men ran inside, leaving four behind with what was left of the cargo. Cryptid wasn’t going to be the one to turn down an easy chance, even if it meant ignoring his other instincts.
So, letting himself go into the hunt-song, he struck. To say he ran would not express the speed or grace; to say he pounced would not be human enough for the fluid motions. He was silent when he ran, landing so the placement of each step created the least noise possible under the shouting and renewed crying and the rise of gunfire from inside the building.
The nearest one had his hand on the arm of one of the younger women, dragging her to her feet, growling almost incoherent swears and insults to hide the shake in his voice. But he couldn’t hide the stink of his sweat, and with his hands full, there was no way for him to catch his balance when Cryptid dropped behind him to sweep his legs aside. Despite how well the silent slasher thing would’ve worked out, he couldn’t help himself.
“Watch your language. There’s a kid here.”
He hit the ground hard, and Todd punched the bagh nakh into his hip joint before continuing his momentum in a circle toward the next target, who was busy trying to drop one of the other girls and scrambling with his gun. Gunfire might not be a problem this time, at this range, in this position at the edge of the herd, because that might damage the huddle of victims who now pulled together in a tight knot and dropped back down to their knees with their ears covered.
He just didn’t know if they’d realized that yet.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid stood in the doorway, his edges faintly lit by moonlight. His hands were in his pockets, although the bloodstains on his coat meant they must be slick with it. Behind him were the badly wounded, all four men on the ground with debilitating but not lethal injuries.
There was no cry of victory when he’d finished. Only gentle urges to the women to take what cover they could behind the truck before things got hairy, before the patrols whose radios he could hear converged on the spot. The noise had attracted them. Not Todd’s noise; Cryptid was a silent killer, when he wasn’t making wisecracks. And the temptation to take prey wasn’t too strong for him, not when the real prey hadn’t struck a blow on him, the idiots.
With all that taken care of, Crytpid had turned back to the warehouse.
The warehouse smelled of blood, meat, dog, and rage. It should’ve been stressful, should’ve bothered him more, but Todd never ate anything he didn’t kill. It was actually just humbling, watching a real animal at work. He felt the warmth in his blood from the hunt still – the fight wasn’t over – but it wouldn’t be enough to cover the respect from witnessing the action inside the warehouse. Not fear. Never fear. The hunt was still on, and he was not prey.
And even in the face of another predator, one he was fairly certain could snap him in half if he wanted to, Cryptid responded to rage with coolness. The borrowed black eyes under the mask glittered, and the borrowed gruff voice carried a note of humor.
“Get it all out of your system, big guy?”
There was no cry of victory when he’d finished. Only gentle urges to the women to take what cover they could behind the truck before things got hairy, before the patrols whose radios he could hear converged on the spot. The noise had attracted them. Not Todd’s noise; Cryptid was a silent killer, when he wasn’t making wisecracks. And the temptation to take prey wasn’t too strong for him, not when the real prey hadn’t struck a blow on him, the idiots.
With all that taken care of, Crytpid had turned back to the warehouse.
The warehouse smelled of blood, meat, dog, and rage. It should’ve been stressful, should’ve bothered him more, but Todd never ate anything he didn’t kill. It was actually just humbling, watching a real animal at work. He felt the warmth in his blood from the hunt still – the fight wasn’t over – but it wouldn’t be enough to cover the respect from witnessing the action inside the warehouse. Not fear. Never fear. The hunt was still on, and he was not prey.
And even in the face of another predator, one he was fairly certain could snap him in half if he wanted to, Cryptid responded to rage with coolness. The borrowed black eyes under the mask glittered, and the borrowed gruff voice carried a note of humor.
“Get it all out of your system, big guy?”
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid tilted his head as the other predator started to recite poetry. The contrast between the more feral body and the clearer mind confused him, and worried him. Something that big that could construct complicated sentences and descriptions was… well, as an intelligent predator himself, it concerned him. The swinging blade didn’t help, but he needed to keep calm. He didn’t have any fancy posturing except he could do except appear unfazed, which was a flex on its own.
He sifted through Connor’s voice and the smell of animal rage he carried. He heard the prey, too; but he could see through the haze of the hunt, too, as it tried to agree with Connor. He shouldered it aside with the thoughts and memories he always used to ground himself, alongside the excuses that worked. All that wouldn’t mean anything.
“One thing.” He pushed authority into the tone, and made himself meet the eye of the larger carnivore. “This prey is not for killing. I’m not hungry, and if you’re not gonna eat it, I won’t have good meat wasted on my turf.”
They’d been so respectful, when they met under the guises of civility. Now there were only the animals, a bobcat showing its teeth to a hound. Cryptid knew the value of threat displays and nonviolent territorialism. He also knew about the value of human lives, however. To his predator, the coming tide was a herd running into an ambush. But to the man, they were people being stupid about their lives.
If monsters were people, then so was scum, however horrible their crimes.
And Connor was like him, as much man as beast. He’d understand the human body language, the implication that the threat was not empty without actually showing teeth or claws. Just growling.
“Maim them however you want. But the prey lives, or you won’t.”
That might be taking it too far, but he said it with cold, deadly seriousness, sporting a confidence he didn’t feel. He knew that despite their instincts, Connor still didn’t want to fight, or he would have attacked Cryptid already. The demand was very simple, if given as a challenge. There wasn’t a lot of time for Connor to decide if he wanted Todd to be his enemy, but that decision would change the course of the fight.
He sifted through Connor’s voice and the smell of animal rage he carried. He heard the prey, too; but he could see through the haze of the hunt, too, as it tried to agree with Connor. He shouldered it aside with the thoughts and memories he always used to ground himself, alongside the excuses that worked. All that wouldn’t mean anything.
“One thing.” He pushed authority into the tone, and made himself meet the eye of the larger carnivore. “This prey is not for killing. I’m not hungry, and if you’re not gonna eat it, I won’t have good meat wasted on my turf.”
They’d been so respectful, when they met under the guises of civility. Now there were only the animals, a bobcat showing its teeth to a hound. Cryptid knew the value of threat displays and nonviolent territorialism. He also knew about the value of human lives, however. To his predator, the coming tide was a herd running into an ambush. But to the man, they were people being stupid about their lives.
If monsters were people, then so was scum, however horrible their crimes.
And Connor was like him, as much man as beast. He’d understand the human body language, the implication that the threat was not empty without actually showing teeth or claws. Just growling.
“Maim them however you want. But the prey lives, or you won’t.”
That might be taking it too far, but he said it with cold, deadly seriousness, sporting a confidence he didn’t feel. He knew that despite their instincts, Connor still didn’t want to fight, or he would have attacked Cryptid already. The demand was very simple, if given as a challenge. There wasn’t a lot of time for Connor to decide if he wanted Todd to be his enemy, but that decision would change the course of the fight.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid was ready for the tension that followed his statement, and didn’t respond to it beyond planting his feet just a little differently beneath him, a sway that could be mistaken for boredom with the shadows cast by his duster hiding the exact position of his feet. The scent of Connor’s anger didn’t subside any more than the smell of dog, but the fact that he wasn’t immediately met with a roar of challenge gave him a little hope.
The laugh cured him of any remaining fears. Laughter wasn’t an animal sound, as feral as this one was. Laughter was a sign that he had gotten through to the man under the beast, and the words that followed seemed to affirm that. He didn’t feel very stout-hearted – he felt his pulse in his ears from both the hunt and the prospect of combatting the predator in front of him – but he’d take what he could get. Under the jagged teeth of the mask, a flash of a real smile might be seen, not challenger but predator. As Connor sheathed his blade, the Cryptid pulled his hands from his pockets and flexed his fingers around his own claws.
Then he gave Connor a little salute, and disappeared behind the wall to the outside and behind a nearby crate. They weren’t the same kind of hunter, and wouldn’t know each other’s strategies, so it was best to keep out of each other’s way for the time being. Maybe he could find a way to add shadow-walker to the list of names scum remembered him by, up with Scarecrow and Slasher.
They thought they were being quiet, really they did, but half a dozen grown men armed with semi-automatics and wearing combat boots were hardly stealthy. Likewise, Connor probably wasn’t going to go for stealth. Letting the other animal take the head-on assault route would give Cryptid openings to pounce from his adjusted position, and let Todd effectively watch both their backs. He wondered if Connor would instinctively feel the pattern, or if he’d just make his attack – or possibly assume Crytpid had just left him after the dominance display. He just hoped the big dog of a man didn’t point out his hiding spot before everything lined up.
The laugh cured him of any remaining fears. Laughter wasn’t an animal sound, as feral as this one was. Laughter was a sign that he had gotten through to the man under the beast, and the words that followed seemed to affirm that. He didn’t feel very stout-hearted – he felt his pulse in his ears from both the hunt and the prospect of combatting the predator in front of him – but he’d take what he could get. Under the jagged teeth of the mask, a flash of a real smile might be seen, not challenger but predator. As Connor sheathed his blade, the Cryptid pulled his hands from his pockets and flexed his fingers around his own claws.
Then he gave Connor a little salute, and disappeared behind the wall to the outside and behind a nearby crate. They weren’t the same kind of hunter, and wouldn’t know each other’s strategies, so it was best to keep out of each other’s way for the time being. Maybe he could find a way to add shadow-walker to the list of names scum remembered him by, up with Scarecrow and Slasher.
They thought they were being quiet, really they did, but half a dozen grown men armed with semi-automatics and wearing combat boots were hardly stealthy. Likewise, Connor probably wasn’t going to go for stealth. Letting the other animal take the head-on assault route would give Cryptid openings to pounce from his adjusted position, and let Todd effectively watch both their backs. He wondered if Connor would instinctively feel the pattern, or if he’d just make his attack – or possibly assume Crytpid had just left him after the dominance display. He just hoped the big dog of a man didn’t point out his hiding spot before everything lined up.
Wendigo
Member
The crack of bones was Cryptid’s signal to brace. He waited an extra moment, ears pricked, listening for footsteps. After the initial shock of being jumped by a predator, four people took off in different directions like scattering rabbits.
He allowed himself one last grin before setting his jaw, and taking off like a shot towards the one that was heading the most in his direction. He came in hard from the side, shoving the man with more strength than his thin frame should’ve been capable of in the best of circumstances. As he forced him to the ground, he punched hard into the man’s left shoulder with his right bagh nakh. It wasn’t the first blood of the night, but Todd felt the hunt trying to creep through, trying to push him. His own pulse was high from the burst of energy, the man bleeding under his hand was trying to twist away, there was prey everywhere.
Calm down, he warned himself, as he raised his eyes to the next fleeing figure, back to him, gaining distance. But if Connor could keep his calm, relatively speaking at least, then so would Todd. It wasn’t that hard, and he had a lot of experience.
So he punched down at an angle, to use the metal bar of the other bagh nakh to hit the man’s temple. He was out like a light, and Cryptid looked up after the next target while pulling the claws from his current victim’s shoulder.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” His grin was audible in his voice, and he took off after the next target. “Looks like the fun’s just getting started.”
His own boots were audible even to human ears on the pavement, and the man looked over his shoulder in time to see Todd descending on him in full slasher-movie villain glory. The prey made an undignified noise and tried to change direction. Cryptid let him, then put on a burst of speed to turn after him, pulling his own curve tighter, moving up on the man’s right. He would have laughed a little, if each step hadn’t been an effort not to bite back the tunnel-vision that came with the chase, that came with the blood that dripped still from the claws between his fingers, that came with the fear that trailed in the ever-shrinking distance between Cryptid and the prey.
And all Cryptid really had to do was check him with his shoulder, hard enough to throw him off balance. The fear and the panic and gravity all did the rest as the vigilante circled around once to lose momentum, stopped a little way away, and then started his approach, sure that the Hound could handle the last two with no trouble at all while he put the fear of God – or at least the devil, or something like it – into a man who deserved it.
He allowed himself one last grin before setting his jaw, and taking off like a shot towards the one that was heading the most in his direction. He came in hard from the side, shoving the man with more strength than his thin frame should’ve been capable of in the best of circumstances. As he forced him to the ground, he punched hard into the man’s left shoulder with his right bagh nakh. It wasn’t the first blood of the night, but Todd felt the hunt trying to creep through, trying to push him. His own pulse was high from the burst of energy, the man bleeding under his hand was trying to twist away, there was prey everywhere.
Calm down, he warned himself, as he raised his eyes to the next fleeing figure, back to him, gaining distance. But if Connor could keep his calm, relatively speaking at least, then so would Todd. It wasn’t that hard, and he had a lot of experience.
So he punched down at an angle, to use the metal bar of the other bagh nakh to hit the man’s temple. He was out like a light, and Cryptid looked up after the next target while pulling the claws from his current victim’s shoulder.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” His grin was audible in his voice, and he took off after the next target. “Looks like the fun’s just getting started.”
His own boots were audible even to human ears on the pavement, and the man looked over his shoulder in time to see Todd descending on him in full slasher-movie villain glory. The prey made an undignified noise and tried to change direction. Cryptid let him, then put on a burst of speed to turn after him, pulling his own curve tighter, moving up on the man’s right. He would have laughed a little, if each step hadn’t been an effort not to bite back the tunnel-vision that came with the chase, that came with the blood that dripped still from the claws between his fingers, that came with the fear that trailed in the ever-shrinking distance between Cryptid and the prey.
And all Cryptid really had to do was check him with his shoulder, hard enough to throw him off balance. The fear and the panic and gravity all did the rest as the vigilante circled around once to lose momentum, stopped a little way away, and then started his approach, sure that the Hound could handle the last two with no trouble at all while he put the fear of God – or at least the devil, or something like it – into a man who deserved it.
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Wendigo
Member
At a worse time in his life, Todd would have reveled in the look in his prey’s eyes. They were blue, like his natural ones; deeper and darker, and now twisted with fear as he tried to fumble with the gun that Cryptid ripped out of his hands before he even realized the monster was upon him. The gun skidded away when Todd threw it, and the bastard was entirely at his mercy, at a range so close he could taste his breath.
But Todd had learned a lot of lessons, in his worse years. Temperance, patience, justice. The man was a bastard, but nobody actually deserved Todd’s teeth. They didn’t deserve to be scared out of their wits. And every monster deserved a second chance, because something in the universe had decided Todd deserved one, too.
“Let’s talk.”
He could hear the fighting behind him, but sat back to squat on his haunches, hands relaxed enough that the prey could see the bloodied claws of his right hand. The prey was left leaning away, suspicion and fear plain on his face, plain in the scent of his sweat. Cryptid put on his best reasonable tone, speaking softly so he didn’t interrupt the monster behind him.
“I just need to know the guy above you. Name, and where to find him.”
“I ain’t a–”
“Rat?” Cryptid tilted his head, the mask’s grin only making the movement more unnerving. “I dunno man, you look pretty ratlike to me. All cornered like this…”
The man flinched a little at the growl in Todd’s voice. Cryptid had a reputation, after all. Most of the guys he took on got off with some serious maiming. There were enough rumors about the rest – some of them true, although Thug Number Six didn’t know for sure – that the smell of fear kicked up a notch. Which was only compounded on when he felt Connor come up behind him, and dump the two badly injured, but definitely alive, bodies nearby. As if he had no worry about whether his prey would try to run again after his earlier display, Cryptid looked up at Connor.
“Hey, Wolfman, doesn’t this guy look like a rat to you? Just a little?”
But Todd had learned a lot of lessons, in his worse years. Temperance, patience, justice. The man was a bastard, but nobody actually deserved Todd’s teeth. They didn’t deserve to be scared out of their wits. And every monster deserved a second chance, because something in the universe had decided Todd deserved one, too.
“Let’s talk.”
He could hear the fighting behind him, but sat back to squat on his haunches, hands relaxed enough that the prey could see the bloodied claws of his right hand. The prey was left leaning away, suspicion and fear plain on his face, plain in the scent of his sweat. Cryptid put on his best reasonable tone, speaking softly so he didn’t interrupt the monster behind him.
“I just need to know the guy above you. Name, and where to find him.”
“I ain’t a–”
“Rat?” Cryptid tilted his head, the mask’s grin only making the movement more unnerving. “I dunno man, you look pretty ratlike to me. All cornered like this…”
The man flinched a little at the growl in Todd’s voice. Cryptid had a reputation, after all. Most of the guys he took on got off with some serious maiming. There were enough rumors about the rest – some of them true, although Thug Number Six didn’t know for sure – that the smell of fear kicked up a notch. Which was only compounded on when he felt Connor come up behind him, and dump the two badly injured, but definitely alive, bodies nearby. As if he had no worry about whether his prey would try to run again after his earlier display, Cryptid looked up at Connor.
“Hey, Wolfman, doesn’t this guy look like a rat to you? Just a little?”
Wendigo
Member
Connor didn’t want to play along, but he did say something helpful. The man’s breath caught in his throat, and started to come a little more shallowly than before. Cryptid sighed dramatically, using the moment and the fear to his advantage.
“Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” He sighed dramatically, but curled the fingers of his right hand so the moonlight would catch on the bloody claws. The man’s horrified eyes became just a touch wider. “But, I guess if he’s not gonna talk anyway–”
“Chuck! Chuck! You’re lookin for Chuck!.” The prey’s voice was about an octave higher than it needed to be. Stammering badly, he rattled off an address. When he was done, Todd’s body language relaxed visibly, and his borrowed hawkish eyes relaxed.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He stood up slowly, languidly, drawing it out and stretching a little. One of his shoulders popped when he did so, and when he tipped his head, his neck cracked in his ears. Then he looked down at the prey, head tilted slightly, frowning as the man trembled like a leaf. When he spoke, Cryptid’s voice was cool and collected.
“Now, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna call the cops from your phone, and you’re gonna tell them everything. Everything. And hope the court gives you a plea deal for selling out your buddies. Because if you don’t, and I see your face on the street again, I’m gonna tear it off. Clear enough for you?”
The man nodded his head vigorously.
“Good.” He looked at Connor. “I think we’re done here. You coming with me or is this where we part ways?”
“Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” He sighed dramatically, but curled the fingers of his right hand so the moonlight would catch on the bloody claws. The man’s horrified eyes became just a touch wider. “But, I guess if he’s not gonna talk anyway–”
“Chuck! Chuck! You’re lookin for Chuck!.” The prey’s voice was about an octave higher than it needed to be. Stammering badly, he rattled off an address. When he was done, Todd’s body language relaxed visibly, and his borrowed hawkish eyes relaxed.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He stood up slowly, languidly, drawing it out and stretching a little. One of his shoulders popped when he did so, and when he tipped his head, his neck cracked in his ears. Then he looked down at the prey, head tilted slightly, frowning as the man trembled like a leaf. When he spoke, Cryptid’s voice was cool and collected.
“Now, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna call the cops from your phone, and you’re gonna tell them everything. Everything. And hope the court gives you a plea deal for selling out your buddies. Because if you don’t, and I see your face on the street again, I’m gonna tear it off. Clear enough for you?”
The man nodded his head vigorously.
“Good.” He looked at Connor. “I think we’re done here. You coming with me or is this where we part ways?”
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid nodded as Connor agreed to come with him. He was getting some mixed messages from the other predator in terms of body language and behavior; he was being watched like he was mistrusted, but Connor came anyway. It made his instincts uneasy, but he didn’t act on that. Even if the hunt was over, there was still prey – the injured and the victims. The blue-eyed man would take care of the victims and the injured, he had no doubt.
The best thing he could do for them was move away. He took the time to survey the damage, casually, calmly, and then nodded and started walking down the alley nearest the man who was fumbling for his phone. He kept it slow enough that he made sure he could hear the slight crackle of Police, fire, or ambulance? from a dispatcher on the other end. It wouldn’t take long for them to be far enough away that the man’s babbling was an afterthought, and once they were that far out, Cryptid looked up at the hound-dog following him.
“It’s late enough we’re not gonna make it after Chuck tonight. As long as our rat doesn’t think twice and call him up first, I think it’s safe to say he’ll be there tomorrow.”
The best thing he could do for them was move away. He took the time to survey the damage, casually, calmly, and then nodded and started walking down the alley nearest the man who was fumbling for his phone. He kept it slow enough that he made sure he could hear the slight crackle of Police, fire, or ambulance? from a dispatcher on the other end. It wouldn’t take long for them to be far enough away that the man’s babbling was an afterthought, and once they were that far out, Cryptid looked up at the hound-dog following him.
“It’s late enough we’re not gonna make it after Chuck tonight. As long as our rat doesn’t think twice and call him up first, I think it’s safe to say he’ll be there tomorrow.”
Wendigo
Member
“If I tore up every prey item in range of my claws, I wouldn’t be alive.” Todd sensed Connor’s confusion, and certainly his deference. An explanation was the least thanks he could give. “Humans don’t respond well to predation. Sometimes it’s best just to scare them a little and they’ll get the picture. If they don’t change, I stop giving them warnings.”
Now that they were winding out of combat and putting distance between themselves and the fight, Cryptid visibly started to unwind, losing some of his tension. Not all of it; his predator wouldn’t relax as long as Connor was nearby. But the temptation to hunt was leaving him, and he was fading back toward the civil mask he’d worn back at Huntsman Scott’s, and he hoped that doing so would convince Connor to do the same.
Now that they were winding out of combat and putting distance between themselves and the fight, Cryptid visibly started to unwind, losing some of his tension. Not all of it; his predator wouldn’t relax as long as Connor was nearby. But the temptation to hunt was leaving him, and he was fading back toward the civil mask he’d worn back at Huntsman Scott’s, and he hoped that doing so would convince Connor to do the same.
Wendigo
Member
Cryptid actually laughed a little bit. Not at the change in posture; his own remained just as relaxed. It was just that he’d almost forgotten how unusual his dietary patterns were. Sulphur had made the same assumption. It was only natural for Connor to think he’d just turned down necessary food.
“I don’t need to feed every day. I don’t even need to eat every week, though there was a time…” He shook his head. “Anyway, no. I’m not hungry tonight.”
Untrue. He was always hungry. The cold was always in his bones, the desire for blood always on his tongue. But he wasn’t ravenous. He wasn’t even shaking. He still carried the remains of Jasper Torres and Mark Peters to sustain him, and would unless he took a lot of damage. For tonight, all signs of the monster that was claws and taunting and bite had faded away, leaving only a human vigilante in their place.
“I don’t need to feed every day. I don’t even need to eat every week, though there was a time…” He shook his head. “Anyway, no. I’m not hungry tonight.”
Untrue. He was always hungry. The cold was always in his bones, the desire for blood always on his tongue. But he wasn’t ravenous. He wasn’t even shaking. He still carried the remains of Jasper Torres and Mark Peters to sustain him, and would unless he took a lot of damage. For tonight, all signs of the monster that was claws and taunting and bite had faded away, leaving only a human vigilante in their place.
Wendigo
Member
“We?”
Cryptid glanced at Connor. A small part of him, the part that had started to open up, closed off again. The part of him that had started to feel human again now shifted to wariness. It wasn’t defensive, necessarily. Or maybe it was defensive, and wasn’t aggressive. There was a big difference between respecting another predator’s space, and deferring to him for a course of action. He didn’t think it was meant to be a test, even less a challenge.
The glance was to check Connor’s body language, figure out what had changed, if anything. No matter what he saw there, though, he’d finally just shrug, shaking off the tension that had started to gather on him in an easy motion.
“We should both put some distance between ourselves and the crime scene. The cops will be here soon, and I don’t need a vigilantism charge. Where you go and what you do next is none of my business.”
Cryptid glanced at Connor. A small part of him, the part that had started to open up, closed off again. The part of him that had started to feel human again now shifted to wariness. It wasn’t defensive, necessarily. Or maybe it was defensive, and wasn’t aggressive. There was a big difference between respecting another predator’s space, and deferring to him for a course of action. He didn’t think it was meant to be a test, even less a challenge.
The glance was to check Connor’s body language, figure out what had changed, if anything. No matter what he saw there, though, he’d finally just shrug, shaking off the tension that had started to gather on him in an easy motion.
“We should both put some distance between ourselves and the crime scene. The cops will be here soon, and I don’t need a vigilantism charge. Where you go and what you do next is none of my business.”
Wendigo
Member
Connor didn’t seem aggressive, Todd noticed. He didn’t even seem upset. Sure, he spoke a little hesitantly, but that just seemed to be his voice. He clearly didn’t talk to people very often. And why would he? The city was hardly his natural habitat.
Then again, it wasn’t Todd’s, either. It felt like his, but not because he owned it. Just because he lived here. Letting Connor defer to him felt wrong, in the same way a coyote might feel off about letting a wolf show his belly. It sat wrong in his instincts, the ones rooted in fear and prey. If he abused the position that Connor was letting him take, then he’d have a pair of very angry jaws to deal with. It was best to avoid that for as long as possible.
“If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll keep out of your way. There’s plenty of scum in this city to go around. Now that I know who you’re after, I’ll set my sights elsewhere and won’t stop you. This hunt is yours, pal.”
He didn’t like deferring to Connor like this. It made him feel even smaller around the other predator. But they needed to avoid more interaction than strictly necessary, if they were going to keep up civil terms. Repeated exposure to each other, especially when they were clearly such different kinds of predator, was only going to result in problems. Best to part ways and avoid one another they way they originally meant to.
Then again, it wasn’t Todd’s, either. It felt like his, but not because he owned it. Just because he lived here. Letting Connor defer to him felt wrong, in the same way a coyote might feel off about letting a wolf show his belly. It sat wrong in his instincts, the ones rooted in fear and prey. If he abused the position that Connor was letting him take, then he’d have a pair of very angry jaws to deal with. It was best to avoid that for as long as possible.
“If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll keep out of your way. There’s plenty of scum in this city to go around. Now that I know who you’re after, I’ll set my sights elsewhere and won’t stop you. This hunt is yours, pal.”
He didn’t like deferring to Connor like this. It made him feel even smaller around the other predator. But they needed to avoid more interaction than strictly necessary, if they were going to keep up civil terms. Repeated exposure to each other, especially when they were clearly such different kinds of predator, was only going to result in problems. Best to part ways and avoid one another they way they originally meant to.