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November 8th, 2019

3pm

New York Center for Behavioral Medicine

 

 

The light filtered through closed lids, breath controlled.  Always controlled.  Agitated, skin prickled.  Not unusual, he always fought with it.  Fought with sanity, fought with calm.  Always fighting. Pretending.  He was unaware fingertips had started to rub his temples, he didn’t get headaches, elbows resting on the grand mahogany office desk he was finishing his notes on.  Fingers pushed through his hair to clasp at the back of his neck.  Whispers floated past his ears.  Dark.  Fading in and out with the shadowed tendrils that were dancing in the afternoon sunlight filtering through his eyelids.

 

*npc* Mr. Morgan, here’s the new roster for the next class.

 

Inhale was sharp, lips almost sheared off his teeth as he looked up at her suddenly… unusually pronounced upper and lower canines always there.  She was hyper sensitive to the mental health professional, very aware of what he was.  Paper was brought back within her personal bubble until she assessed the situation.

 

Thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose, a long breath taken before he smiled at her and reached out for the new list.

 

[kai]Thank you.  I’m sorry, I was up all night going through case files.  The world isn’t going to get better on its own you know.[/kai]

 

She smiled back and passed it off.

 

He could lie better than anyone.

 

Sociopaths could do that.

 

It was such a terrible word, but it was the only word he had to describe himself.  Especially lately.  The nightly runs through the streets of New York to calm the agitation under his skin were starting to grind on him.  If it was possible for him to be exhausted, it was now.  He was painfully aware that in this state, he was just as dangerous.  Physically worn down, the volatility was controllable.  Mentally worn down, he was a powder keg.  And this, whatever this was, made it worse.  Months maybe.  Felt different.  The night.  The moon, felt different.  Fulls came and went, and it was always the same routine.  This. Felt.  Different.  Routine would take him downstairs for five days in a few hours.  Not a great plan, and he suffered for it.  It was the best plan he had.

 

Eyes narrowed on the window.

 

Then it came, like a punch in the gut.  Brows snapped downward.  No. It wasn’t…  no.  Chair pushed back suddenly as he stood, muscles shaking under his skin.  This wasn’t possible.  Urgent footsteps only made it to the leather couch before the pain in his gut wracked him almost in two. Hand slapped the arm, knee hitting the floor.  Nothing on this earth could take the Were down.  Nothing.  Except…

 

[kai]Trina![/kai]

 

Footsteps to his open office door were quick, incredibly confused.

 

[kai]I need my case. NOW![/kai]

 

She didn’t ask questions, appearing within moments to slide a silver case across the floor toward him, perplexed and incredibly terrified.  He felt it bump his arm, back already on the floor in the euphoria before the excruciating storm.  Trina knew the case was the panic button, and slammed the door behind her.  The office was closed, the psychiatrist catching up on paperwork.  She was the only other in the building.

 

This wasn’t right.  It wasn’t a full moon.  Kai always clipped his extraction from the world close, but this was still too early.  She trusted the man implicitly, but this wasn’t right. His door clicked open quietly, her eye peering in to see the unconscious Were on the floor.  Nothing had happened.  He was so incredibly still, seconds ticking by.  Movement of his fingers made her heart jump.

 

[kai]I can smell you…[/kai]

 

Case clicked open, his eyes still closed a moment before flicking open and rolling to his side, a syringe with enough sedative to drop an elephant snapped between his teeth to pop the cap off and spit it out,

 

[kai]GET!  OUT![/kai]

 

it was a snarl, an honest to god snarl, choking on her own breath as she backpedaled and scampered to the panic room.

 

Suddenly on his feet, the Were's gate was almost drunk, stumbling out the door… slapping his hand on the panel that opened the elevator to the basement.  Muscles were seizing so hard they threatened to break bone.  Doors opening to the basement and scent of steel below.  Shoulder hit the side of the door and he stumbled out of it, smacking to the floor.  He was not going to make it to the emergency vault.  This was not possible, it was NOT happening!

 

The sound was sickening.

 

Straight into flesh, the slap was merciless as the needle stabbed into the center of his chest, plunger depressed.

 

Skull bounced once on the floor, the hollow echo incredibly loud in his ears, fingers going slack on the syringe that remained embedded in his flesh... the entire world swirling down a drain to complete darkness.

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