Jack Priest (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bitten_notshy) wrote2012-02-06 03:35 pm
bitten_notshy) wrote2012-02-06 03:35 pm
Under Manhattan, Right about Moonrise, Monday
Jack wouldn't know the exact moment when the moon rose.
But other than that particular disadvantage of being underground, the space Hank McCoy had found for him under Manhattan was perfect. The warrens of broad, almost dry abandoned tunnels were close to a mile in total length, capped with a fall-out shelter at one end and a high metal gate at the other.
Just as the sun began to set, Jack checked the lock and turned quickly to walk deeper into the maze. He left Hank and Emma -- both armed with silver bullets they were sworn to use if anything went wrong -- on the other side. (Contrary to the scientist's hopes, no one would be playing tag tonight.)
Jack took George's advice and dragged a raw chicken behind him as he went, laying down a path of scent to distract the animal. At the concrete bunker, he took off his clothes and folded them neatly (and mocked himself as he did; what good would the propriety of pressed trousers do, after the night he was about to have?). Then he wrapped himself in a blanket and sat on a cold metal bench to wait. He permitted himself a final faint hope that nothing would happen -- well, nothing beyond whatever insult to his dignity and health a winter night spent naked in a disused sewer represented.
He didn't have long to wait before that hope died.
Jack might not have been able to see the moon, but its power knew how to find him. His hands changed first, shrinking and twisting into things very much like paws almost before he had a chance to feel how searingly it hurt.
The pain seared him more as the change crept up his arms and down his torso. By the time his face began to disfigure he couldn't hold in the urge to yowl -- a bellowing screech of pain that became more animalistic as the jaw and throat producing it changed.
The best that could be said of the rest of the transformation was that it went fast. After it had passed, the black-furred creature that stood where Jack had once been was far larger than any wolf -- the size of a muscular Irish wolfhound. The blue eyes peering from its lupine face held some intelligence, though not one that promised anything like kindness or mercy.
The beast sniffed the air delicately, as if weighing its options. It scented chicken, rodent, stray cat, an alligator or two, and (more distantly) human.
And then it was off on the hunt.
[OOC: NFB. WOE.]
But other than that particular disadvantage of being underground, the space Hank McCoy had found for him under Manhattan was perfect. The warrens of broad, almost dry abandoned tunnels were close to a mile in total length, capped with a fall-out shelter at one end and a high metal gate at the other.
Just as the sun began to set, Jack checked the lock and turned quickly to walk deeper into the maze. He left Hank and Emma -- both armed with silver bullets they were sworn to use if anything went wrong -- on the other side. (Contrary to the scientist's hopes, no one would be playing tag tonight.)
Jack took George's advice and dragged a raw chicken behind him as he went, laying down a path of scent to distract the animal. At the concrete bunker, he took off his clothes and folded them neatly (and mocked himself as he did; what good would the propriety of pressed trousers do, after the night he was about to have?). Then he wrapped himself in a blanket and sat on a cold metal bench to wait. He permitted himself a final faint hope that nothing would happen -- well, nothing beyond whatever insult to his dignity and health a winter night spent naked in a disused sewer represented.
He didn't have long to wait before that hope died.
Jack might not have been able to see the moon, but its power knew how to find him. His hands changed first, shrinking and twisting into things very much like paws almost before he had a chance to feel how searingly it hurt.
The pain seared him more as the change crept up his arms and down his torso. By the time his face began to disfigure he couldn't hold in the urge to yowl -- a bellowing screech of pain that became more animalistic as the jaw and throat producing it changed.
The best that could be said of the rest of the transformation was that it went fast. After it had passed, the black-furred creature that stood where Jack had once been was far larger than any wolf -- the size of a muscular Irish wolfhound. The blue eyes peering from its lupine face held some intelligence, though not one that promised anything like kindness or mercy.
The beast sniffed the air delicately, as if weighing its options. It scented chicken, rodent, stray cat, an alligator or two, and (more distantly) human.
And then it was off on the hunt.
[OOC: NFB. WOE.]