Scarper likes to think he's funny, but he doesn't laugh as he steps out of the van. He's scrawny in his natural form, but now he's all corded muscle, his skin the texture of beef jerky, his eyes burning. You step back, buying yourself time to Change, fighting back tears and nausea as your muscles tear and rebuild themselves, as your bones crack, then lengthen and thicken. Blood fills your mouth as your jaw grows heavy with sharp teeth.
There are people around, and you know you have to make this fast, so when Scarper says, "I'm gonna f—" you don't let him finish. Instead you catch him with an uppercut, knocking him against the half-open van door, then punch him twice in the ribs to take his breath away.
When he doubles over, you hit him in the temple with your knuckle, and he plops onto the pavement.
A quick glance around: people are aware something is wrong, but no one is moving your way, no one is filming.
Scarper grabs your ankle with his hairy hand. You stomp down on his wrist, breaking it. He gasps rather than screams. That's nice of him. But he's already regenerating, so you yank him to his feet and say, "You and me, we're done, do you understand?"
He doesn't say anything, so you slam him into the van's door one more time, breaking glass, then let him drop.
You walk away. When you look back, your fellow galliard has already healed—punches don't do much against a werewolf—but he's not chasing you. Instead, he's fumbling at the door, trying to get it open, but you hit it so hard that it's jammed.
You keep walking.
And…that's it. You're on your own.
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