And that's how Clarence became a terrorist (Part 1)

Clarence Bryd, werewolf, is a character I will eventually write about if I ever finish my first two novel ideas and get to a third. Without revealing too much, he eventually becomes part of a terrorist organization. It all started with a visit to one of his buddies from Vietnam. I began to write out this scenario for a post at the RPG "Tower," but obviously it being Tower, it deviated from the actual outcome. So here is Part 1 of 2 - Clarence arriving at his buddy's apartment. Part 2 is fourthcoming as soon as I have a moment to write.

Clarence turned the wipers off and killed the ignition. The raindrops slapped gently against the windshield, congealing, distorting the world outside until the sparse trees, the ramshackle apartments, the cracked concrete looked as though they were fashioned of melting wax. A stray cat, rail-thin, despairing, and ragged like the people here lapped water from a puddle, its surface iridescent with motor oil. A woman who was just a child herself pushed a weathered baby carriage, wheels spattered the mud and grime, over sidewalks addled with deep fissures. Her eyes were hard, joyless.

It caused Clarence a strange discomfort in the pit of his stomach, thinking of Robert living in a place like this. He remembered his smiling, clean-shaved face, eyes transfixed on the shimmering Pacific ocean far below their plane. Over the roar of the engine and snoring of their fellow marines, the other man had told him that his service would give him the money he needed to study biology in Europe, where therians were treated like humans. He wanted to travel the world filming endangered species, or something like that.

Decency was an endangered species in this town. He could smell through the car’s vent the scents of humanity’s decay: the vinegar reek of old heroin syringes; the alcohol stink of discarded whiskey bottles in paper bags; the musk of used condoms from cheap alleyway dalliances; the stinging wan of gunpowder and with it, old blood. He sighed, his hand resting on the door’s handle, not sure he really wanted to venture up the rusted fire escape, a five story ascent, to visit some ghost that barely resembled the man he’d known in Vietnam.

Young Sreya

I never write from Sreya's perspective. This bugs me. She is the female protag of my novel, and she doesn't get nearly enough attention even there. So, I decided to think back to what Sreya's still-human days as a college intern at an emergency veterinary office might be like. And I wound up with this; I think it suits her very well and suggests that there was very much a hint of "matriarch" there even before the "hyena" bit. 

Six in the morning. Anywhere else it would be silent, still. In the city, I could already hear the hustle and bustle of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the soft trilling calls of pigeons. This street was comparatively quiet; it was the sort with boarded up windows and broken dreams. No one here had a reason to be up this early; many of them had just filtered home from their night-time escapes from reality. Conversely, I’d been on night duty at the animal ER, a full-immersion shock therapy treatment in reality. The dog I was walking needed a fecal sample; I’d already collected it, and now it was just the quiet clatter of his claws on the pavement until we returned.

The pitbull mix at the end of the leash tensed suddenly, his ears snapping forward and legs stiffening. I looked up the corridor of concrete. Beside a crumbling brick building with a sagging, lopsided stoop, a young man - perhaps in his early twenties - leaned against the wall. His eyes were maliciously mischievous, sexual as he shamelessly gave me a long look up and down. This reaction was sadly somewhat typical when I dared to venture out in public donning my lab coat and scrubs. Something about a woman in professional garb seems to make men feel even more determined to reduce her to mere meat. Threatened, perhaps?

My tension was traveling down the leash; I could see the pit’s hackles raising. Not wanting to bear responsibility for another injurious dog bite statistic for the beleaguered breed, I called him in close to a “heel” position and patted his flank reassuringly. I then continued along my path, eyes focused dead ahead, exuding all of the cool confidence I could muster without throwing on a pair of shades and popping my collar.

My efforts to proceed in quiet dignity were for nigh.

“Hey, baby.”

I’ll never understand why men think this line will ever attract a woman; being compared to a helpless, squalling shit factory is hardly what I call a term of endearment. I strode past him without so much as a sideways glance, refusing to acknowledge such a salutation. His lanky frame peeled away from the wall in a creeping fluid motion.

“Oh, don’t be like that girl,” he chided, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting up as he approached. “That’s a nice dog you got.”

“Yup,” I replied succinct and tight-lipped with vast disinterest.

Deterring a horny, overconfident twenty-something, however, is like trying to stop the tide.

“You like animals, baby?” He was nearly jogging beside me as I hastened my pace in an effort to reach the busy main street ahead. He leaned in close with a leering grin, teeth yellowed from the smoke that crept between them as he smiled. “I can be a real animal.” His voice was dripping with sex.

I stopped in my tracks, chin raised defiantly, and gave him the sort of look I normally reserve for the discovery of dog vomit on the clinic floor.

“My job also involves picking up pieces of shit,” I said, raising the full bag clutched in my hand. “Are you going to throw me some cheesy line about how you can be a real piece of shit as well?”

He flushed with anger, pausing flustered as I began walking away before roughly grabbing my arm. The dog let out a low growl, and I muttered a quick reassurance.

“What’s the matter, bitch?” Ah, I’d gone from a baby to a dog. This was an improvement. “You don’t wanna do it doggy style?”

I grinned at him, the sort of big glistening smile that turns into a snarl at the edges, the sort with hollow, dangerous eyes. Confusion flitted across his face. He didn’t even have time to react as I dropped the bag and pulled the knife from my pocket in one seamless motion. The blade thrust upward and stopped with the tip gently grazing the hem at his inner thigh.

“I castrate dogs.”