Werewolves of London 1

	You sighed dramatically, looking out the window of your new apartment flat with a dark look.

	"James, this was a mistake." you said, talking over your shoulder to your good friend. "I never should have gotten on that damn boat, and I never should have come here."

	Behind you, your friend laughed and leaned on the wall. Sir James Hampshead wasn't exactly what you'd call the spitting image of a scientist or gentleman explorer, but he played the part well enough most of the time. Mostly this was abusing the hell out of his short stint as a Captain in the Royal Anglican Foot and as such actually knowing how to organize. If you believed half his tall tales, most of the Royal Society of Natural Science would be dead in a ditch in Egypt, India, or Canada. You met him yourself outside Sault st. Marie, and ended up saving him from a mob of angry Quebecois who were trying to mug the lordling for his valise and accent.

	"Come on now, you know it can't be that bad!" James said, walking up to you and clapping you on the shoulder. "Why, I know we'll be invited on an expedition within the month going out! You can't act so grim about this sort of thing- it'll be the death of you!"

	You snorted, digging around in your coat for a cigarette. Seconds later, your iron match was out, and you'd lit the cigarette carelessly. A short twist later on the iron match, and you'd stowed it in again as you turned around.

	"To tell you the truth, James, it is that bad." you replied artlessly, going over to your still-packed suitcases. In one, your clothes were stored, what few you'd dared take with you. In the other, marked with a large seal, was a collection far more dear to you. "You've dragged me abroad, and I'm dependent on you for an honest living."

	James' smile dispersed in a blink. "If you thought I'd hire you for honest work, you've another thing coming."

	"I can hope."

	Now, it was a harsh laughter. "By Jove, if you thought I'd reward you for this damn curse, then you have another thing coming!"

	"I saved your life!" you snapped back. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead in a ditch!"

	"Oh, and I'm supposed to thank you for that? For leaving me a misshapen beast? For destroying my life?"

	As your eye twitched, you went over to your other case and opened it. Pulling out the contents, you spread them on a table, pulling them from greaseclothes and rubbing wax off canisters.

	"Are you listening to me, Joseph? Do I need to remind you who is in charge!?"

	You chuckled slightly, before going over to James and looking him right in the eye. It was no comfortable position for him to be in, either. "It's the full moon soon, James. Be careful."

	James flushed white, and fled the room. His last words were simple- "I'll send you a telegram when I need you." The implied command just bounced off your thick hide, though, and you went to a chair to have a sit.

	Twenty-four years old you were, and sixteen cursed beside that. Once a month, for the last one hundred and ninety six months, you had been left with a bastard drunk of a father's last curse- that of the werewolf. You alone, Joseph Hawkins were werewolf. An affliction of the body, mind, and soul it was, driving you mad as the full moon rose and leaving you sane as it set. A monthly cycle of dementia and insanity, waxing and waning with the machinations of Luna- that was the first part of your curse. The second was worse, a physical transformation, one that ripped your body apart to deliver from it a hellhound of monstrous proportion. The sooner in the cycle you triggered it, the more control you had over it, but reversing it was impossible before Luna waned in the night sky.

	No, you thought, shaking your head. You weren't at home now, and chasing the herds of buffalo was right out. God, if only you could have one night of peace to acclimate to your new home! Still, there were behaviors you could take to help drive the beast down, although none of them were quite clean or wholesome. The question was, how were you feeling today? It had only been two days on English soil, and you knew you weren't long on coin or prospects.

	As your stomach rumbled, you decided that your best plan was to eat first and foremost. Hunger drove you closer to the brink, and until you'd searched out good reaches to hunt you didn't want to risk an early transformation. Fortunatly, there was a pub you could head to just down the block. Taking a minute to settle your clothes and other things, you departed your apartment without a blink.

---

	Down at the pub, you found yourself in a bit of a pickle. Turns out that when in London (which part you couldn't hazard a guess) the expectation was you would Stick to Your Own Damn Pub. As such, an interloper, especially some no-good goddamned American Cowboy, was treated with disdain and disbelief in eaqual parts. Still, you were working your way through a plate of bangers and mash when you saw someone across the bench from you. Looking up, you blinked confusedly- it was a girl. Well, very young woman, but she wasn't quite up to what you'd call womanly just yet.

	"Is it true?" she asked avidly, grinning at you. "A real, live American down here in Benthal Green?"

	You snorted quietly, and took a sip of your beer. "Thought I was in London?" you said quietly, rolling a shoulder.

	"Well, you are, but Benthal Green is part of London."

	"Ahh." you said. "In which case, yes. I am a real, live Michigander."

	The girl screwed up her bows. "Michigander?"

	"It's a special kind of American." you stage-whispered at her, grinning. "Means I had to learn a whole host of things before I got to head west."

	She gasped, sitting up straight and accidentally pulling her dress tight. "Oh, I've heard all about cowboys and Indians and all those sorts! They release a new book at the shop every month, and the have tons of old coppies too!"

	As the girl talked, you spied over her shoulder a group of three or four men looking rather grumpy at you. Looks like your good graces here were running out, fast.