For Kyle

“One man scorned and covered with scars still strove with his last ounce of strength to reach the unreachable stars; and the world will be better for this.”

Miguel de Cervantes said this. A writer, novelist... his words brought together the truths to be seen throughout our history. The Christ, Jeanne d’Arc, Olympe de Gouge, Socrates, Girolamo Savonarola, Salem Poor, all people who reached for a little bit more--and yet, so few would see their most apparent wants come to pass. Burn them, the men and women of their day had said. Hurt them, end them, for they do not bow to the wills of conformity. They fight for change, in words and actions, and this is a danger. These are heretics... the most dangerous people of all. Burn her, for she has been charged with heresy. Hang him, because his ideas do not quite fit with our own. So many lost, even more shrouded in the midst of smoke and fire, the smoldering remains of their own carrion, of which the flame was set forth by those who could and would not accept the possibility of change. So many forgotten... but Rowen Blackhawk would not be.

It began in such simplicity, it would not be recalled in the romanticized gossip and texts, evanescent in the void of normality. Such innocence, to the point no one with half a mind would momentarily consider the possibility. But then, were one of her acolytes granted with the knowledge of the truth, her past, the real genesis, they would shun the prospect of her being anything else but their cold blooded leader, ruthless to all those beneath their status by blood. The first, the ignorance of the past, would be ignored, forgotten, disregarded, disbelieved. This could not be the one, any figure familiar with her streak of impudence and perversity would say... could she? Their heroine, their deliverer of an iron fist and ready weapon? No... no, she could not. Not yet.

Rowen Blackhawk, Miss Blackhawk, or simply ‘Rowen’, as she would have preferred, stepped into a run-down elevator, on her way to a second-rate job in a location atrocious by any sane Human being’s standards. That is, a living space reeking with apparent filth, foul lack in legal and moral integrity, and patrolmen who just didn’t give a damn. In this place, there were deadly secrets, hidden places, and unknown truths that worked their way into the fears of the common person on the street. The unknown was the single most dangerous aspect of life. Everyone was suspect to this secret factor, every living personage forced to take a closer look to the common denizen. That man on the street corner--the one with the sunglasses, across the way of road from a rushing woman... was he really just a man? Was there something more? Rowen knew the answer as she walked down the sidewalk, slowing as she saw an officer approach to speak with the figure. The only thing the city guard worked so hard to repress, the center of their minute attention. Fear could be an excellent motivational force, whether or not the ends would do good or hurt those undeserving of punishment.

The man was taken aback as the officer approached him. Rowen stopped, straining her ears to hear. What was being said, she did not know, but when the figure of authority gestured to the man’s glasses, she knew what lay ahead. She could see beforehand, that the figure would back, even run, even fight, if it meant he did not need to show his eyes. Resistance was vain, of course. They were always caught in the end.

The man had attempted to run. The bluecoat bolted after him, knocking the opposition to the ground after a short-lived chase. Black shades slipped down from the apprehended’s face, shattering against the concrete walk. Eyes... eyes to be feared by mortal men, eyes that arose a paranoia about any one man or woman who looked a little different. The look of his panicked glance, the indeterminate clue, but with this man, it was already certain what he was. The irises within his gaze, partially pressed to the ground by the figure who held him against the pavement, were red.

He was a Lycanthrope. Werewolf, to some. A man infected by a disease whose origins were so far unknown, nature being where the dim light of the full moon would make the diseased go mad. Erratic and violent, they would seek to hunt, as the wolf, to kill and devour... and infect. By the make-up of the disease, eyes would change, more often than not, into something unnatural. This common fact automatically instigated a paranoia amongst the people, against anyone with an appearance even slightly unusual, the possession of shades automatically causing one to be suspect. Certain kinds of eye lenses, namely the colored variety, were illegal, the creation of said object punishable by an outrageously long sentence, little proof required to convict. With the physical lenses present, and a suspect in custody, a trial was almost needless. With Lycanthropes, the situation was by far more unreasonable. Anyone said to be strange or abnormal, especially by appearances of the eyes, was to be recorded, stuck in with a tracking device on their spine, and exiled from the city limits. Of course, be it though legality by the uninfected or the inconspicuous motions by the diseased, one could come back... with routine punishment waiting for them in due time.

Rowen was invisibly shaken as she walked on, half a dozen other officers and cop cars appearing into view, as though from thin air. They had been stalking him... the man with the haunting eyes. ‘Wolfish’ eyes, some said. The eyes of the damned.

Many of the surrounding city folk backed away, others moving in for a closer look as Rowen simply walked on, head down, shunning from her mind what she had just seen. She wanted not to think of these things, these injustices, wrongs, but simultaneously safe precautions as she occasionally checked her wristwatch, a lightheaded peer coming to an old run-down diner. It was a great contrast from the towering structures that lay ahead, behind, and at both sides of the street, this lone one-story cookshop at once the home of the worst and most expensive cup of coffee money could buy. This was her stop... compared to whatever other option there was in that disgusting-ranging-on-hellish place, this was the most respectable one... when one was comparing. As a coffee shop in itself, the environment was repulsive, expense outrageous, food atrocious, and service no better than the treatment given to one in prison. By the general honest standard, Rowen was one of the good ones there... maybe the only one. Almost as an outcast, she kept her silence, grinning in quietude to the random stranger. Shifting sounds of the small television, chiming on about matters old and useless, the mindless chatter collaborated in by means of the thin crowd inside, and rats that scurried across the foot of the walls, Rowen was surprisingly not unhappy with this turn, not usually. She would not choose this place, not by any means, but at the same time, it was easy to breeze through every day without perpetual interruption or confrontation, so long as her activities did not occur at night... or in the day unarmed. Her goal in life, far back as she knew, was to keep from underfoot. She would soon learn that this method of living would not help those she cared for, herself, or her values.

Figures came, and figures went, many bearing a suspicious look, others openly partaking in less than lawfully accepted actions. Rowen was silent, as she had chosen to remain for many a day, regardless of whatever direction the world chose to take. She was silent amongst strangers, friends, anyone and everyone who came a little too close. Even so, it never hurt to see an amicable face. Such a face would appear that day, a day already of suppressed sorrow and everyday miseries. Descending from the best place one could be to the worst, a young Native American woman came through the door. On first glance, next to the filth that surrounded her, the first word that would come to mind was... clean. Then, perhaps, professionality. Her name was Neva, a woman of a strange sense of joviality and properness. She most certainly attracted a few odd stares as she came up to the counter, unusual smile on her face.

“Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re still stuck here?” Neva had said, chestnut eyes glinting with a childlike felicity. The question had been asked repeatedly, as the woman came as often as would be permitted. The answer would always be the same, an embarrassed grin spreading across Rowen’s face as she pretended to be useful in that particular spot. It was not as though anything would be said about this, even if she had been blatantly neglecting her duties. Such required someone to care in the first place. “You know you’re welcome to come and stay with me.”

Like the question, the offer had been given time and time again, through the months she had chosen to come. For quite some time, Neva and Rowen had been friends. Through this time, it had been as though some kind of private charity program was in effect, wherein Neva would offer her services in any given instance, Rowen consistently refusing.

“Back at fourth quarter,”Neva went on, this time speaking of something new, though not deviating from the normal routine too greatly, “they give you real jobs, and you can actually use your diploma for something other than decorating your wall.”

“Where this any other day,” Rowen said, breaking eye contact, simultaneously performing tasks that would have been normally required and speaking. “I would.”

That was a lie, of course. Even so, while most times the response was nonspecific, there was something very clear and present standing in her way that day. Well, no, perhaps not clear. Rowen had desired no part of this obstacle, this hindrance that met her at her doorstep, and yet, she wanted no more than to meet this problem and make it right again. Such could not be fully understood unless one knew what secret she bore that Sunday afternoon.

“And if this was any other day,” Neva replied in sarcasm, “I’d strap you to the back of my car, but times being as they are, people might be slightly put off by the sight of a gagged woman in my closet.”

Rowen chuckled at that. A simper faded as the small vidscreen that hung above them, in a small, but open corner, went on about the latest up-to-date Lycanthrope capture.

“Another one, eh,” Neva said disinterestedly as Rowen mentally cursed. There was too much of this--far too much. While the rest of the eating house, the city, the world may have been glad or indifferent, Rowen was horrified... quietly so, her opinions of no value there.

“You recognize him, don’t you?” Rowen bit out her words as, on the vidscreen, a man was bodily heaved out of a manhole, belly pinching against the edge.

Neva shook her head. Of course she would, Rowen knew privately. She was a good friend, but she didn’t care so deeply when it came to the--ahh-- Werewolves. Right along with the rest of the world.

“Art. Third grade Art? Used to throw paper scraps at you?”

“Art?!” Neva said in a tone of surprise, a spark of recognition meeting the woman’s gaze. It always seemed to matter more if you knew the people--in most cases. “But--he’s the last of our crew!”

“Yeah,” Rowen said in a lackluster voice. She had seen this many times, friends falling victims to the disease, those she passed by on the street, just... so damn many of them. What was more, the infected kept sneaking back into the city, making for an increased number of captures every day. It was naturally worse for those who came back.

“Well,” Neva said with a superior smirk. “In time, we won’t need to worry about that.”

“Oh?” Rowen asked uninterestedly. Up until right about then, Rowen had no reason to take the comment seriously. Second Quarter, the city, that is, would always be run down, behind all else on just about every subject, and consequently overrun with Werewolves. Well... this was how she viewed the place until Neva brought it upon herself to do away with this fantasy, perhaps unknowingly causing hurt for reasons she did not expect.

“Well, yes,” Neva continued proudly. “I’m actually doing something of importance. My team and I are working on something to correct the current situation.”

Neva did not wait for an invitation to go into the specifics. This was her great achievement, so to speak, and there would be no modesty in demonstrating exactly how thrilled she was over her project.

“It’s a vapor,” came the explanation in words hushed, as she bent over the counter. “Completely repulsive to the infected--makes them sick, so one, so forth. Keep it going in the cities, and we’re covered.”

“Why don’t you try and find some kind of cure, rather than killing the lot? That works, too.”

“Well, they won’t be dead,” she muttered in reply. What would have been more accurate was that most wouldn’t be dead. Like the common irritants of that day, or any day, somewhere more subject to these poisons than others.

“Never mind,” was the reply after a pause. Rowen very well knew her friend would not be discouraged from her actions, whether the warning came from Rowen herself, or others who had the privilege of being Neva’s friend. “... do you have it?”

The mood became somber. Neva leaned in, grim line across her face as she spoke in a hushed voice. True, the dealings of death, murder, theft, all things of that nature could be discussed openly, and no one would care... but certain things were closely watched. The most scrutinized of all, of course, had already been mentioned. Two concerns with one ultimate reality.

“You know this illegal, don’t you? You know you can go away with this for a long time...”

“Rules never stopped you before,” Rowen said quietly. One who knew Rowen well would scarcely believe she was saying this--one who wouldn’t even cross the street in the wrong area, though perhaps her tongue was not one to be trusted all the time... not that anyone heard enough to know for sure.

“Where I live, things aren’t quite the same.” Neva gestured to herself, all forms of joy vacant from her face. “Sure, they check in every now and then, make sure we’re clean, but they don’t put you away just for having...”

“This has nothing to do with the disease, okay? No one’s sick, no one’s hiding in my closet. You believe me, don’t you?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. Of course I believe you. You’re my friend... but I’m not on the jury here.”

“I know... but don’t worry about it. Just let me have it, okay?”

Apprehensively, Neva slid a white case over the counter. Rowen took it quickly, placing it in her pocket for later use. All in that moment, the dark skinned woman lost her appetite for pleasant conversation, and gained a sudden desire to return to her own line of duty.

“I ought to leave,” was amongst the final words shared among two friends that day and hour. “Work to do...”

“It’s Sunday.”

“If you ever need anything, you know where to find me,” was all that was said to close their conversation.

“Of course.”

And thus, the meeting had ended. It must have instigated some kind of curiosity, as to what resided inside that small plastic container Rowen received, and why she would do something that endangered her own entity... the matter was not as complex as it seemed. While the woman may not have burst into a room, weapons firing, and while she may not have skulked the night in some less than reputable group, she would do certain illegalities if it meant someone else benefited for it. Not just anyone, of course. Not some man off the street who told her a certain transaction would be a good idea, but a person she cared for... more than herself. But then, perhaps this self sacrifice was not yet fully understood. After all, wrong doings tends to seem less corrupt if done with little possibility of being caught.

Of course, these things did not make her a full-fledged criminal, most certainly not, though the definition depended on whether or not you spoke of immorality in law or in ethics. The two most certainly did not always intertwine, not then, not now, and not one thousand years in the future. Humanity was Humanity... there could be no one way that spoke for everyone, especially when true cowards lay behind it all, living only to protect their own interests.

The walk home was less than satisfactory. Keeping from underfoot was a business severely underrated, in terms of staying out of trouble. All Rowen need to was exist to attract the attention of others, a concealed weapon ever at her side, not for use, but to merely say she had in for situations just as these... the situation she was not left to herself. Under the usual circumstance, one would merely pull out a weapon and use it. The woman had seen much of this, more times than she wanted to. The weapon was designed to be a threat, nothing more. Whether or not this was good was left to be decided whence the end result be made clear. Right or wrong, one would not see it by looking at her, listening to her, admiring from afar, or closer than comfortable, but Rowen was a woman of pride. Foolish pride, no... just plain moronic. Who need ask for help? She didn’t... or didn’t want to, at least. When others were involved, matters were different, but in issues of self preservation, the woman could be sincerely arrogant, and consequently backward. Of course, there was always the reverse side of the equation. If she had made an attempt on something intelligent, as calling for outside assistance, how many would listen? Officers wouldn’t... the passerby on the street most likely would not. In cases like these, it was as entering in the lottery. You may or may not get anything, but it didn’t hurt too badly to try.

Unless the offender had friends.

The exact details are not completely necessary, so let us just say Rowen stepped through the door of her apartment, with a bloody arm held by an opposing limb. Outside and down the street were the offenders, none seriously hurt, though certain wounds enough to discourage further disservice for the time being. As for Rowen herself, she was neither the sort to bravely bear her wounds, like the figures commonly portrayed in theater, and nor was she the kind of person to throw herself down and sob after a bee sting. Locked somewhere in-between, her facial expression was something to be described as... utterly dominated by pain. Back, almost as though giving way, thumped against the wall, a light switching on, to reveal the filthiest room one could have the pleasure of viewing, unless, of course, it was being compared to the quarters of the typical Human being. Were that the case, her living space would be considered more or less normal. Bits of clothing scattered about the floor, amongst boxes, amongst papers, amongst all varieties of junk she held onto for no particular reason, Rowen went forward, almost prepared to fall down. She might have, were it not for the possibility of someone walking onto the scene of her, on the floor, in a bloody heap. It had nothing to do, really, of someone else being slightly concerned, but more of her own personal self-regard. It somehow failed to seem dignified, being caught in such a state.

This in mind, one would assume who would be present to catch her unless she actually died, a certain smell permeating though the walls. There was someone to see her. Someone whose eyes locked on hers the moment she swayed. Eyes of blue and brown. Hands caught onto her shoulders, appearing as though keeping her up as a voice met her ears.

“What happened?”

His name was Philip, Philip Hale. Somewhere in his early forties, he was of a decent height, tawny hair and flesh of harvest gold. Once, not such a long time ago, he had been a fairly brilliant engineer, tools and mechanics, as well as mathematics well within his capacity to understand and excel within. Before the account go further, it best be understood the this Philip was no significant other, most certainly not holding any sort of marital status with anyone, albeit the band on his finger, let alone Rowen. At one time, not such a long stretch ago, he had acted as a parent to the girl. Her own, well... they were not present to provide any kind of care. Philip had never questioned this, and in return, Rowen hadn’t questioned the few things that appeared to be in a status somewhat less than advertised.

“Someone was stupid,” she said through teeth clamped down, weight shifting from her own to feet, to Philip.

“Whoa, whoa,” came the response as an arm cradled her back, another coming up from under her knees. Lifted into his arms, Rowen was taken to her bedroom--or, rather, where she slept. There was no obvious barrier between the place one found him or herself in upon entrance, or the resting places, or... no, that was all. No, not that was all, there were no more varied rooms with no walls between, that was all, there were no more varied rooms at all. Any additional commodities were to be found elsewhere in the building, this place consequently no more than three walls, the fourth void, as a rather extensive window stood in its stead. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

The question was asked when the woman had already been laid down, jacket awkwardly removed to reveal the bullet wound, area close on bruised by impact. By then, Philip was already peering through the blinds of the window with a single eye, paranoically watching the slick looking kid leaning against the structure on the same stretch of road, conversing with a few males of a similar make.

“What?” Rowen asked, tone of voice not what one would have considered to be normal. Rather, it was most assuredly strained, she herself not in the conversational mood, and for obvious reason. “No, of course not...”

“Good. Good, now, about that arm--me or local butcher?”

The option provided was no exaggeration. Any doctor, or so they called themselves, in that area would very likely remove the entire flesh pierced by metal, rather than withdraw the lone bullet itself. Now, Philip... he was no doctor, but by all means, the lesser of the two evils.

“You, I... I guess.”

Philip scrounged around the apartment of any and all tools that could be used, objects ranging from pliers, varying in sizes, screwdrivers, and a butter knife... all properly sanitized, of course. He was no doctor, but not an idiot. As the procession continued, it was difficult to believe that any alternate means could be less humane, that is, just falling short the amputation of the whole arm. Truth be told, this was not as gruesome as what could be offered in the medical centers of the Second Quarter. One must ask if it was at all possible to go elsewhere, First Quarter, Third, anywhere with someone more proficient in such situations. Out of the question. First, Third, and Fourth Quarter security was damned tight, and medical treatment was near impossible to get when one did not live within their city limits--that is, efficient medial treatment. Second Quarter residents were especially distrusted. As such, one from that location would be answering questions, ranging from what is your natural hair color to have you recently been convicted of a crime, just to be immediately cross referenced in their data bank, while the wounded is bleeding and dying on the floor, unable to receive help until all questions had been answered, forms filled out, etceteras etceteras, so on so forth. Put lightly, faring out of one’s way for help was not the way to go.

In the end, the instruments that proved themselves to be of most use were the dually used were the metal nail file, pressed against the flesh, and a pair of tweezers, removing the metal from its cradle.

“Do you want alcohol for that?”

It was far too late to protest by the time Philip acted. It was not... appreciated to the fullest extent of Rowen’s capability.

“You-God da--ah-ah”

“You’ll live,” Philip responded, voice lacking concern. This was not the way he would have acted, were the situation slightly varying in a few specific factors. Under the usual circumstance, he would have been frantic. As obviously displayed through action, he was not as such. He was hardened--but efficient. Colder, but truthful. It was just her arm, was what his reason for sanity was. Her life was in no danger. There was this, and another situation that lay at hand.

In time, the wound was properly dressed, or rather, as proper as it was going to get. A long stretch of white cloth had been wrapped around the wound, taut, no red seeping through the binds.

“I’ve got nothing for the pain.”

This was regrettably true, Philip lifting up Rowen’s back, putting her in a sitting position. As plainly demonstrated by the expression on her face, Rowen was not the most comfortable Human being on the planet, and nor did she appreciate the change of position. At the very least, her breath was more calm, though muscles shaking beyond control.

“Th-thanks,” she finally said, the first words she had spoken since the procedure had gone underway, scratching the occasional swearing. Aside from her one wound, Rowen’s brain was a mess, little to concentrate on barring how much it hurt.

“It’s nothing,” the man of strange eyes said, rather keen on giving her room--or gaining space for himself. Either way. “You don’t intend to go out tomorrow, do you?”

That reminded her. Not that she wanted much to do anything about it right then, that case in her pocket, but the probability she’d forget the moment she hit her pillow may as well have been one out of one. The odds weren’t terribly good for the end she had hoped to achieve.

“Yea-no-I don’t... hold on a sec.”

The bindings around her arm were uncomfortably tight, but she didn’t plan on complaining over this, along side the wound itself. She reached out for her jacket, pulling it in, wincing heavily at the force she used with her wounded arm.

“Pocket...” She said. Yes, yes, she had given up over pulling up her jacket all the way onto the bed, or rather, pair of mattresses lying on the floor, and reaching in for the object of illegality. This Rowen, the Rowen shunned by those who would soon come to know her, was not extremely brave, fearsome, or excessively tolerant of pain. “Right pocket...”

Philip scooped up her coat, emptying the many folds of cloth of a single plastic case. There was nothing too profound or revealing over this singular object, though he had his suspicions. Another side of Philip took surface--worry. The coming fear that Rowen was involved in something that would endanger her well being, that she had done something that would result in her own arrestation. This feeling--this worry took control over his movements, though subtle to the eye, his visage, expression now pained by apprehension. He opened the small white case, to reveal a muddy brown lens.

“Rowen,” he said, his tone grave and foreboding. “You know what this can mean for you. You know what could happen if anyone finds out about this.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. She didn’t want to sit around, talking about it--she knew what she did, and she didn’t regret it. It was either to wait for the inevitable, or act. This was the most she could pull off--the smallness of the crime, the minuteness of the act itself--and yet, so fearsome the punishment. But the punishment may not come--this she kept in mind. All required was secrecy.

“No, I’m serious,” he stood to his feet, shortly pacing around the room. Fingers ran through his hair, as he laid out everything simply and plainly, causes and effects, events and occurrences, present and future. “You are keeping a Lycanthrope in your home--a Lycanthrope. And, you are attempting to hide what I am through this. One or the other could result in a heavy punishment--can you imagine what the two combined could do to you?”

A Lycanthrope. The better half of a month had passed since Philip had been infected, a figure truly no man finding his way to his own apartment in that very structure, already wild with a wolf-like rage. Philip... was in the way. The first thing that greeted him the morning after was a terrible ache, where the flesh had been peeled by the dull teeth of the diseased. The second... eyes. Wolfish eyes. Eyes to the condemned, eyes of the diseased, wretched, fey. One blue, one brown. Grotesque, in the truest sense of the word, as Philip had seen them, nothing short of the epitome of atrociousness. They were not his eyes--his own, dull and brown, but these... He needn’t any proof--anyone who took a short glimpse into his eyes saw a caged animal, restless, captive, confined. Beyond this, deep in the depths of his gaze, was fear. Fear for his loved ones, for when the moon came to its fullness, he knew there would be no control. No reason, no love, nothing but calamity.

This gift, however--this illegality, this wrong, this simple lens was more than a means to fool any suspicious officials. It was more than a means to calm the worries and paranoia of those whose eye leaned far too close to his window. It was freedom. It was a way to leave that small room, to walk outside. To many, the simple luxury of walking amongst the gasoline fumes, the paranoid strangers, the common criminals, petty thieves... it was all taken for granted. Perhaps this was taken far too seriously by the man, Philip, or perhaps it was something deeper... the wolf inside, the animal that craved so much more than a small living space. A wild creature, he longed for something more. To walk, run, wherever and whenever he pleased, under the sun and sky. The animal inside begged him, pleaded with him, beseeched him to take the lens, and yet his Humanity said no. His Humanity desired, too, to see the outside again, to be amongst his friends, strangers, all those he was once a part of, but his fear for Rowen was greater. There was too much danger... too great a risk.

“I can’t take this,” he finally said, Rowen preoccupied with her own self pity. She looked up with pathetic eyes, pale face formed into something vexed.

“Yes you can,” she said, just below angered that he would not take this. She wanted it for him--she wanted some relief when condemnation surely lay at hand. At this point, the refusal was an insult, not a measure of precaution in the interest of her own preservation. “Or else, it’ll be in my hands,” she continued, sentences becoming choppy, grammar horrendous in the desire to save time, and minimize the actual need to speak. “Police find out... not good for me.”

Philip nodded his head slowly. There was a vice either way--if he was caught with them, he would be sent out, and Rowen would be in serious trouble... the other way around, and well... the situation still failed to yield a result lacking both of them facing punishment. Of course there were other ways--of course, there were ways to be sure Rowen was not hurt for this, he himself facing a self inflicted prison in that very room. This would not be so. Philip allowed himself a soft smile as he pictured himself amongst the common crowd.

The year was 2105, mid February. Thirteen days until Philip Hale’s first full moon. Thirteen days until the fullness of the moon come unbidden, scorned and loathed by all those who hid amongst the common person, bringing with it blood and chaos. Thirteen days, and all hell would break loose.