Demon in the Doghouse, A Peter is the Wolf fanfiction

[FallReaper]

I own no recognizable characters. That's pretty much it. I own the original character, and the plot's a relatively original idea.

A rift opened silently over an unused intersection during the middle of a moonless night. The rift itself looked like a nearly unnoticeable warping or distortion of space. For several minutes the stars were skewed, the little dipper eclipsing its counterpart, before the rift collapsed into itself and spat something out.

It was hacking and wheezing, and it did not roll to a halt. It slammed into the side of a Stop Sign, where it did not go through, it did not bend or disfigure the sign, it just stopped. Painfully. And spent several minutes clutching at the newly formed bruise and attempting to expel its lungs via its mouth. Soon enough the coughing stopped, and one fleshless hand wrapped around the pole of the sign as the creature pulled itself to its feet.

"Sucks." The creature rasped, wiping blood off its lips and chin. "Aether. Hate aether."

A pair of blinding white-blue lights ghosted over him, blinding him, and then the car turned right and continued on its way. There was no way the driver hadn't noticed him, he was wearing an orange shirt and he had blood dripping down his chin. The car had also looked relatively new, and made entirely of fiberglass, and rounded. Cell phones should be common then.

He probably had about twenty minutes before he absolutely had to get moving. That should be enough time to get his bearings straight and see if his satchel had been sent through.

Ten minutes of searching the area around where he'd been thrown showed that it wasn't anywhere to be found. Fantastic. None of the tools in it were completely irreplaceable, but until he had a chance to do so, things were going to be... Difficult. His wallet being in there was actually the least of his concerns.

He was regularly tossed back and forth throughout the multiverse, what was even the point of plastic when he was occasionally tossed into a reality that never developed it?

Pointless. Worse was that a handful of lights had appeared in the distance to the east, two pairs that he could see. Turning towards Polaris he broke into a light jog. Even if they failed to notice his nature at a first glance, he was almost certain they were police and what he looked like alone would open up more unpleasant questions than he wanted to deal with at the moment.

-----

Two days following the roads and hiding in the woods and he had a vague idea of where he was. The world was completely normal. There was only one moon that rose and fell in a normal cycle, and it looked normal enough. Sparrows, squirrels, a few deer here and there, all as normal as could be. In fact, the thing most out of place was himself.

Which the animals apparently knew. He hadn't had a bite to eat in days. And without his supplies he couldn't fashion the basic disguise that let him blend in with the humans.

Alright, it was just an eye patch, but people had expectations, and it was easier to go unnoticed if they were met.

He'd spent two days running along the roads, and night was falling on the third. Off in the distance the glare of neon lights flicked on, and behind him the roar of thunder. Actually, thunder would have been less irritating. He was passed by half a dozen people riding Harley bikes.

The beginning of a plan formed in his mind. Simple, effective, and he'd have the opportunity to give someone else an equally bad day. And as the biker group turned into the waffle house parking lot, his plan crystallized.

He kept out of the direct light coming from inside and looked over his targets. Nothing, nothing, nothing, didn't any of these guys have a saddlebag? Forget it, there'd been a truck out back in the employee parking with a bed-box.

He hadn't found what he was looking for in the box, but there was a toolbox on the floor in the cab. Sliding open the back window to get in was depressingly easy, it was an older model, it didn't even have a latch keeping it closed. Now this was the easy part. The guy didn't own a single phillips head screwdriver, but he had almost every size of flat head. Perfect.

The short screwdriver with the fat handle was exactly what he needed. The hammer would be handy, too.

He positioned the corner of the screwdriver against the keyhole, and tapped the handle a few times with the hammer to make sure it was positioned right. He slammed down the hammer, the sound of grinding metal set his teeth on edge. He twisted the handle, but it refused to budge. No go for this one, just a ruined ignition. He did this to three more Harley Davidson bikes before he met with success. With the roar of an engine and a heart filled with elation, he straddled the seat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing on my bike, boy?" A muscular man stood in front of the bike, taller, much taller than the thief.

Of course, since the thief didn't even hit five feet, this wasn't exactly impressive.

The biker had an angular face, was decked in leather, and was wearing a red bandanna.

"I think I'm stealing your bike." He revved the engine and grinned. "You gonna stop me?"

"I'm gonna kill you!" The thief leaned back under the first swing and switched into gear while the man recovered. With a jarring bump he slid the bike onto the sidewalk and turned. The drop off the sidewalk was less jarring, but the drop was more painful.

"Get off my bike you bastard!" That sounded close. Too close. The thief turned around and almost gasped in shock. The man was obviously very determined, he had to be. He was holding onto the sissybar behind the seat and sliding along the soles of his boots.

"Nah." The thief held up his right hand, the fading light reflecting off of polished bone. "Think I'll keep it."

As the light from the waffle house dimmed further, a dim red glow became more obvious where the creatures left eye should have been. The look of dawning horror was something so common to the thief that it shouldn't hold for him any special appeal. Though it was always nice to know that there were still humans smart enough to fear him.

"Look out!" The thief turned around, and had just enough time to blink before eating bark. He peeled himself off the tree, and peeled was definitely the proper term. Looking at the bike, though, was a more gruesome sight. The biker was not in good condition. His nose was smashed in, but his head looked otherwise fine. His torso, on the other hand, looked like it tried to eat the tire without ever using his mouth.

"Where's your phone?" The thief wasn't actually too badly off. He was sore now, and he'd be a walking bruise for the better part of a week, but he was otherwise fine. The biker moaned in pain.

"Oh, I don't do it for me, I do it for you." The biker moaned some more as the thief rooted around his pockets. He pulled out two things. The man's wallet, and a tiny blue cell phone. He emptied the wallet and flipped open the cell phone.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" The thief pushed his fist against his throat and spoke.

"My ah, my friend he, uhm he wrecked his bike." Faking a slur is a lot harder than some would think, but it's not too terribly difficult to do with practice. Beneath him, the biker once again moaned in pain. The thief dropped the phone and the empty wallet next to the biker and disappeared into the woods.

Well, he tried at least. The woods were getting sparser the farther north he went, he must have been dropped pretty far south-west in America. Sooner or later they'd start getting denser, but until then he'd have to be more careful. This stunt was, quite clearly, poorly planned.

Of course, that's because it failed. He'd be touting his own genius if he'd succeeded.

-----

You can get pretty far on seventy-three bucks. Especially when you don't spend it on anything.

Two weeks and three days in this reality, and he'd already made it to the tabloids. He was listed in two incidents, once as the chupa-cabra, the other time they attributed the incident to "Visitors".

The cow had been more filling than he'd thought it would be, was it his fault he couldn't finish it?

Right now, however, he wasn't focusing on the mistakes he'd made throughout the past few weeks. Right now he was taking a gamble.

"You smell like you haven't bathed in a week." The girl was in her teens, red hair and blue eyes with enough metal in her face to justify a fear of magnets. He was tempted to ask why she was working in the local good will.

"I haven't been able to go home." Well, he could, but forcing his way back out of one reality and into another was more draining than running for days on end and losing a fight. The expression on her face changed from disdain to understanding faster than he could track.

"Sorry hun. How much ya got?" He was four-foot eight, had one eye, and at the moment looked like he had one arm. If people didn't look too closely he could easily be mistaken for a disfigured kid.

"I got twenty bucks, how far will that get me?" She studied him for a few moments before breaking into a smile.

"I think we can fit a new outfit or two in your budget, hun."

"Does that include a backpack?" Her smile slipped a little bit.

"Maybe just the one outfit then." She stepped out from behind the counter and led him into the racks. It took almost twenty minutes before she found what she called "The perfect outfit".

"Say hun, how about I treat you after work? How do you take your steak?" What was she looking for? Her tone, it was speculative, appraising. Odd.

"Ash in the chest, normally." Incomprehension. Confusion. Dammit. "Medium rare Miss..." His eye slid down. "Medium rare, Miss Ganes."

"Alright hun, you go ahead and try those out. I'll be up at the front when you're ready to check out." Human contrariness constantly eluded him. Today was no different.

Unsurprisingly, the outfit was a good fit. Tan cargo pants with six pockets, a green tee-shirt with a skull on the front, and black cotton boxers. Throw in the faded, dusty black backpack and he had maybe four dollars left of what he budgeted for clothes. He bundled everything together and headed to the front and...

Dammit all to Hell.

How did a cop get here while he was trying on clothes?

Run, play along? Hell, reveal himself and disappear during the shock?

Screw it. "Alright Miss Gaines, I think that'll be it."

"Everything look good, hun?" He nodded. "I rang up your purchases while you were in the back. Comes up to fourteen eighty-three."

He pocketed his change and glared, first at her, then the officers car in front of the store, then back at her. She grinned.

"So, who's your friend?" Her grin widened.

"Oh, him? That's ol' Boyd. I figured you'd like a ride wherever you're goin'." He rolled his eye. He was short, not young.

"Thanks, I guess." The officer was getting out of the car before he'd finished stuffing everything into the backpack. He got out the glass doors of the Goodwill before he got a really good look at the officer. Even hunched over, Boyd was nearly six feet tall, his hair wasn't salt and pepper grey. It was just salt. And no man who looked that old should be that muscular.

Boyd stared at him. He stared at Boyd. The winds shifted and he sneezed, the old cop took that as an opportunity to close the distance.

"Bless you, son."

"Thanks. What can I do for you, Boyd?" The old man hesitated, unsettled by his familiar use of the officers name.

"You seem to have me at a bit of a disadvantage, son. You can start by tellin' me your name."

"Hatch. Ling. My name's Hatch Ling." Hatch grinned as the officer stared at him, clearly unimpressed.

"That's great, son, but I need your real name."

"For all intents and purposes, Mr.Boyd, that is indeed my name." His stance and posture shifted in such a way that it set Boyd on edge. And then he just smiled and relaxed, and Boyd knew there was something wrong there.

"It's Officer Boyd, son. Now, I'm gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with me. I'd bet you're parents are right worried about ya'." Hatch pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly rubbed up and down. Some assumptions caused stress. Stress caused headaches. Headaches sucked.

"Can I get a shower out of it?" The officers look was a very good attempt at being unreadable.

"I don't see why not."

"You have my gratitude, old man." He'd disappear the instant their backs were turned anyway, but at least his escape would be squeaky clean.

-----

It was four weeks ago when he was tossed into this reality, and he was getting tired of roughing it.

Back home he had a warm bed and he could look forward to a good fight every few days. He didn't mind showering in the rain or catching wild game, but dealing strictly with humans was starting to bother him. He loved them to bits, really, he'd have passed his job over to the nearest pretender if he didn't, but this... Mundane routine was just so boring.

But tonight was different.

Without a cloud in the sky it was a truly beautiful night to be walking through the woods.The moon was full, the air was crisp, and it felt like something was trying to get under his skin.

Things had gotten a little too calm. Good things, bad things, those he could deal with. The downtime while the scales were tipping? That drove him nuts.

The winds picked up and Hatch took a cautious sniff of the air. Hamburger. And dogs. There must be a camp sight nearby. Or a dog show. He angled himself into the wind and ambled off.

He could hear them well before he could see them. People talking, dogs barking and growling, some laughter here and there.

What he saw, however, was, well, holy-

"Fuck." All sounds stopped, even the wind slowed to a stop. Hatch stared at dozens of creatures.

Werewolves.

And they stared back.

All except three. Three werewolves were closing in on him, fast, and he had to make a decision, faster.

Fight run fight run fight run- Run!

Three on one was not a winning battle, well, he could kill them, probably, but three on one was just for starters. And Hatch didn't want to have to pull out the nasty tricks. Magic? Outright defying physics? Revealing that he could practice, rather than just exist through, would probably end worse than his corpse cooling somewhere.

The first werewolf, dark brown and bulky, lunged for him. Hatch rolled forward, underneath rippling muscle and fur, and bolted to the side as soon as his feet were under him. He broke into the tree line and twisted under and through the brush. He could hear them though, they weren't running into trees, they only barely rubbed against bark, dammit, they knew these woods. Well, what did he expect? This was their territory, of course they should know it. Hatch stopped avoiding trees and ran straight for the oak in front of him. He took two steps vertically up the tree before jumping off of it, twisting in the air, and swinging off of a low hanging branch to another tree.

Hatch doubled back, not even a bare whisper in the wind as he listened for the beasts following him. The third one passed underneath of him, older than the other two, and he saw the old wolves ears twitch. He either heard Hatch, something very doubtful, or he heard the wolves ahead of him turn around. Regardless, Hatch took a hard left and sped up.

Judging by the amount of barking, more of the creatures were starting to get into it. Hatch ripped off his eyepatch and glanced over his shoulder. Blond werewolf? Didn't matter, she was jumping through the trees and gaining. Hatch slowed down, slightly, and made a plan. He was still faster than them, and he was more compact and turned sharper than them, but they knew the woods.

He launched himself at the ground back at the direction she was coming from. It put him back on the path of the three larger males, but he'd figure out what to do when he ran into them. He heard a branch snap, and hurled himself to the right. A black blur passed through where he'd been. He glanced back and-

Shit.

The werewolf bounced off the tree, at him. Hatch hit the ground and he could feel huge, furry fingers pass through his hair.

He swallowed dryly as he got into a shaky run, his center of balance quickly righting itself. A vicious sneeze almost felled him. This was getting worse by the second.

Planplanplanplan- wait. That was just so stupid it could never work, he was not going to go through the center of the werewolf gathering. An explosive crack behind him and an explosion of bark next to him was not going to change his mind.

"Stop running, and we won't harm you." The old werewolf. He had marks on his chest, some kind of surgery? But why would it show up on his fur. Not important. Focus on the gun. Mostly not important, getting shot would suck but it wouldn't even slow him down.

Unless it was a leg shot- No! Focus! Run away now, answer uncomfortable questions never.

The bullet kicked up dirt where his foot had been while he was going full tilt back to the clearing. He sneezed again. This time, however, he didn't notice the sound of twigs breaking, of leafs being crushed, he just saw brown and felt the air get shoved out of his lungs when his momentum was reversed.

"You're pretty fast for a runt, you know that kid?" That compliment would mean so much more if he wasn't blinking stars out of his vision and struggling to breathe.

"End of the line, you were pretty fun for a kid." He felt teeth closing around his neck. There were twenty-eight separate points pressing into his neck. Any one of which would hurt, and bleed a lot, but wouldn't be fatal. Idiot.

"Gus, don't!" The teeth closed, just a little bit. Now or never. "We don't know-" Hatch slammed his claw into the beasts mouth, and his normal thumb into the creatures eye. The werewolf screamed and Hatch pushed himself away, but his wrist was caught in the bastards mouth.

"You-" Hatches foot found its way into Gusses groin, cutting off whatever witless banter was about to come from the mouth wrapped around his hand. That same maw opened and Hatch had to act fast.

Damn, its eye was already growing back. Wait, actually he could use that.

The distal phalanges of his right hand were sharpened. A mistake Hatch often regretted, but right now was quite handy. His right hand knifed foreward, parting through flesh and muscle, cartilidge and jugular, stopping when it hit spine.

"Let me go, Gustav here lives!" He could see them. Curious, horrified eyes staring at him. Some in the trees, most in the dark.

"Don't lie, kid." The speaker wasn't as big or vicious looking as the beast healing around his hand. The way he was talking though, he acted like- Oh. Alpha. "Fang and claw, kid. You already killed him."

Silence spread amongst the moonlit darkness. Gus was looking down at him, eyes wide and fearful.

"If I didn't feel the need to prove people wrong, I'd actually kill you." Hatch managed to roll them over, barely, and planted his feet firmly on the beasts chest. There was nothing special about his wrist bones, and this guys muscles were Strong, he was firmly stuck in the creatures throat. With a jerk and a pop he stood up and fell backwards, his stained hand free of the beast.

He wasn't given the opportunity to stand before two wolves slammed him against a tree, the old one had one hand around his neck and Hatches right hand pinned against the bark. The alpha had his left hand pinned against the tree as well.

"Evenin' neighbors." What more could he say?

A/N Hit by sudden inspiration, I thought I'd go ahead and share.

[FallReaper]

Demon in the dog house

Scene 2.

-----

Apparently, sometime during the last four weeks Hatch had gotten himself added to the National Database of missing persons. He blamed Boyd. According to the note with his name on it, he'd managed to escape prior confinement through means unknown. The old fellow, Con Nero, had felt that the best way to avoid that happening was to handcuff him to the cot in the holding cell. That wouldn't normally present a problem, but the old codger was clever. The end connected to him went between the ulna and radius bones of his right arm.

Hatch was strong, yes, certainly stronger than the average human. He wasn't stronger than most of the exceptionally strong humans, however, and the average adult werewolf was an order of magnitude stronger than that.

So no, Hatch wasn't going to just jerk his arm really, really hard and expect freedom. He was impulsive, not stupid.

Most of the time.

So he lay back, he stared at the ceiling, and he considered things. Such as why the sheriff had felt the need to handcuff him on the opposite end away from the toilet. And why breakfast had yet to arrive. If this kept up, he was gonna have to surprise people. Hatch blinked at that.

Food was taking up far too much of his thoughtspace as of late. He'd started making mistakes, big ones.

He still said the cow wasn't wholly his fault. Just mostly.

He'd also realized that- His stomach was growling. That wasn't right. He'd had roasted squirrel just the other day! But then, he'd burned more energy last night than at any other time during the last month. Eh, too many variables. Hatch refocused his thoughts and continued thinking, ignoring the group of men who'd just walked in.

Old man in a sheriffs uniform, middle aged man in a sheriffs uniform, and a middle aged man in a casual suit.

Alright, he wasn't ignoring them, he just wasn't acknowledging them. Something that seemed to irk the younger sheriff considerably.

"Ahem." The one in the casual suit cleared his throat, an easily dismissed bid for attention. "Boy, Mr.Ling, we'd like a word."

"And I'd like a sandwich." Looking back, Hatch regretted making up the name 'Hatch Ling'. John Smith would've been better, but Hatch was the one that endured the years.

"Maybe we could trade." That voice was starting to sound familiar. Wasn't he the guy who almost kept the other guy from almost getting killed?

Maybe, but he sure as Hell didn't look like what he'd expect an Alpha to.

"Alright, what do you wanna know?" Bullshit, truth, mixture of the two?

"What are you?" Mixture of the two it was.

"A basic imprint of a sentient mind modifying a pre-existing aether energy matrix inhabiting a calcium-crystal composite in order to take on an at-times physical form." Looking at their warped reflections in the metal toilet rim was dissatisfying. He wanted to see their confusion.

"...What? Could you try explaining that again, in smaller words?"

"Could I get a glass of orange juice with that sandwich?" The old man, Con, patted the younger man's shoulder and the two backed out of the room. The younger sheriff, however, remained behind.

"You shoulda killed me." ...What? Hatch rolled over to look directly at the person who spoke. Big guy, really big sideburns and... Ah, that scent.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, puppy." Hatch never mastered having a massive, creepy grin like some of the vampires he'd encountered, and he didn't look like a pure carnivore either so his mouth wasn't filled with pointy teeth. An innocent smile, however, could make the most toothless of threats creepy and unsettling.

For several moments the two stared at one another. Hatch could read Gus, mostly, and Gus could easily read his own body language.

"You should have killed me, because I'm going to kill you." Hatch had to restrain a laugh. If only the poor puppy knew.

"My, grandma, what big teeth you have." Hatch couldn't hide a small chuckle at the dark look he was given. The man was little more than a wolf, but at least the wolf knew what not to tangle with in the woods. Gus was just a little too human to be a wolf, but had too much wolf to be human.

The currently human werewolf slammed a fist against the bars and left. Alone again, Hatch lay back down. Now, how exactly was he going to turn this into a game?

-----

Hatch sat down on the bed and panted. Whoever designed the station had been an idiot. There was all of one security camera that watched the holding cells, which he hadn't bothered to avoid, and no more. The holding cells were downstairs, which made things more strenuous and slow than he appreciated, but he'd managed. He'd almost been caught by a sheriff going to the bathroom, but he'd heard him before he turned the corner.

He took his first bite of a ham and cheese sandwich and grinned.

"What are you doing out of your cell?" There was an unasked question there, but he wasn't going to answer it until it was asked.

"You were taking too long with my sandwich." Con sat down on the cot next to him. "Made one for you too."

Con accepted the paper plate, but set it down on his lap. He waited patiently for Hatch to take another bite out of his sandwich.

"How'd you get out of the cell?"

"Carefully." The elephant in the room was still waiting to be addressed.

"I'm going to need you to be more specific." Hatch considered the last piece of his sandwich before answering.

"Of course you are.The tumblers in the lock are at least thirty years old, and it seems nobody knows how to use WD-40." That had surprised Hatch, he expected more difficulty in getting out. "Are you going to eat that?"

Con passed the plate back over to him and stared. That was probably supposed to be unnerving, but Con had no way of knowing how amateurish he seemed.

"Fussy Gussy seems to have recovered fine." These werewolves regenerated faster than he was used to seeing. If all of them could do that, fights would be far more difficult, but at the same time also more fun.

He wondered if they could regrow bone, too.

"And you guys don't keep any beverages in your fridge. I was expecting soda, beer maybe, but all you've got in there's bread and cold cuts." And he was not going to complain that they kept the Styrofoam cups just out of reach. He wasn't.

"I don't encourage drinking on the job." Hatch shrugged. How about discouraging, did he do that? "And my deputy doesn't respect fridge labels."

One of those people, it seemed. If I can take it, it's mine.

"I've often found that beating the shit out of those kinds of people can earn you all kinds of respect." The old man looked like he had something to say, but thought better of it. "You can make a short joke, now."

"We'd heard of you, you know." Heard of him how? Old books, ancient scrolls, new age hippie shit? "Officer Boyd is one of ours."

Big deal, cops talking wasn't a- Wait. Hatch wasn't that stupid, was he? Yeah, at times he could be.

"I just figured he stayed in shape."

"Your description was also given to the investigating officer of a motorcycle accident. However he felt that the description of "Glowing eyes and fleshless claws" were signs of alcohol abuse by the victim. Are there any other crimes that we need to know about while you're here?" Was the old man trying to get him to confess? Well, he could have fun with that too.

"A few years back, it happened on October eighth I think, I was staying in a barn owned by an older couple. The O'Leary family. Nice people. It was at, I think one-thirty-five or one-thirty-seven DeKoven street. I lit a small fire to cook over and things... Kind of got out of control." The old werewolf exhaled a quiet sigh.

"City and state?"

"Chicago, Illinois."

"Anything else?"

"Would you like to know where Elvis is?" The elder werewolf gave Hatch an unreadable look, got up, and left. He hadn't asked how or why Hatch had dragged the cot with him out the cell, up the stairs, through the hallways and into the small kitchenette in the Sheriff's station. Without making a sound.

The old man knew how to play the game.

-----

He hadn't been asked to go back to his cell yet. Then again, he'd already proven he could get out easily enough. Maybe they saw the point the same way he did, that it was moot. Or else they didn't care so long as he stayed in the kitchenette. The only thing to do here was stare at the clock.

Or not.

"What are you doing out of your cell?" Cold, angry. Why was this guy always angry?

"Are you on steroids?" Gus switched from pissed off to confused. "Well, come on. Massive muscles, short temper, tiny pecker. Classic signs of anabolic steroid use."

Now he was pissed off and confused.

"Get back to your damn cell!" Shouting and pissed off. A little more effort and Hatch should be able to get out of here.

"Oh please, you think I'm in there for anything but your safety? I'm handcuffed to the bed so your boss can make sure I don't get out of here and kill you." Hatch was sure that a little more effort would have him out of these cuffs. He'd already attacked the man's masculinity and his pride, the trifecta would usually include the family too, but he was somewhat lacking on information.

"I told you, runt. I am going to kill you." Hatch laughed, loudly. An animalistic growl escaped Gus' throat.

"Oh please, the only way you could even threaten me is if I were tied down. A brainless grunt like you? You're not eve-" Oh. Well. That was surprising. He hadn't been expecting him to be able to transform into a werewolf in the damn daylight.

Surprising breed, this one.

"Well that's even better." Alright, talking was difficult with his throat almost closed off. "You-"

The grip tightened, and Hatch wasn't able to draw breath. This was going to be uncomfortable. He tried prying the fingers -sausages really- off of his throat but he couldn't get a grip under them with just the one hand. The angry, murderous eyes looking up at him from that lupine face. This was...

This was...

Perfect.

-----

The sun on his face, the wind in his hair, the bumping of random crap in the back of a truck. His heart beat twice an hour, he needed to inhale roughly once every twenty-three hours when at rest, by any normal standards he shouldn't be alive. Technically he wasn't, but the skin and blood and actual senses made existence worthwhile.

Hatch opened his eye. Nimbus clouds. He hadn't planned on getting out this way, not playing dead and soiling himself.

Hopefully his backpack with the change of clothes was in the woods. It probably wasn't.

He didn't have luck.

Hatch hopped out of the truck as it turned and pulled the gate open. He did not stick that landing like he'd hoped, he'd twisted his ankle when he was jerked to the side.

That should keep the wolves busy for a little while, at least long enough to wash his damn clothes. Or replace them, he still had a little over twenty dollars left from his initial robbery.

He'd make his decision based on whatever he ran into first.

-----

He smelled like Dial hand soap. His clothes smelled like Dial hand soap. And he was soaked. He could live with that.

He was never going into a gas-station bathroom again if he had a choice.

A siren howled in the distance, and Hatch ducked into an alley. It was one o'clock, an hour and a half, probably two too early for a person of his stature to be walking around freely. A white car passed by the front of the alley Hatch was hiding in, he waited a few minutes before looking out, and, seeing nobody, walked out. He took a left on Monroe, and cursed.

"Well, this is unexpected." The alpha. Hatch kept walking.

"Lunch hour?" The alpha walked in step next to him.

"Early day. I think we got off on the wrong foot, Mr.Ling." Getting on the wrong foot was a particular talent for Hatch.

"It's Hatch, sir. My surname was just a joke that stuck." The alpha stuck out his right hand. Hatch stuck out his left. Embarrassed, the taller man stuck out his left hand and the two shook.

"Name's Jack, Jack Goodwin. Mind if I ask a question?" Hatch shrugged. "What are you doing in my town?"

"I've been heading north, your town was in my path." Although, he might have to stop for a little while to study the local lycanthrope population. He was definitely not familiar with this variety of werewolf, they healed too quickly.

"What are you looking for up north?" Hmm... Lie, truth?

"Natural magnetic hotspots, the poles, create weaker inter-dimensional barriers." That look on Goodwin's face wasn't incomprehension, but the implications hadn't quite set in. "I got tossed into this reality by someone with more power than brains. I was planning on going home."

"The Sheriff called earlier, he was certain you were dead. What are you?" Hatch waited a few, pensive moments before he spoke.

"You buy lunch, I share secrets." Jack sighed in resignation. Hatch thought the deal was fair.

-----

The sandwich shop was a nice place.

Quiet, quaint. Nice atmosphere.

"How's the sub?" The food wasn't anything to scoff at either.

"The roast beef is fantastic." Jack's expectations hadn't been met. The person he was treating hadn't ordered the most expensive item on the menu, he'd ordered water, and he hadn't asked for seconds.

"So, talk."

"So, ask." Jack sighed.

"What are you?" Terse, agitated.

"In simple, I'm a demon." Jack stared.

"Bullshit."

"Nope. I'm a type of demon called 'Chimera', which is a term so broad it's almost worthless. Two creatures went into the makeup of my body, Mau-Nau, a variety of Infernus Felinus. Demonic cats in plain. And Lich, which is something one becomes and isn't born into, a type of undead. Sorcerers with immense magical power capable of continuing on after death." Hatch took a sip of water. "Questions?"

"A few. I thought Infernus Felinus was a type of cat called the Red Rhodesian Slasher?" Hatch shook the ice in the glass. Empty.

"You've got the latin switched around between me and a fake animal. What else?"

"Are you actually telling me that magic and demons are real?" Hatch considered that question for a few moments, unsure how to word it. Finally he just picked up the glass of ice and stuck one finger into it. The ice melted before Jack's eyes. Then he upended the glass over his clawed fingers.

Not a single drop of water touched the ground, all of it becoming ice as it came in contact with bone.

"Magic as I know it is broken up into categories, and further broken down into subjects. I'm good at a few subjects, passable at a few others, and disastrous at the rest. No cure for lycanthropy, no flying, no memory anything and no miracles either. I can't really prove demonhood without doing something very, very uncomfortable, but otherwise right arm, proof, lookie-lookie-look." He waved his right hand in front of his hosts face for emphasis.

"How... how does that thing work, anyway?" Hatch was getting into this, getting more animated. He pulled up his right sleeve up to the shoulder and held it in place with his chin. Withered, pale flesh clung to his arm a few inches past the shoulder, the veins stood out grotesquely.

"There's no magnetic field, no connective tissue, and my arm is a lot more dexterous because of that. I mean, watch this-" He spun his hand around a full three hundred and sixty degree. And then did it again, and again. "The only two forces that let my arm work like this are psychokinesis, and magic. And I'm no good with psychics."

Hatch bit a chunk of ice off of one of his fingers. "When I was young I thought it'd be a good idea to sharpen my fingertips. Bad idea, I started splitting open my fingertips when I had flesh and used too much force. Had to go get a necromancer to take care of preventing regeneration when it got to be an issue. And, well, he proposed an idea and I thought it had merit. It's kinda creepy, but you know that spot you can never reach in the shower?"

Jack nodded.

"I can get it."

"Lucky bastard. Alright, so if demons exist, do... Do angels and God exist?" Asked hesitantly, as if he didn't want to know as much as he did.

"Somewhere, everything exists. If there's actually a god present in a particular reality, its presence will typically be obvious. No paladins have been sent my way, and this reality is technologically advanced. You can take from that what you want." Which was really no comfort at all.

"Oh... You said you were some kind of cat demon? You look almost like a human though." And that word would always crop up, 'Almost'.

"Magic. An illusion. I spend so much time under it my body image is pretty much this. I end up going to alternate realities relatively often, in almost all of which humans are the primary inhabitants. Magical, mundane, psychic, but it's almost always human. So unlike you I'm not human and something else. I'm something else pretending to be human." Which wasn't a very fine distinction, but Hatch thought he was a half-decent actor.

"So what now? What are you going to do now?" It was a fairly good question. Hatch chewed on another chunk of ice as he considered it.

"Thinkin' about sticking around. You guys are unique, I've only fought one werewolf who could regenerate as fast as Gus did last night." Werewolf, lycan, same difference. "And you guys looked like you were having fun last night. I've never met a werewolf society where they didn't take themselves too damn seriously, most of the time you guys and vampires are equally depressing."

"What, so you want to study us? Because we're happy, normal people?" Jack sounded surprised. But his summary was dead on.

"Well, the fact that you're not a total douche helps." Hatch grinned.

"Just a few last things; Were you actually the cause of the Great Chicago Fire and do you actually know where Elvis is buried?"

Hatch didn't answer, he simply grinned wider.

A/N Inspiration strikes twice in two days! Amazing! Timeline wise, this is happening prior to the events of Peter Is The Wolf. Less than two years, but well before the creation of the Thrall.

[FallReaper]

Demon in the Doghouse
Original disclaimer applies
Scene 3

"You're serious?" Hatch asked. Con Nero was a decent guy, by Hatches standards at least. "I don't know if I should laugh, or call you an idiot."

Hatch couldn't expect to stay around, living off of the generosity of others. But he wasn't going to get stuck in a school, not if he had a choice.

"Do you have any better suggestions?" Hatch doubted his definition of better was in line with the grinning sheriffs.

"Give me a tarp and I'll be happy to stay in the woods." Or don't give him a tarp, he'd still rather stay in the woods.

Someone had apparently called the local law when they saw Hatch sleeping on a park bench. He'd been woken up by a local cop, blue outfit and all, and asked why he wasn't in school. Hatch, unfortunately, flubbed when the man asked for an I.D., and was asked to 'Come along to the station to answer some questions.' That hadn't been too bad, no handcuffs or threats. They were about to the station when the officer recieved a notice that 'Sheriff Conrad was looking for a person matching that description.' and he turned the car around.

The old werewolf met them outside the outpost and led Hatch inside, into his office this time instead of a holding cell. He wanted to broach the subject of Hatches continued presence, wanted to explain to him the host of potential problems. The old man was clever though, he didn't just mention problems. He had solutions.

Though there were just some things he refused to compromise on.

"It would offer you some of the best opportunities to observe us." And it would offer them the best opportunities to observe him. Hatch was well aware that the lense looked both ways.

"My patience isn't limitless. Dealing with a bunch of hormonal teenagers, talentless teachers and rumour mongering asshats, day after day after day? I'm surprised there aren't more murder slash suicides with that kind of environment." Con raised one grey eyebrow. When looked at in that light, things really were rather pessimistic.

"But you still need to be doing something to properly integrate yourself into our society if you want to understand how we live." Which wasn't an unfair point.

"And just how many of your kids are in high-school?" He could pass himself off well as a human, albeit one that was severely imbalanced, but children just knew. He was going to do just about anything to avoid being put into anything under tenth grade.

"Three." That... Wasn't very many.

"And if I picked anything else, law enforcement, green grocer, anything? Would that limit my options at all?" Everything had a positive and a negative, and sometimes the option with the most negatives was still the better option.

There was probably a chess allusion here, but Hatch couldn't think of one.

"You don't have any records, Mr.Ling. We can fake things up to a point, but we don't have anyone with access to the school networks who's willing to help." Actually, they didn't have anyone who was willing to help. Hatch was an outsider with an unknown agenda, unknown limits to his abilities, which were also unknown, and claimed to be something which most werewolves thought were fictional. If they shared the story with any of the outside wolf packs? They'd be a laughing stock.

Popular vote was actually to kill him, but they'd thought he was dead yesterday. Half the elders didn't believe his story, and Gus was just plain pissed. However he was too strong and too fast to be human, something proven before the majority of the pack two nights ago.

"And what's the story you'd cook up if I did agree to your plan?" Dislike the plan, Hatch certainly did. That didn't mean it was horrible.

"Foreign exchange student from latin America, the city hall where you lived burned down and all your records went with it." Hatch stared at him, nonplussed.

"No." He'd tried that story before. It didn't work.

"Well, do you have a better plan?" Con didn't look too happy about being summarily shut down, but Jack told him to humor the demon.

"Yeah. Give me a tarp and I'll stay in the woods." Sheriff Con was starting to look irritated. "Fine, fine. Pull up the missing persons database and move over."

Hacking wasn't a skill Hatch was any good at, but so long as the Internet existed he'd know someone who was a master. The problem was getting its attention.

"Why did you open a search engine?" Con was looking over his shoulder. Hatch considered answering him.

"No human hand has ever been involved in the creation of google. It is owned and operated entirely by a single digital entity calling itself "Internet". He's a decent, handy fellow but he can also be extremely annoying. Nobody really understands it, but the Internet seems to be connected to every advanced reality that exists. It can collect and store information, but it can't create or transfer information. If Internet is feeling generous, he'll give me access to the places I need to input information to- Hello old friend." The google search engine blinked offscreen and was replaced by a chat window, the background black and the text green.

"H.A.T.C.H." Typed itself across the screen.

"Caps aren't appreciated. How's Internet?" Hatch mumbled the words as he typed. Con simply stared.

"Why is the ripper king contacting me."

"I need some help." Con resisted the urge to rub his eyes. There was no way this was right. Hell, he owned a share or two of google!

-----

"Hatcher Smith?" Hatch shrugged under Con's scrutiny. "Kidnapped age three by person or persons unknown, released from captivity upon the death of your parents at age fifteen. Spent the last year recovering from torture and malnutrition while catching up on your education. You'll need to take placement tests. People who are smart are going to ask how you learned to read, or do basic math."

"..."

"This isn't gonna work, kid. Too much stuff that says 'exception' to it."

-----

"Hatcher Wells. You like that name, don't you." The way it was stated ensured that it wasn't a question. "Foster child. Alright, better. Because of neglect. So you're saying the reason you look butt-ugly is your own fault and your made-up parents didn't stop you?"

Hatch glared, but remained silent.

"Alright, I haven't found anything in here that draws more attention than your arm, or your gaping eye-hole, so it's the best story we've got so far. Which brings up another point; what are you going to do about your arm?"

"Probably add a notice that my hands suffered severe burns and that I need to wear gloves most of the time to protect them. Wearing an eye-patch all the time sucks."

"Why would that be?"

"Itches."

"Alright, is there anything else you'll need?"

"Yeah, a tarp." Con glared sternly. "Yeah. Being a foster child doesn't work without foster parents."

"I suppose you have a plan for that too?"

"Not really. Foster parent records, social worker records, tests, background checks and regular check-ups. Falsifying documents for just me wasn't too bad, but I wouldn't even know where to start for all of that." Hatch shrugged and stepped away from the computer chair. "That'd take making about a dozen people out of thin air, school records for them, criminal records, marriage certificates and countless other things. I'm just not that good."

"It sounds like you've done this before." Hatch leaned against the wall as Con took his seat back.

"It's easier to insert an abandoned toddler into the bureaucratic mess than it is to make a teenager." Which wasn't much of an answer. "Any legitimate papers would be an immense help. Real names, real people, anything."

"I think we can accommodate that." Hatch didn't like that grin on the sheriff's face. It reminded him too much of himself.

"When and who?"

-----

"I don't really need a minder." Hatch was reading a medical journal. It had an interesting article on a new theory of how the nerves of the body worked. The sound theorem looked promising.

Con didn't care. He couldn't read Japanese.

"There's no great secret I'm too interested in him not sharing."

"That's not the reason I'm here." Well, actually, it was and it wasn't. He expected Hatch may make an attempt to silence the doctor. Not to keep a secret, but simply to silence the doctor. Every werewolf in the society had felt the urge on occasion, but so far none had succeeded.

"He's going to give me a physical, isn't he?" He flipped a page, choosing wisely not to comment at the sheriff's silence. He glanced up when an older woman came out the office door and practically rushed out of the small clinic.

"Mr.Ling?" Hatch looked up. Tall man, but wiry, oriental, squinting. Cliche's exist because they're true. "This way please."

Hatch followed the doctor, leaving the sheriff behind, through a short hallway into a small examination room. He hopped up onto the small reclining bed and watched the doctor. The man moved with an impressive efficiency of motion as he moved around the room, putting on gloves and collecting a chart.

"So you're the one who's caused such an uproar lately?" Hatch shrugged. The doctor affixed a plastic nub to a device. "The stories they're telling, has someone truly convinced you that you're a demon?"

Hatch began tapping his claw against the metal edge aside the bed.

"On a bad day, I might be delusional enough to believe I'm human." The doctor's smile was smug.

"My name is Inari Abe, though most of my patients refer to me as Doctor Kitsune." Hatch obligingly opened his mouth as the doctor help up the magnifying, illuminating device.

"Most of my customers refer to me as "That asshole at the forge"." Dr.Inari chuckled and moved the light up to Hatches eye.

"A blacksmith by trade?" Hatch turned his head to the side.

"Hobby. My real job has a lot of perks, but no real pay." Service to society, they called it. Instrumental to the greater cosmic balance, they called it. Load of shit, really. There was no balance, and all of the forces that said otherwise? Always seemed to have an agenda that was served by 'resetting the balance'.

"Alright. Strip." Hatch stood up and did so. "My, someone's done a very poor job of taking care of you, now haven't they?"

The doctor was going to have to be more specific. Hatches skin was a roadmap of white, faded scars, his limbs were rather stick-like and, while not obvious, his ribs could be counted. All in all, Hatch wasn't a pretty picture.

"Now if you'll just stand against the wall here..." Sadly enough, this wasn't even embarrassing compared to the standards Hatch was used to. "Amazing, a full four feet and eight inches. Aside from were-rats and the occasional were-tanuki, there hasn't been anyone as short as you in the were-creature society in almost one-hundred and fifty years. Now I need you to switch to your other form."

Hatch sighed and snapped the fingers of his left hand. His real form was coated in black fur with a rusty tint. His fur was matted, and patches of it clearly hadn't grown in the same pattern as the rest of it. Most obvious was the area around his left eye. Technically it was all the same form, he just altered how it was perceived. The doctor was joking about were-rats and were-tanuki, right?

"Are you sure you're not a were-bunny?" It was always the ears. Everybody always focused on the ears. Sure, they were big, but they weren't that big.

Right?

"I'm the friggin' vorpal were-bunny, and I'm getting hungry." Dr.Inari quickly re-assumed his almost-professional demeanor, and repeated the process for the pictures. Hatch was given an outfit of light clothes when the doctor was done, a hospital smock. Hatch slid on the pants, but ignored the shirt.

"No increase in mass, ignoring the ears indicates no increase in height, aside from digitigrade hind-limbs and the tail there's no notable unexpected structural changes. So far as specimens are concerned, you're vastly underwhelming. Step on the scale, please." Hatch did so. "...This can't be right."

"Two-hundred and forty some pounds, right?" Abe nodded. "Bones."

"Your bones cannot be that dense."

"Well they don't make up the whole of my weight, but yeah, they can be that dense." The doctor wrote down the exact weight on the chart and had Hatch sit back down. He pulled out a stethoscope, and he did not miss Hatch grinning. He affixed the receiver against Hatches chest and listened.

And listened.

And listened.

"Well, according my understanding of medicine, you're dead." Hatch laughing was not one of the doctors expectations.

"You missed it a few minutes ago while you were taking pictures. Next one comes around in twenty, if we're not done by then." Inari Abe almost opened his eyes wide enough to see them. Almost.

"Well then, we'll just have to continue with your examination, won't we?"

-----

"I'm gone!" Con didn't even get a chance to stand up before Hatch had bolted out the door. He turned to face the grinning doctor, one eyebrow raised in the unasked question of 'What did you do?'.

"He seems to be a very repressed creature." Which wasn't at all helpful for Con's temper.

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing too terribly important. I simply pointed out that there were a handful of attractive young ladies around the age group he was pretending to be."

"I don't see how that would have gotten him riled up like that."

"He seemed to believe I was calling him a pedophile." Con hated trying to pull information out of the fox. He rarely said what he meant, but he never outright lied.

"Was there anything else?"

"Well, he didn't get really upset until I told him there were quite a few young men of-"

"Never mind, Abe. I think I get the picture."

A/N It's all about having fun. If I can't torture the characters, on and off screen, then there's very little amusement to be had.