A strange color, and distinctly unnatural-looking under these flat artificial lights, though you blend into the wilds. Clay once said that your coloration is a mark of the Weaver, the great machine-spirit, but you're not sure if you believe him.
But it's folly to stand here, waiting for someone to walk past and notice the pony-sized blue-gray wolf with the car keys in its teeth. You slink back into the shadows, then force yourself to regain your homid form. The Change to your natural form is easier than the others; the most painful part is when the freezing cold hits your naked body. You scramble into the van and get dressed. Then you just sit there.
What are you supposed to do? Cry? Scream and rage? Accept your fate as a permanent cub in a three-Garou pack, where the youngest member is fifty-three and they all think the world already ended?
Fuck this. I've got a van and the keys. I'm gone. It doesn't matter where. Let's find out what normal human civilization has to offer.
Time to grieve in a constructive manner: by stealing five bucks from Clay's spare jacket and getting something to eat.
Nothing wrong with a good cry. Gonna do that for a few minutes.
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