You grin. "Right. Human tastes." So much more vivid than wolf, and so much more likely to make you sick. Half the things in the room you wouldn't want to lick, anymore. Bad tastes in a human mouth nearly knock your teeth out. "Bacon," you decree. "I don't, errrrrh. Like pizza. So much." You stumble determinedly to your feet.
"Good man," you say, and hold the door for him, spinning your keys. The vehicle you're driving these days is a source of quiet amusement to you: a big black SUV, jacked up, with huge offroad tires. You bought it used when you decided to spend your first civilian summer climbing and hiking, because you needed something that could handle rocky unpaved trails. It was covered with the kind of jingoistic RAWR 'MERICA bumper stickers that embarrass you intensely, despite your genuine patriotism; you scraped all of those off, and placed a single decal on the back window: The top of the windshield, of course, is plastered with state park passes. Your dad's funding this 'therapy' trip, so you can afford to get year passes even when you're just staying a weekend. Donations to the Park Service. When you start the truck, you remember to turn the volume down just before the music comes on, so your new friend doesn't get Skrillexed in the face.
You're uneasy with the close interior, and the seats, and the smell, and the noise of the engine. You huddle bravely in your seat, knees close to your body, and press your face to the window glass. "So," you say. You don't have anything else to say. "Cars."
"I, er." You donk your head against the window. "No. Yes? My-- family was. Er. This." You gesture between the two of you. "Were... Werewolves? I was born this. Two legs good, four legs better, what?." An old dad joke. You regard Bel, lick your nose-- well, your upper lip. "You're very very new," you say. "Turned in, in, in the. Army. Forces. And you're not glad. Lose family? Er-- team, squad, gang. Troop? You're, er-- errrrh. Bereaved."
That's a British accent, and an officer-class one at that. Interesting. But you came to him, you asked for his help, so he gets to ask about you first. It's only fair. "Yeah," you say. "Little nightmare village twenty miles from the Pakistan border. I can't discuss the military objective, but we went in quiet. One fire team, me and four men. No support. Turns out these hill bandits were... well." You shrug, indicating yourself. "Only I made it out. But I got every single one of those motherfuckers," you add with viciously quiet satisfaction.
You smile at hum, pleased. "Good. There's bad types all over. You stop killing only for to eat, and-- eh. The fun of it, I think. The joy. It makes you sick. It's, err, it's too--easy? Not to care. What you've got your teeth in, not to make-- decisions. I think."
It takes some thought to decipher his disjointed speech. Once you've got it, you tilt your non-steering hand back and forth in semi-disagreement. "I don't think it was like that. It was war. We were foreign soldiers there to kill them. I mean, yes, they were horrible people; the things they did in that village -- not to mention sex trafficking of minors, and the heroin trade -- but me and my guys, we went there specifically to make those guys dead. I would've done it even if it never got personal." You probably shouldn't have told him even that much, but hell with it. What's he going to do, call up some news blog, sell them the story about how far out of Kabul the US was assassinating werewolf gangs?
"Eh, war," you snort. You still don't see the point. Hideous business. No one's so sick that blowing up their whole country helps anything. You tilt your head at him. "Miss it?" You mimic holding a gun. "Killing bad guys? Rockets? Tanks?"
You shake your head firmly. "It's not like it was fun at the time either, but I wanted to serve, and to push my limits. Now I think maybe I'd like to serve in a less violent way. Become a park ranger, maybe. Search and rescue. I mean, I'm trained for it, it'd be a shame to waste the training. But no, I never want to kill another person." And on that cheerful note, you reach the restaurant. You're glad to see it doesn't seem too busy at this time of day.
"Search and rescue," you repeat thoughtfully. That sounds nice— certainly a job a werewolf would have an edge in. "Been through many parks? I mean, as—" you make a running sort of motion with your four fingers, then scramble after him out of the car. You nearly hit your hands on the parkinglot, but remember just in time.
You gesture to the stickers on the windshield. "Well, this is all since I came back, so." The conversation has to pause while you're seated, given menus and water, and informed about the day's specials. Then you pick up where you left off. "Not that I was always there as, you know." Four-fingered running gesture. "Didn't want to freak anyone out. But I love hiking, climbing, hunting, fishing, canoeing, all that good stuff. My dad is paying for me to take as long as I need to get my head back together before I try to get a job and do the civilian life thing. I'm lucky that way." You try for a little give-and-take: "Do you have family around here? You sound English."
"Oh, mm, tech— technically. Red wolves are native to the Americas, you know. But er, if you mean— no, my father's, errrrh—" you squint at your water, trying to remember. "Lord Aspera. Conserr— conservationist? Naturalist? Estate 'round about, about— about a park. In the south bit. Right next to a, a national park, near as big as the whole thing, too. Bloody miles, good place. Married in, then moved the family off there in the, the... what, the seventies? Yes. Sort of a conserve. A, a, no, a reserve." You scratch your nose, contemplating. You want some water but you'll probably make a damned mess if you try... You try to get an ice cube out, to chew, then give it all up as a bad job and sit back disconsolately.
"That sounds really nice. Red wolves... I'd never seen one before. Cute." You flash him a big grin. Just then, the waiter comes by. You ask him for straws for your water. He conveniently has some in his apron. As you order your great big greasy burger meal, a chocolate malt, and a pale ale, you peel the straws and plunk them in the water glasses, hoping that will solve whatever problem has Erskin staring forlornly at his glass and poking the ice. The waiter turns to Erskin with the slightly awkward smile of someone trying not to stare at scars, and says, "And for you, sir?"
"Automotive accident," you lie, pointing at your face. Humans like to know things, but 'dog fight' tends to horrify. "It's quite alright, I got a settlement, and now I'm even more handsome. May I have whatever he just ordered, only bigger?" You give Bel a sly, sideways smile.
"Sure thing," the waiter says, smile now more warm than awkward, and goes. You put your hand on your chin and smile back at Erskin, charmed. "Okay, for reals though. I'll explain mine if you explain yours."
You shrug, fumbling with the straw. Takes awhile to get the hang of it— not something that chewing helps at all. When you've done the best you can you sit back, scratch your nose again, wipe your mouth with your arm. "Er, well, you try to solve just about everything with your mouth for twenty years and see how pretty you are, afterwards." You gesture at your shortened muzzle. "It all looks pretty, errh, pretty gruesome, doesn't it? Every last little nick and tear gets, gets all, hmm, all squashed together, and no fur to soften the edges."
"Dude, you've got more scars than me, and I've got a medical discharge," you point out. But you're not going to press if he doesn't want to tell you. "So have you just been living wild in the woods around here, or what? Aren't the winters kind of hard on you? You don't look fluffy enough to enjoy that kind of cold." ((i have decided, for no particular reason, that they're in wisconsin.))
"Well, of course not, it's only autumn, I've my summer coat," you point out. "And anyway I've come up by way of the southern states. Florida. From the Carribbean on cruise ships and, eh, what, cargo? ships? the ones with the rats and boxes? I travel." You navigate the straw situation again. "I've gone around the world four times," you add, proudly. "It'll be fifth when I get back to England. I'm going, hmm, west? Through Alaska, I figure. Haven't tried that way yet. Though I've been through Russia, plenty of times, the lower bits, it's lovely, good people there. Still room for, for family. You know."
"I'm thinking of going up to Devil's Lake Park next, there's good climbing there apparently. Maybe rent a canoe and do some fishing as well. Would you like to come with me?"
