Ron 'Spoon' Witherspoon

"I want a fucking fag."

"Private...?"

"Spoon. I'm Spoon. I am Spoon, and I want a fucking fag." Six doctors of psychiatry, four doctors of psychology, and Dr. Rosana Ferguson relax and Spoon's hands fly up to cover his nose. The relief and joy that flood the room have him twitchy again, "There's too fucking many people in here. I want a fag."

Days of talking, one or two of them in the room at any given time. Two or three of them at a time walking along the green with him. Taking notes. Recording him. Talking to him.

Talking to him, not at him or about him. They're in a different cottage, somewhere else, where they can talk about him without him being near.

There are gaps. Huge ones. Where he went to school. Who he used to know. "Does the name Helen Stapelton mean anything to you?" "No, should it?" His parents are dim memories, and sometimes he pictures them with fur and fangs. And that's not right, is it Spoon? Not right at all.

There are things crystal clear. Sarge's face. Cooper's. Joe's. Bruce's. Terry's. That fucking cow. Still hysterical. Fuck, poor bastards. Poor, poor bastards.

He smokes more than he used to. He's a fucking chimney of smoke, one burns out and another fag is lit and dragged from.

"Spoon?"

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson?"

"Spoon, we're going to be calling Mrs. Wells. Sergeant Wells' wife? With any luck someone should be here to get you soon."

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson." Poor fucking woman...asked to get her dead husband's cursed squad mate.

The changes have been dramatic. Unfortunately they have also been cosmetic. The werewolf's new home is a sprawling expanse of green with a two story house in the middle of it. There is a bedroom, a perfectly normal bedroom with a recreation of the personal effects of one Ronald Witherspoon, on the second floor with a view of all the green. As often as safe, they put him to bed there. On days that he's calm, he sleeps in the room. Dr. Ferguson likes to hope that it does some good.

On good days four armed guards follow him as he staggers an uneven path across the green. Sometimes he tracks rabbits, moving almost too fast for his guards to follow. He can track them with his eyes closed, sometimes he does.

On good nights he's allowed to wander the cairns in the south and west of the small island, and the guards and scientists sit inside the house and wait. They're ready to recapture him if needed.

On bad days he's shot, and shot, and shot again full of drugs until what little sense is in his eyes fades out again and he sits in a corner not even rocking.

On bad nights he's locked in a cage underground with nervous guards ringing around him fingering the triggers on their rifles.

On good days he can be persuaded to eat a bit of vegetables, some cooked meat, to use a fork.

On bad days he eats only raw things.

On very bad days, he eats only what he kills. Dr. Ferguson used to hate the sound of rabbits dying. Now it's just part of the background noise, like a train that comes by once a week and is then gone.

"He's mostly sticking to human form, Dr. Ferguson. No unexpected changes in four days."

There is a calendar on the wall, three days filled in solid with red. Every room in this building has one, every person here has memorized moon rise and moon set.

"Three days until the full moon." Rosana Ferguson doesn't need to look at the wall. She knows the moon better than anyone here but Private Ronald Witherspoon.

This room smells of antiseptics and cleansers. This place is nearly spotless. Grey-green tiles on the floor, darker tiles along the lower half of the wall, white paint above. Air-freshener dispensers mounted every fifteen feet along the walls, the sort that give off a spray every half hour or so by the look of them. There's an anatomical chart of the human body hanging on one wall, just next to the medical exam table. You know. The table with the thick leather straps just where the wrists and feet and head and midsection would be. It's right in front of the caged-off area with the chains hanging from the wall, each chain formed of links a good inch thick or more.

He’s crouched in the cage, no longer pacing. Too many times pacing makes the dispensers go off. Sometimes he forgets. He forgets lots of things. He stares at the anatomical charts, the one bought from some company, the ones made by months of painstaking vivisection. He knows the inside of his body better than his mind.

Her name is Helen. his thoughts go, Helen. Helen is alive. his fingers walk a pattern across his knees, nicotine fits kept to just the ends of his fingers. No more. No more. Can’t pace. Cooper is dead. Joe is dead. Sarge is dead. Ryan is dead. Megan is dead, the bitch. Spoon is dead. No, that’s me. Isn’t it? Terry is dead. His face when he saw that fucking cow, that was a blast. Bruce is dead.

The rattle of the chains drives him crazy, but not as bad as the ticking of the clock. Tick tock tick fucking tock. Months ago he decided he’d never own another ticking clock if he ever gets out of here. Weeks ago he realized that he’s never getting out.

The door swings open, he can’t help but jerk back against the wall. Silver sends screaming agony across his bare back. They’re trying to see how much silver he can take, for how long.

“It’s the dark of the moon. According to legends, he should be at his weakest now. I truly think that we need to remove the silver, at least for a few nights.” The voice of the other one, the one that sometimes doesn’t slice deeper than he has to, is clear.

Pretlow snorts, “I think not. We’re going to continue the experiment until it is clear that we have to stop it.” He walks toward the werewolf in the cell, and when the other one can’t see him anymore Pretlow grins. White teeth, pink flesh, and Ronald Witherspoon sees the threat that isn’t hidden at all.

Not in the slightest. There isn’t any thought there, no consideration, no decision. Just one man lunging to his feet and snapping a jaw which elongates as his eyes go golden and the screams are sweet to his ears as the running food floods the room with terror. Pretlow stumbles, and on his face is promise that he will get revenge for the loss of pride. The wolf doesn’t understand that, the wolf doesn’t care.

Guards in facemasks run in, firing even as they come, giving the doctors the chance to get loose and safe.

Then the air fresheners on the walls go off.

Good night, Spoon.

The last thing he remembered was a blinding fucking light and a shit load of pain. That would have been sometime after the bloody werewolves had mauled him, gotten in each other's way, and somehow (he didn't remember how, just Sarge's watch being torn from his arm along with far too much skin) he'd ended up wedged inside a cupboard with life draining out of more places than he'd wants to think about.

Then he passed out.

Then there was the light, and the pain.

Now there's more light, and not nearly as much pain, and men in black uniforms saying quite clearly "No, no survivors." while looking straight into his blearily blinking eyes. Fuck.