Sigma Werewolf

People wanna know why I’m such a degenerate asshole. I could tell ’em it might have a little something to do with watching a fucking werewolf tear my parents apart right in front of me. That’s the kinda shit that scars a kid for life, not to mention the nasty-ass physical scar from its bite on my shoulder, making me the very thing that ripped my folks to shreds. But that’s not something you just drop on people as a answer. Most of ’em will either think I’m joking or want me locked up in some padded room with a new straitjacket.

The only reason I’m not dead is Jake. The guy broke every fucking rule the Order had. And what’s the order? Just a bunch of religious pricks. Men and women who hunt werewolves, vampires, witches, and anything else they think is “unnatural.”

So after this werewolf splits, Jake finds me lying in a pool of my own blood – and yeah, I’m pretty sure there was some piss and shit in there too, I mean, what do you expect? I was eight years old, watching my parents get turned into chew toys. And instead of putting a bullet in my head like the Order demands with, you know, the whole “kill ’em all” policy they’ve got going for my kind, Jake actually takes pity on me. Takes me in. So now he’s stuck living on the run like every other monster, all ’cause he couldn’t follow his rules.

Being raised by a guy whose job was putting bullets in things like me does have its perks. I know how the orders monster hunters think, how they move, how they’d try to end me. The one thing Jake never trained me for? Fucking college. Always wanted to go to school, but he’d always go on about how dangerous it was. Though he made it sound like I was the danger, you know? So I got homeschooled, if you want to call it that. To be fair, we never stayed in one spot long enough for me to join a fucking glee club anyway. Week here, week there, Kentucky, El Paso, wherever. Longest we stayed was a whole year in Stockton, California. That’s where Jake would say the most dangerous things around weren’t monsters, but politicians. And he wasn’t even kidding about it.

“Don’t draw any attention,” Jake’s looking at me from behind the wheel, eyes like he’s about to lecture me on some shit I already know. “This goes against everything I know about survival. If they found out what you are—“

“I know, I fucking get it,” I shot back. “But someday you’re gonna have to trust me to not eat someone’s face off in public, you know? Let me try this normal life bullshit on for size.”

He’s doing that thing with his mouth, like he’s trying to keep a thousand swear words from spewing out all over the dashboard. Probably for my benefit, the saint. Then he just shakes his head, this slow, defeated kind of motion, and comes out with, “Fine, I’ll be watching.” Like that’s supposed to make me feel better. Thanks, Dad. Really appreciate you turning every normal life experience into a surveillance operation.

“Look. I’ll be fine,” I said, wrestling with this piece-of-shit truck door that sounded like it was gonna fall the fuck off. I grabbed my duffle bag and slid out, then leaned back in, one hand on the door. “I’ll call, I’ll text, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want if anything happens or some asshole starts looking at me sideways. And when the full moon comes? Don’t worry, I’ll crawl back to our shithole and lock myself in my goddamn box.”

“Better,” Jake says, though the look on his face says he’s one shaky breath away from shitting himself and dragging me back in the truck.

I slammed the door, gave him a wave that said ‘fuck you, I’m doing this anyway,’ and watched that piece-of-shit truck backfire like a dying asthmatic before coughing out a cloud of black smoke that probably killed a few endangered birds. I stood there for a second, letting the engine noise fade, then turned to face my new life, this place I’d apparently call ‘home.’ For how long? Fuck if I know. As long as I can keep myself from ripping out some freshman’s throat during midterms, I guess.

I turn and make my way into the main building, wait in line for what feels like a fucking eternity until I reach this woman who’s about as pleasant as a case of syphilis. And I’m not just saying she’s unpleasant because she clearly hates her job, and probably every waking moment of her miserable existence. But what I’m also talking about a face that could stop a fucking clock. This is one of those broads who’ll order two large pizzas, breadsticks, extra mayo on the side, a double cheeseburger with extra fries, and then wash it all down with a Diet Coke. The kind of woman who dyes her hair some ridiculous blue color and spends her entire life blaming everyone else for the fact that she looks like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

“Hi, I was told to check in to get my dorm assignment.” I said standing there, feeling like a fucking social retard. I didn’t interact with people much so trying to act in a way that was normal to others always felt like watching a retarded monkey try to fuck a football. I always had this weird thing about what the hell I was supposed to be doing with my hands. Should I cross ’em? Keep ’em at my sides like some fucking robot? Shove ’em in my pockets like I was hiding a weapon? Or just pretend to know sign language and hope no one noticed I was just flipping myself off?

She gives me this look, like I just ran over her favorite cat twice, and says, “See that table over there?” I turn around, and there’s some dude sitting there playing big shot while a bunch of starry-eyed freshmen circle-jerk him for attention. “That’s who you wanna talk to. Not me.”

I bit my tongue, turned, and dragged my ass over to the big shot at the table.

“Name?” The young man asked, not even looking up at me, eyes glued to his clipboard like it held the secrets to getting laid in this shithole.

“Ty Richardson,” I said, then stood there watching this asshole hunt-and-peck for my name.

“Building D, room twenty-two.” The prick muttered, barely glancing up at me. “Door code’s in your email.”

“So I guess we’re roommates.” Some skinny fuck with a shaved head slides up to me. “Got the same room.”

“And you are?” I asked, feeling my eyes bugging like a junkie spotting free dope, mouth twisting into this half-snarl half-smirk like my face was already addicted to whatever sick twist came next.

“Danny.” He said his name like I should already know it. “Come on.” He holds up a campus map like it’s the fucking Dead Sea Scrolls. “Let’s go find our room.”

This guy’s weird as shit. I spent most of my youth learning that people are assholes who’d sell you for a pack of smokes and a handjob in a back alley. Sure, I’ve run into the occasional friendly type, but this Danny fucker? He’s too damn friendly. Too eager to make friends, too open, too trusting. To me, it’s not natural. Part of my brain was screaming at me to text Jake, tell him to swing back around in that piece-of-shit truck and get me the fuck outta Dodge before I end up in some cult.

But I didn’t. Gotta see this through, right? Besides, I knew there’d be some culture shock. But rooming with the most unnervingly cheerful fucker on the planet, was not what I expected.