|Someone wrote in cabinpres_fic,|
TW: violence, transformation icky-ness
Unbeknownst to most, the life of a man runs on a pulse, a pattern, a constant turning of gears that only gives the semblance of purpose. Occasionally, for the unlucky few, this mundane grind is interrupted by the hindrance of a great event, pulling them from the settled habits of man and throwing them to the wilds of the beasts. There, they are left to flourish or flounder, but given the chance to carve a path entirely their own.
For Martin Crieff, pilot and sole captain of MJN Air, this wrench in the gears came in the form of a dog bite.
Or at least, that’s what it had looked like.
Martin wasn’t entirely sure what he had ran into that night on the country road, but it had been large, hairy, and sporting a snout. The thing had crashed into him from behind as he checked the van’s engine, sending him to the ground and leaving a nasty laceration across his shoulder. Upon inspection from a medicinal man, it was revealed that a wild dog had nipped him on its way across the fields.
He was given antibiotics and an adhesive bandage and told to go home, rest, and return if he felt ill. This was easier said than done.
By nightfall the next day Martin had fallen into a high fever, sweating profusely on his bunk where he lay paralyzed by an aching pain that roiled through his joints. When the world blurred and drained of color, Martin was sure he would die. By the time his bones began to crack and his skin split with muscle and hair, Martin begged for death.
He was given the next best release: temporary oblivion.
When Martin awoke it was to a cool morning breeze tracing itself down his bare back and tickling an exposed buttock.
The small man shuddered into consciousness, fully registering the pounding headache he sported as he groaned and rested his brow on the soft, pink carpet.
He didn’t own a pink carpet.
Or any sort of carpet.
Martin took in a sharp breath, pushing himself up off the floor, looking confusedly down at the fluffy fabric between his fingers before scanning the strange flat he found himself in. Blue eyes widened and Martin stumbled to his feet, ignoring his nude state as he took in the small apartment’s condition.
No piece of decoration, furniture, or technology lay untouched, all scattered, broken, or toppled. There were large tears in the wallpaper, and shredded paper and cushion stuffing drifted to the floor from where they had been stirred by the same breeze that had awoken the pilot.
No, ex-pilot, it had to be ex-pilot, because if Martin somehow escaped from the apartment clothed and looking normal, he doubted he’d hold out long enough to avoid incarceration. Though it wasn’t the mess that frightened Martin so; it was what was painted over it that tied a rock to Martin’s stomach and made him wish prayers were answered.
Splattered across the walls and windows and soaked into the floors was a frightening amount of crimson. It looked as though someone had decided to have a water balloon fight with blood bags, and a victor was debatable. There was no way it was possible for one person to bleed that much, Martin was sure, and if they did they certainly weren’t doing much else afterwards.
“Oh god,” Martin whimpered, spotting thin fingers dipped in red poking out from a shattered bathroom door.
Tentatively, Martin made his way over to the door and pushed what was left open.
Leather jacket, jeans, and a pair of trainers were all Martin took with him as he fled the building. He left behind a bloodbath, a dead woman, and about three days’ worth of stomach content.
Martin swore he’d never look back, but was certain the memory would always haunt him.
And while Martin’s hands had literally been clean, in fact the man himself was spotless despite the disaster he had woken up to - and Martin knew in his heart he hadn’t torn that woman apart, a niggling voice at the back of his mind told him that he had been somewhat responsible for her death. If for no other reason than he couldn’t stop it.
If only he could remember, but whatever had been there wasn’t anymore, a black screen had come over the hours between passing out from fever and waking up at the gruesome crime scene. Martin doubted that any amount of effort would get that time back, no matter how much he needed it.
The young captain ran home, and once he was safely in his attic he finally let himself panic.