The Omega stuck to the shadows every full moon.
He couldn't help it. There were others of his kind everywhere, and any of them could be a threat. Every full moon, he turned—they all did, losing control of their shift for one night—and while he hated that experience and what it brought out in him, he could at least make sure he wasn't found. That was the one lesson his mother had left him with.
The wind shifted, and he caught whiff of a new scent. Another pack, further south—maybe somewhere across the state, or in the next state over; but to one of them, that distance was trivial. He had to get moving—the wind might have carried his scent towards them. They didn't smell familiar, so hopefully they wouldn't know who he was, but they definitely would want to know who was the Omega stepping on their territory. And he couldn't afford even that much.
He ran, towards the coastline—the only direction he hadn't found a pack nearby so far. He ran, the wind bringing the pack's scent closer every time he smelled it. Woods flashed by, then roads, farms, villages, towns. He only stopped when he was in sight of a city. Columbia, the part of his brain that understood human culture told him. There was no way for him to blend in there before morning; nowhere left to run.
The pack was close now, even by human metrics. Confrontation was inevitable. Yet when he turned, it was a human standing near him. A middle-aged man, with a hint of a past physical build and a hardness to him. Not weak, but not the kind the Omega expected to find anywhere near a pack, except as a corpse. Of course, the Omega was so short for one of his kind that the man still towered over his shifted form.
"Hey there, kid," he said. He held a racquet in his hand—the kind that was used in sports, though he leaned on it as if it was a walking staff. "Don't bite, okay? I come in peace."
The rest of the pack was nearby, out of sight—too far yet to see him, either. Keeping their distance. Not a behavior the Omega expected from any pack as they converged on an isolated prey or enemy. The uncertainty made the fur of his back stand on end.
The man noted the way the Omega's gaze shifted. "You know they're here, right? They won't come out. They know you ran away in fear. You have nothing to fear. Now, I know you can't communicate with me like you would with them, but I'm the middle man, so I'll do my best."
The Omega cocked his head to the side, curious. Scared. Incapable of understanding what this man wanted—or to communicate any of this.
But maybe the man was used to reading his kind's body language. "I gathered this pack, you know. I helped them find each other where they were all lost and alone. Like you. That's why we came after you. I want you to join the pack."
Joining a pack? It was what Omegas were supposed to do. Find somewhere to belong; somewhere their worthlessness might be put to use and build something greater. But the Omega had had a pack once. The very idea of joining one again left him on edge.
"You're nervous," the man noted. "Tell you what; you don't have to agree right away. We'll leave you for the rest of the night; you can spend it here, I guarantee no one will disturb you. In morning, we'll come to Columbia and wait for you at—" He pulled a card from his pocket, and placed it on the ground, nudging it in a cracked rock. "At his address. You come to us on your own terms—or not at all. Your choice."
The Omega considered the card, and the man, silently. The man didn't seem to take offense to his lack of reaction, though.
"All right. I'll be off then. We'll be in town all weekend, so you have some time to decide." He backed away as he spoke, never once tearing his eyes from the Omega before he was far out of sight. Whoever this man was, he knew how to handle a werewolf.
Morning found Neil passed out on the same promontory the man had spoken to him. The moon's grip had faded, and he was back to human form, shivering in the cool air. Above all, angry at himself for letting exhaustion get the better of him—especially with another pack around.
Still, there was no trace that anyone had even come close to him—no smell in the air, no disturbance on the ground, nothing. Maybe he'd made it out okay. Maybe the pack had run off to sell Neil out.
All that remained near him was the man's card. A business card, he saw when he picked it up, showing the name David Wymack. A veterinary in Palmetto, it said—but at the back of it, an address in Columbia was hastily handwritten. Where the pack would be expecting him, Neil assumed.
Would he go? He wasn't sure. The pack had done its best to give him space, to make sure he didn't feel threatened. The man had shown competence. Neil couldn't help but feel intrigued by his claim that he'd formed a werewolf pack—him, a simple human. How was that even possible?
There was something else—something his brain hadn't picked up on when he was shifted, but that finally clicked to his human mind. The man's scent had been familiar, and another scent had been mixed with the pack's. Someone from Neil's childhood, from his own pack. Had Kevin Day recognized him? Was that why he'd sent this man—a man Neil guessed was related to Kevin—after him? And more importantly, did that mean he'd finally left, just like Neil had?
Maybe that alone was worth going to them. He wasn't sure he would join, but having some answers—an update on his former pack, and whether they were still looking for him—might be useful.
But not just yet. First, he ran back into the woods—it would be faster if he shifted again, but he needed to keep Wymack's card; and besides, Neil would always avoid shifting if he could—and found one of his stashes nearby. He had many of them laid around the territory he'd chosen for himself, like his mother had taught him. Spare clothes, some money and ID— the basics to blend in human society until the next full moon, when he had to discard everything again or risk seeing them broken by the shift. Hair dye and contacts, too; the shift always reverted his hair to their natural color, and Neil never wore contacts while he turned into a wolf.
Neil found a gas station by the road outside the city, and snuck into the bathroom—taking care that his face wasn't caught on security cameras. He checked that it was empty, then locked the door, and worked to dye his hair into the shade of black of wore these days. The contacts followed, and he was back to looking like Neil, not like the boy he'd been born as.
Then he made his way into the city, continuing his routine as if the card in his back pocket didn't feel like it was burning a hole in his skin, catching buses and taxis, or just walking around the city. Breakfast first—shifting always left him famished. Then finding a laundromat for the clothes he'd been wearing the previous evening. Checking his hair dye levels, and the state of his contacts, and buying what he needed to. Going by the various PO boxes and storages he'd inherited from his mother for more supplies and money. Then another trip out of town to replenish his stash for the next full moon.
He was back in the city for lunch, with only one item left on his agenda—finding a place to stay for the next month. He considered it, then pulled the card from his pocket, and looked at the address. The diner he'd picked was close; maybe this could come first. Or maybe it was a strategic mistake to go to them without a place to fall back to.
Neil dismissed the thought—it wasn't like he could escape them against their will if he walked into their house anyway, with or without a rented motel room somewhere. He just had to go and hope for the best.