A/N: Heya fuckwads what's up lmao you ready for a third installment to the Guardian series?! "But Wolfy!" you're probably thinking, "Why the FUCK would you write a third sequel when you expressively said you WOULDN'T?" Well my friends, I have some reasons for you:

1. This idea would not leave me the fuck alone.

2. I always called this the "Guardian Series" but there was only two stories, so with a third that's at least, what, a trilogy? Whatever, I'm gonna call it a series, fight me.

3. I hate myself.

Now, here's the warnings because I really don't want to add them each chapter: Lots of blood, violence, creepy shit, A LOT OF UNNECESSARY ANGST, minor character death, a bunch of OCs, mature themes (maybe), probably a lot of OOC-ness. I will also warn you now; this will NOT be a happy story. If you want to hold onto the semi-happy end of Assailant, DON'T READ THIS. I'm gonna take this series down to the pits of hell and leave it there.

So, with that, read on.

Chapter 1: A Walk in the Park

It was a beautiful, sunny day. The birds were chirping out sweet melodies, people smiled as they walked past each other, and there wasn't a cloud in the blue, blue sky. A man sitting at a park bench reading a novel looked up in time to see a dog race pass, tongue lolling, ears back, expression so full of joy that it instantly caused him to straighten and grin. He watched the dog dart back and forth, greeting random strangers that at worst ignored the excited hound, and at best, patted its head. One small child even paused to give it a through belly-rub, much to the dog's delight.

The man had abandoned his novel now. Such joy made the dark clouds around his heart lift a little, sprouting seeds of hope that let him forget his troubles. After all, how could one be sad in the face of such joy? It was impossible – at least, to him it was.

The dog didn't seem to have an owner – or a collar, for that matter – but it had a clean coat of fur and bright, healthy eyes that danced with sunbeams. The man didn't think about why such a dog was wandering alone, however. The dog, while its infectious happiness had lifted the man's depressed thoughts, had made him confront some more serious issues in his life that needed addressing. As he watched, his smile slid away, replaced with a furrowed brow and an anxious quirk to his lips that his mother had always teased him about when he was younger.

With a sigh, the man stood, finally deciding what he had to do. He tucked the novel under his arm and walked along the well-worn stone path of the park, pausing when he reached where the dog was resting beneath a tree, panting in the heat and obviously tiring after hours of endless playing. It looked up in excitement when the man approached and wagged its tail furiously, looking up with trusting, warm eyes. The man gave it a few pats on the head, rubbed behind its silky ears for a moment, then continued on his day – determined to finally move forward with his life.

The dog, alone on the park's trail as evening crept closer and closer, watched the man go. He – the dog – had no idea where he was but he knew he had to get home. Hoping to revive some memories, he sniffed along the base of the tree, growling softly at the scent of squirrels, but otherwise found nothing familiar except for the earthy tones of the ground. He paused to scratch an itch behind his ear, than bounded back the way he'd came. Surely there was something back the way he'd came that could guide him home!

The dog paused at the entrance of the park, unable to read the human letters printed on the gilded gates, but understanding that it was an announcement to tell the humans that this was a park. Just to be safe, he gave a strong snort at the ground, ignoring the scents of all the people that had passed that way, and pleased to discover his own scent layered underneath human footprints. But the dog had already known that; farther ahead was an apartment with a grey cat, a shop that stank of perfumes and overly-scented soaps, and finally, a butcher store with a delicious smelling dumpster in the side-alley. He knew that. He'd been exploring the amazing smells of the butcher-dumpster when he was suddenly struck with the realization that he didn't remember where home was, and the streets had been so busy with gabbing, frowning people (bad dog) and noisy cars screeching and wheezing, and he'd panicked – too much noise, too much noise! – and he'd ran; past the grey cat that had hissed at him from the balcony, past the smelly shop that made his nose confused, and past the gates into the park, where there were friendly people who smiled and rubbed his ears.

The streets were just as crowded still, but the people didn't seem so angry anymore; they seemed more tired than anything, and the dog felt like a ghost as he trotted past familiar landmarks to the butcher shop. Eyes slid over his form and fell right off as he hopefully peered up into each face, hoping to recognize one of them. Not only could he not remember where home was, he realized, but he couldn't remember his master!

Bad dog, bad dog, bad dog!

There was the dumpster. Carefully, the dog sniffed around it, but the scents of the garbage were fainter now; the trash had been emptied while he had wandered the park all afternoon. There were a few human smells as well, and his scent too, but it didn't lead anywhere except back the way he had come. Confused, the dog sat and whined to himself, wishing someone would come and help him.

Maybe the cat would help him! The dog didn't know why he thought that. Most dogs hated or, at the very least, disliked cats. But he felt a warm fondness for them in his chest. Maybe he had a master who also had a cat, and he'd grown up with such a creature. Or maybe he knew a cat that had been friendly towards him, or helped him before. Either way, he was hopeful and determined now that he had a new idea.

He hurried back down the street, this time with noticeably fewer people – the sun was just peeking over the horizon as the evening gradually crept in – and hopefully peeked up at the apartment balcony, seeking out tufts of grey fur or even angry hissing. But the windows of the apartment were drawn, and the cat was nowhere in sight.

The dog whimpered and went back to the dumpster. The lingering smells of meat and blood made his stomach growl yet also nauseated him, for some odd reason. He whimpered again. There was no food, no master looking for him, no home. He didn't know what to do except sit in the alley's entrance and stare pleadingly up at the workers making their way home – focused more on their family and hot dinners waiting for them then the lonely dog loitering like one of the many strays roaming the city.

There was a sudden screech of sirens and the dog flinched at the loud noise, blinking in confusion at the swirl of muted blue and red lights flashing on top of a car whizzing down the street, screaming louder the closer it got. As it passed, the dog caught a glimpse of black lettering spelled along the white body of the vehicle, and it was familiar, he felt he should know it, what did it say..?

Police car.

Reid flinched in horror and took a step back. The fur covering his body felt heavier than it usually did when he was Guardian, and there was a mess of scents and sounds and muted colours and the sensation of four paws touching the ground, oh god, so many sensations, it was drowning him.

A strangled noise worked its way into his throat. Reid turned and saw his scarf, a crumpled bundle of clothing, and his messenger bag leaning against the side of the dumpster. He'd just paused, that was it; placed his coffee on the top of the dumpster as he undid his scarf (it had been a warm day, he'd been heading to the park to play chess on his day off) and he'd inhaled the scents of the dumpster, hot and muggy and appealing.

Then he'd been Guardian – no, not Guardian; he'd always still been Reid when he was Guardian. This was different, this was…

The animal instincts, so much more potent after San Francisco, so much more alive after Jeremy Gurner, nudged his brain and the world was spinning for Reid. He didn't want the thoughts of meat and blood drilling his mind. Those thoughts had always respectfully offered themselves to be discarded by his rational, logical human mind. But now they dominated him, pounding through his skull like someone was screaming in his ear. All he could do was stumble to the side of the dumpster and concentrate on changing.

And it was easy, he found. The familiar heat, only slightly painful after all this time, was comforting. With shaky hands he pulled on his pants quickly, thankful that nobody had taken the pile of discarded clothing or was around to see him. The instincts murmured in the back of his skull as he wound the scarf around his neck (he was so cold; no fur, no sun) but Reid ignored them as best as he could. He slung the messenger bag over his shoulder, determined to hurry home as quickly as possible and just go to bed, try to ignore how he'd lost a whole day wandering the streets as a dog while not even being aware of it. Just fix up some soup and read a book with Oscar, just go home, home…

He knew where that was.

A/N: Do I have more written for this? No, no I do not. Why did I publish this? Because the past few weeks have been entirely devoted to kicking my ass and I'd like some positive feedback, sue me.

On the up-side, this is the first story where I actually have an outline for the plot, so that should help. As would reviews, hint hint.