I found this,

"The tune reminded him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . ."

nice little random prompt on the internet and thought of the following. Too long for a full oneshot, so this is going to be a short arc, two, three chapters at most.

Even though the story doesn't exactly follow along with the prompt, this is what I ended up thinking of in parallel to it, so I thought it deserved some credit and acknowledgement.

Drabble 8: Moon's Light Madness (Pt. 1)

Sum:
The tune reminded him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . . .

Universe:
Mystery Trio
Werewolf Au

(The nameswap is in affect; in other words,
Stanford is Author and Stanley is the Grunkle
we've known for more than half the summer.)

A`N:
Looking around at random prompts online and
saw this(what's in the sum) . . . now I got an idea
stuck in my head and I gotta write it out now. Not sure
how much of the prompt itself will get into here, I just got the idea from it.

Stanley came back to consciousness slowly. He just . . . didn't want to move. Everything ached and his arm hurt. Finally, he slowly cracked his eyes open, wincing at the bright sunlight slanting down into them. After several moments of getting used to the light, he finally blinked and looked around. He was outside. In the forest. He sat up quickly, looking around in a half-panic, eyes wide.

He couldn't recall why he was out there, at so early in the morning, nor what he had been doing last. The last thing he could dredge up was blurred, and it consisted of accompanying his brother and his shrimp partner, McGucket, out on a monster hunt. That was last Monday . . . what was today? It felt like a long time had passed, and yet . . . very little time at all.

It was all very confusing to the not-fully-awake man, though when he noticed the blood . . . . that definitely forced him up.

He stood up and groaned, feeling immediately dizzy. He checked himself over, finding several scrapes, but most worryingly, a large bite mark on his left shoulder. His clothes were shredded, barely suitable for walking around in.

Taking off the remains of his ruined shirt, he held it as tightly as he could to the wound. Staggering to his feet, Lee looked around for landmarks, and limped in the direction of home when he'd gotten his bearings.

He was actually surprised how close he had been, and paused a moment to lean against a tree not two minutes after he'd gotten up, feeling lightheaded. Just across the clearing was the cabin he and Stanford lived in. Getting back to his feet, he staggered across the lawn, tripped up the stairs onto the porch, and kicked the door as hard as he could.

The sound echoed through the house. There was a surprised, high pitched scream, a loud thump, and a scrambling of feet. Stanley leaned against the door frame, eyes half lidded and glazed over with pain when the door was suddenly thrown open.

It took him several seconds to realize that he was looking down the barrel of gun. And a few seconds longer to see who was holding it. He groaned quietly in pain and slight annoyance, rolling his eyes.

"Well I can always count on you for a warm welcome." he said, with as much sarcasm as he could at the moment.

There was a moments pause as Fidds apparently took in who was at the door and the state he was in. The gun cast aside, Fidds assisted the injured man inside, laying him down on the couch before rushing off to grab a first aid kit.

Lee wasn't paying all to much attention. He was already slipping back into Dreamland, feeling exhausted for some reason.

He awoke in the early evening. Trying to sit up, he yelped in pained surprise at the pulsing pain in his shoulder, falling back against the couch. Almost instantly, Ford was barreling around the corner and asking him questions a mile a minute.

Lee had to smack at him to get him to shut up long enough to answer anything. He was currently laying on the couch on his back, in nothing but a pair of jeans and covered with a soft blanket, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left shoulder, his scrapes having been tended to in a similar matter.

It took a long time to get through that YES, he was alright now, NO, he didn't know what happened, and that he'd like something to eat and the date, as well.

Turns out, according to Ford and the professor, he'd gone out late two days ago and simply disappeared; they hadn't found a single trace of him.

Apparently, when Fiddleford had responded with a gun pointed at his face earlier this morning, he'd panicked. He'd stayed at the house the other night while Ford asked around town and searched through the woods nearby the little clearing the cabin sat in to look for any traces of his brother he may've missed.

Either way, all was well now, and Lee only had to lounge around a few days to make sure his shoulder wouldn't get any worse.

He was swift as the wind, strong as an oak, and silent as the moon.

He was also free; free, free, free! Free to run as fast as he could, to fight and take down any who dared to enter his territory, and silent enough to stalk his prey.

Soon, he reached his destination.

A farm. Not particularly large, but he still had to be cautious. Unfamiliar human scents filled the air, dissuading him from nearing, yet prey-scents floated tantalizingly underneath his nose, beckoning him closer.

He didn't rush in brashly, however. To do so could lead to something he couldn't back out of, and he had no true pack to return to. Dim memories of brown-furred and ginger-furred figures, one each, that he couldn't quite make out in his head, told him of family and a friend that he had, who would always back him up . . . but not right now.

Not where he was now, WHO he was now. They could only help him with other things, he dimly thought. They can't help him on hunts. He can only help himself on the hunts.

Carefully, he circled the entire perimeter of the food-keepers' territory, scenting for any signs of people, awake or asleep, or, perhaps more importantly, of other wolves who might be hunting this night nearby.

There was none. The humans were asleep, the food was his to snatch and keep, and there were no wolves out in the woods this deep.

He found a young calf, checked to make sure he had two good escape routes, and went in for the kill.

For the last week, Stanley had been having strange dreams. Every night, he'd dream he was a large, strong, fast wolf, sprint away from his home in the dream, and go hunting.

And, every night, he began to remember the dreams a little better, with more and more clarity. He wasn't sure what it meant, but enjoyed the freedom he felt each night. That was the strange thing about the dreams. The less fuzzy and clearer they got, the more realistic they felt. Or, the more he realized how realistic they felt.

He also felt exhausted every morning, rather than refreshed, and spent more time grumbling about the kitchen fixing himself some coffee trying to wake up. He didn't eat as much in the mornings, feeling strangely full, or at least not hungry.

His brother and the professor were busy with some "new case" or creature or whatever it was they were tracking, and didn't notice much except his grumpiness in the mornings and distinct lack of enthusiasm he normally held when asked if he wanted to help them hunt down a monster.

It was easily chalked up to Stanley being difficult about helping them with their "weird nerd-cult work", as he sometimes did, and left him alone for the most part so he could get over it.

It didn't get much better. In fact, it only seemed to grow worse. By the end of the next week, he was sleeping all day and night, waking up only briefly, and then, they had to get him up themselves.

He'd gripe and grumble for awhile, going about simple tasks with his eyelids drooping, and escape to a spot to sleep as quick as he could.

That was the first sign something was amiss.

It was two days before the new moon. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he felt that it was significant. He could recall more clearly what his fellow packmates looked like.

They were human, and he a wolf.

This separated them, a huge chasm that had only one chance of being crossed. Or, at least, the only way that he knew of.

Bite them. Simple as that. Bite them, and soon they would be able to join him.

He stalked silently through the woods near his "home"; or, more like the only place that he felt comfortable and safe staying near as compared to all the other buildings in the tiny town nearby.

He was waiting for one of his packmates to come out. But something nagged at him.

Would they not recognize him? What if they didn't, and retaliated? What if it got out of hand, and one was hurt badly?

Would they even want to join him?

The large, chocolate brown wolf froze, half in and half out of the concealing brush.

His brown eyes narrowed, and his ears flattened, deep in thought.

Would they want to join him? At all? How long had it been since he spoke with them? Would they reject him now, with how he was? Would they even care if he slipped off for a long time? Why weren't they like him in the first place?

This last question halted his entire train of thought.

Why wasn't his packbrother, his littermate, his TWIN like him? Why? What had happened that had pushed them apart? Was it something he did?

Or what? What happened?

With a dull whine, the large creature solemnly lowered his head, about to back away when he looked up and caught sight of the thin sliver of the moon overhead.

Compelled by it, he instead took a cautious step forward. Then, half in and half out of the shadows, he raised his snout to point at the star-laden sky, and started to howl.

It wasn't an angry one, or a call to others to hunt, nor a warning to tell another pack to stay away.

This was a mournful, pleading cry, wavering and falling and rising again and again in the night; a sad sound that could make anyone feel and understand the aching loneliness felt by the lone wolf who, put simply, didn't understand.

Didn't understand why he was alone, with no memory of being driven out or voluntarily leaving his pack; with memory of a brother and packfriend he couldn't be with anymore but had seen recently, somehow, and with no way to join them or have them join him.

He howled and howled and howled, until the moon began to set. The lonesome song rose sharply, akin to a last, sobbing cry for help, before dropping off and lowering in pitch and volume before he finally stopped entirely. He lowered his gaze, eyes wet with tears.

He spotted the upright shape not fifteen feet from him, and froze.

Both remained silent.

He faintly recalled this human, and stood slowly, stepping out into the dim light of a dropped lantern. He wagged his tail and kept his head lowered, eyes focused on the other, being submissive and trying to be friendly. The human moved, trembling, and pulled out a thing that was thin and flashed in the dim light.

A knife. He was pointing a knife towards him.

He froze, eyes fixed on the weapon. Ears pinned back, tail tucking between his legs, he took one more step forward, whining in a final attempt to make peace.

To be accepted, cared for, loved.

The human, whom he faintly recognized as his packbrother, shouted in fear and waved the knife towards him.

It was the words, not the weapon, that sent the wolf fleeing through the woods.

"GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Tears filled the wolfs eyes as he crawled under a bush near the house, raised his head to the sky, and howled and howled, the abandoned, pained loneliness clear in the sweet, resonating voice, that would bring tears to anyone who listened.

It cut off suddenly when the moon finally set.

Stanley, for the second time in under a month, woke up outside. He didn't bother moving. There was a certain heaviness settled deep within himself, deep in his chest.

Something was telling him very distinctly that he'd been driven out of his own home, and by his brother.

No no no, that couldn't be right! Could it . . ?

He suddenly felt a surge of crushing loneliness and fear and the pain of betrayal, and curled in on himself with a heavy sob. Before to long, he'd cried himself to sleep with lingering feelings of hopelessness, betrayal, loneliness, and fear inside.

Not five minutes later, voices were shouting his name, calling out for him.

Stanley wasn't awake to hear them.

Rather than in a building, the brown-furred-and-eyed wolf awoke underneath a bush. For a moment, he was confused; then the events of the previous night came flooding back and he whimpered, curling in on himself until he was as small as he possibly could be, whimpering and whining, shivering more from fear than the cool night air.

Tears poured from his eyes, his tail was clamped between his legs, and deep-throated whimpers shuddered through his whole body; this was as close to sobbing as he could get.

At last, he rose once more, eyes dulled of emotion, fur unkempt, and decided to hunt something down to make up for not eating last night and most of this night.

He walked slowly off, no real direction in mind, and left the house-territory that was once his packs; and still was.

He was just no longer apart of it.

That's a wrap! Don't worry, part two will come out soon. Please review!