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Timed: September 8, 2014 (evening/night)
Malia'd felt it all day. Everyone's been talking about the supermoon. She doesn't know what that means, but she can feel it, stronger than ever, like an itch under her skin, in a spot she can't reach. All the day before, it had been like a storm cloud following her around, and she'd felt tense and crabby. It had been worse since waking up, and it had only gotten worse throughout the afternoon. She'd hidden from the city for the sake of not burning what tenuous bridges she already has, but now she knows she has to get going. Soon.
Around four that evening, she loads up on protein and carbs to try to stay full. She doesn't want to risk that she'll get hungry halfway through the night: she can just imagine where she'll end up if she does. After her enormous dinner, Malia runs to the barn that she and Charlie had been looking at. She doesn't know if it'll be strong enough, but maybe, just maybe, she'll luck out for once. She feels nervous — that's too small of a word, but it works — and her senses are going into overdrive. She wishes her Stiles were here to help. But that isn't an option. Not here.
Malia stumbles as she passes over the city limits. It's later than she'd wanted it to be. She's sweating. She can feel her face changing. She takes a sharp, deep breath when she feels the moon shove through her. She doubles over, hands gripping her knees. She leaves little holes in her jeans where her claws bear in.
"Control is overrated," she growls out. Stiles had said it. It had connected with her. She's not a monster. She doesn't need control. "Control is overrated. It's overrated." She feels her teeth become fangs and snarls. She needs to get moving.
Control. Acceptance. Release.
She's nearly to the edge of the countryside when she smells him. Derek. He's near, but not close enough to see or hear. Malia looks up at the moon. It's close and bright. Its pull is nearly painful: it tugs at her bones like growing pains.
Control. Acceptance. Release.
She needs help. She can't do this alone. She's going to hurt someone. A needy howl rips from her throat. It doesn't have a full lungful of air behind it, but it's still loud and long. It trails off in a single, broken sob. Control. Acceptance. Release. Her eyes are bright blue, and she can see everything as she runs deeper into the trees.
Control. Acceptance. Release. Control. Acceptance. Release . . .
Malia'd felt it all day. Everyone's been talking about the supermoon. She doesn't know what that means, but she can feel it, stronger than ever, like an itch under her skin, in a spot she can't reach. All the day before, it had been like a storm cloud following her around, and she'd felt tense and crabby. It had been worse since waking up, and it had only gotten worse throughout the afternoon. She'd hidden from the city for the sake of not burning what tenuous bridges she already has, but now she knows she has to get going. Soon.
Around four that evening, she loads up on protein and carbs to try to stay full. She doesn't want to risk that she'll get hungry halfway through the night: she can just imagine where she'll end up if she does. After her enormous dinner, Malia runs to the barn that she and Charlie had been looking at. She doesn't know if it'll be strong enough, but maybe, just maybe, she'll luck out for once. She feels nervous — that's too small of a word, but it works — and her senses are going into overdrive. She wishes her Stiles were here to help. But that isn't an option. Not here.
Malia stumbles as she passes over the city limits. It's later than she'd wanted it to be. She's sweating. She can feel her face changing. She takes a sharp, deep breath when she feels the moon shove through her. She doubles over, hands gripping her knees. She leaves little holes in her jeans where her claws bear in.
"Control is overrated," she growls out. Stiles had said it. It had connected with her. She's not a monster. She doesn't need control. "Control is overrated. It's overrated." She feels her teeth become fangs and snarls. She needs to get moving.
Control. Acceptance. Release.
She's nearly to the edge of the countryside when she smells him. Derek. He's near, but not close enough to see or hear. Malia looks up at the moon. It's close and bright. Its pull is nearly painful: it tugs at her bones like growing pains.
Control. Acceptance. Release.
She needs help. She can't do this alone. She's going to hurt someone. A needy howl rips from her throat. It doesn't have a full lungful of air behind it, but it's still loud and long. It trails off in a single, broken sob. Control. Acceptance. Release. Her eyes are bright blue, and she can see everything as she runs deeper into the trees.
Control. Acceptance. Release. Control. Acceptance. Release . . .