It had been light out by the time Scott had left the gym; he'd suffered broken bones, dislocated joints, lost teeth, and lost an eye at one point. Still, Olaf had instructed him on proper footwork, some basics of blocking and how to throw a strike with claws, so if nothing else he was confident he'd be able to look after himself in a fight. Afterwards, Olaf had actually given him a few pointers on where to start his investigation; apparently there was a zombie by the name of 'Sweeny' who was trying to make a name for himself as a wheeler & dealer in the underworld. He was, in Olaf's words, "bottom-feeding pond-life", but he might have some useful information if the price was right. Scott knew he should feel terrible after his ordeal, but in a way he'd felt strangely… energised.

The following night he was standing outside the nightclub 'Aristocracy'. According to Olaf it was originally a vampire club, but the owner had sold it off and now it was one of the few up-market zombie hangouts in the city. Most of the clientele were still oblivious normies, but there were V.I.P. rooms in the back where the Others could unwind and be themselves. Of course, first, Scott had to get in. He walked past the line of would-be clubbers waiting at the front door and turned into an alleyway around the back. A big, burly man in a black tee-shirt with 'SECURITY' written across the front and back in chunky, white, block capitals was leaning on the wall next to one of the back doors talking to a pretty, young, woman whose silicone-inflated chest was almost spilling out of her tiny, sliver, cocktail dress.

"...if you really wanna get in then I'm sure we can work something out, y'know?" The bouncer was saying, then he spotted Scott and stood up straight, his smile falling away immediately. "Hey, you lost pal? The line's 'round the front."

"Yeah, I know." Scott walked up to him. "I'm here to talk to Sweeny." The bouncer still looked annoyed, but turned back to the girl briefly.

"Y'know what? You should probably give us a minute here, sweet-heart. We can discuss… that thing we were talking about when I've finished with this guy." She rolled her eyes.

"Sure, whatever." The girl flipped her long, bleached-blonde hair and pulled out her phone as she clip-clopped away around the corner in her platform stilettos. The bouncer returned his attention to Scott, now with a definite frown.

"Password?" He demanded, curtly.

"Klaatu barada nikto." Replied Scott, hoping he'd remembered what Olaf had told him correctly.

"Alright, fine. Just a sec." The big man plucked the walky-talky from his belt. "We got a V.I.P. wants in. … Yeah, password checks out. … Hang on, I'll check." He looked up at Scott. "Breed?"

"What?"

"What breed? Zombie? Vamp? Fallen? What?"

"Oh, uh, werewolf."

"Ulven." The bouncer spoke into the radio, then looked to Scott again. "Okay, you're in, but you're on your honour; you start shit it's a violation of the agreement an' your Alpha'll turn you into a fuckin' throw-rug, understand?" Scott nodded and the bouncer banged on the door behind him, which swung open. "Good thing you got the password; you'd never get in the front door dressed like that." the big man muttered as Scott passed him. Scott frowned slightly at this; he'd dressed up specifically to come here, wearing a button-up shirt, slacks instead of jeans and his old work-shoes from his brief stint as an office intern. Granted, the shirt didn't really fit properly any more on account of his new extra muscle-mass, so he'd left it open down to the fifth button, but that was basically fashionable, right?

The V.I.P. lounge was similar to any other club Scott had ever been in, not that he'd been in very many. There was just enough light to see by, and that was mostly a migraine-inducing combination of neon and flickering laser-lights. Some unimaginably shitty techno music was pounding out of a sound system just slightly south of a weaponised sonic array, and Scott's newly-sensitive hearing made the din much worse than it otherwise would have been. He winced as he walked inside and felt almost as though he'd been physically hit with a wall of sound. The smell of sweat told him that there were at least some non-undead in here, but the pervasive scent of formaldehyde and dead meat was everywhere; even the spicy smells of the liquors from the bar were secondary to the stinging aroma of preservatives. Shadowy figures were sitting around in the plushly-upholstered booths, each set back in a recess in the wall, while stick-thin waitresses brought them drinks on trays with L.E.D. strips around the edges, illuminating the crystal tumblers and cocktail glasses with bluish-purple light.

One of the booths had two large men in suits standing in front of it, keeping everyone else away while a man in a much flashier suit was sitting with a woman on either side of him and chatting to a couple of similarly-dressed men across the table. Scott, guessing that this might be the man he was looking for, walked up to one of the obvious goons guarding the booth.

"I'M HERE TO TALK TO SWEENY!" He bellowed over the thumping musical assault.

"I BET YOU ARE." Shouted back the bodyguard, unhelpfully.

"SO CAN I?"

"OF COURSE NOT. FUCK OFF."

Just then, a hand reached up behind the goon in the suit and tapped him on the shoulder. The guy in the flashy suit; a black velvet affair with silk lapels and a paisley pattern in a dye which floreced purple under the club's black-lights, had stood up and leaned in to talk into the bodyguard's ear. Scott couldn't be certain, as the club lights made everyone look sickly and pallid, but he could swear the guy muttering into the bigger man's ear looked very much alive; in the prime of life, even. He was young and classically handsome with slicked-back hair, and an athletic build from what Scott could see of it. He still smelled like a well-preserved corpse, though.

"OKAY, GO ON." The guard gave Scott a nod as his boss sat back down between the two women who resumed fawning over him. Both of them were pretty obvious zombies up-close; anorexically thin, with faces stretched taut over their skulls like the recipients of too many face-lifts. Both of them had equally obvious fake boobs, looking like bowling-balls stuck to the fronts of their rib-cages, and both were wearing clubbing dresses which bordered on negligee. The other two men in the booth were also zombies, wearing suits almost as tasteless as the fluorescent number their boss was sporting. All three men wore numerous ropes of gold chain around their necks and horribly ostentatious, chunky, bejewelled wrist-watches. The acoustics in the recessed booth were such that the omnipresent throb of the music was muffled just enough that it was possible to have a conversation without screaming constantly.

"So," The handsome man in the glowing suit said, "I guess this must be about that rogue doppelganger?"

"Yeah, are you Sweeny?" Replied Scott.

"The one and only!" Sweeny winked, and the girls on either side of him giggled. "And I guess you must be the latest member of the city's wolf-pack?"

"Yeah, name's Scott. So can you tell me where this guy is or how to find him or whatever?"

"Ah!" Sweeny's lips spread in a sly smile. "That sounds like the kind of information that comes with a price-tag attached."

"Oh, right." Scott reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fished out three hundred dollar-bills and slid them across the table. Sweeny looked at them like he was at a poker game and Scott had just laid down the rules for Blackjack, a bus-pass, and The Left Leg of Exodia the Forbidden One from Yugioh.

"The fuck is this?" He asked.

"It, uh, it's a bribe. For the information." Scott clarified. Sweeny placed a finger on the bills and slid them back to Scott.

"No, it's a slightly above-average tip for one of my waitresses." Both of the girls giggled again, and the two other zombies joined in, laughing sycophantically at their boss's joke. "Look," he continued, "I don't want your sad, little, pile of paper-route money or whatever. All I want from you…" He paused for effect, "Is a favour." Scott's brow furrowed and his eyes flicked over the man opposite him.

"W-what kind of favour?" he asked, trepidatiously. Sweeny rolled his eyes.

"Don't get your hopes up, slugger, I don't swing that way. Look; all I'm saying is that I tell you how you can find this goober, and we all agree that you owe me bigtime, capiche? Just an unspecified favour I can call in at any time in the future, as and when I want? How does that sound to ya?" Scott's shoulders slumped as he tucked his money back into his wallet.

"Like you've got me over a barrel." He replied. Sweeny laughed.

"Ha! You learn fast, kid!" Before he could say anything else an explosion blasted the heavy back door clean across the room; it smashed aside several unfortunate patrons, and a handful of small, cylindrical objects flew through the opening before the door had even come to a stop. They scattered about the dance floor and before anyone could react they detonated in blinding flashes of light. The shockwave of the first blast seemed to have disrupted the sound system because now it was stuck on a repeating note, changing the music from pounding techno noise to a continuous, juddering, electronic screech.

Before his vision cleared, Scott heard the sound of automatic gunfire and screaming. He ducked under the table and rubbed at his eyes, while further, smaller explosions went off in the back-ground and the gunfire continued as the dancing spots gradually faded from his vision. The five zombies in the booth were also crouching under the large, granite-topped table with him, while the two goons guarding it had their hand-guns out and were trading fire with whoever or whatever was massicarring the clientele.

"Well, this has been a swell evening, but boy am I bushed." Said Sweeny, "I'mma duck out and leave you guys to it. See ya 'round!" And with that, he began to dissolve; his flesh running like melting wax as he dissolved into a puddle of black, tar-like goo. In seconds his skeleton was all that was left, then that, too, liquified, and the whole slimy mass flowed under one of the couches and gurgled down a previously unnoticed drain grating.

"Wait, boss! We can't do that trick!" Called one of Sweeny's underlings after him. "Don't just leave us here!"

"You asshole!" Added one of the zombie girls. Two booming gun-shots rang out over the tortured screaming of the sound-system and each of the bodyguards was carried off his feet in a burst of hot lead. Very hot lead, apparently, as both erupted into flames as they landed just in front of the table. Of course, being undead, neither of them were instantly killed by their injuries, but as they began to climb back to their feet, beating at the white-hot flames that billowed out of the holes in their torsos, two more roaring gunshots were heard and each of their heads exploded in a shower of flame like pumpkins stuffed with fireworks.

Scott glimpsed their attacker; a figure dressed head-to-toe in high-tech-looking tactical gear. His face was covered by a respirator and a pair of goggles, and he was armed to the teeth; he had an automatic shotgun in his hands, and another weapon on each hip. Combat webbing held an array of spare magazines across his chest, and there was a bandolier of shotgun ammo over his shoulder. The figure held the shotgun braced against his shoulder and scanned the room as he picked his way across the scattered debris of up-ended tables, broken glass and the occasional burning body. The room was motionless apart from him, and the deafening shriek of the damaged sound-system muffled any other noise like a more aggressive version of silence.

Suddenly, the man in the tactical get-up span around and blasted an area of shadow in one of the booths, which instantly resolved itself into the form of a screaming, flailing, vampire, now wreathed in the white flames of whatever incendiary agent the man had used in his rounds. Using the distraction to their advantage a group of three zombies vaulted over the, great, granite, slab of the bar behind which they'd been taking cover and charged the man. He blasted one of them off its feet with a shot to the chest, then landed a perfect head-shot on the second, blowing its head to flaming smithereens, just as he'd done to the bodyguards. He raised the shotgun right into the face of the third, but the trigger pull revealed that he was out of ammo. As the zombie crashed into him he dropped the shotgun, letting it fall to his hip on its strap, and performed a flipping manoeuvre which reminded Scott of the one that Olaf had used on him at gym, and just as Scott had done, the charging undead went flying over the mall-ninja's hip and rolled across the ground. The man snatched a huge revolver from his gun-belt and took aim for half a heartbeat before slamming a bullet the size of a grape through the skull of the zombie on the ground, then rounded on the one he'd knocked over.

Just like the two guards, the zombie was climbing to its feet with a hole in its chest spewing white flames and sparks as though it had a roman candle in its ribcage. The man in the tactical gear took aim again and double-tapped the zombie in the forehead, but apparently this one was made of sterner stuff, and shrugged off the damage. As the flaming zombie launched itself at the man Scott realised the four other zombies under the table with him were moving; they were crawling out of the booth on all fours towards a door labelled 'Staff Only'. One of the girls tugged self-consciously at her tiny dress, trying to cover her rear, and presumably hide the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Noticing that Scott was looking her way she hissed over her shoulder at him.

"Pervert!" Making a decision, Scott began removing his belt. The zombie girl's expression of disgust and contempt intensified tenfold. "Eeeeeww! The fuck is wrong with you?" she whispered hoarsely. Scott ignored her, and contorted himself so that he could pull off his shoes and wriggle out of his slacks. Disregarding his shirt, he reached within and tapped the wild force at his core. In a matter of seconds he was a hulking beast, covered in shaggy, grey, fur and surging with muscles swollen to exaggerated proportion. Shreds of fabric were all that was left of his shirt and yet another pair of socks.

Scott rose to his feet, ripping the table out of the floor to which it was bolted, grabbing one of the steel legs he held it like a shield and rushed towards the man, who was still grappling with the burning zombie. The man noticed this new threat and performed a kick-flip off his opponent, planting his boot squarely in the zombie's face and sending it sprawling as he propelled himself several feet backwards, gaining distance, and levelled his oversized pistol at the incoming target. His first shot caused a spider's web of cracks across the stone slab, and the second shattered it completely, allowing the gunman to see his new foe clearly for the first time. As the wolf was just feet from him he dived into a combat roll directly through Scott's legs, causing the wolf to come to an undignified halt, claws scrabbling for purchase on the polished wood of the dance-floor. In the few seconds it took Scott to arrest his momentum and turn the man had torn away his respirator and seized a small vial from one of his webbing pouches. As he popped the top off with his thumb Scott caught the coppery scent of blood, with an earthy undertone, like freshly-tilled soil. The man sucked down the contents of the vial and tossed it aside, before re-affixing his gas-mask. He holstered his revolver, then drew a large combat knife and charged directly towards Scott.

The werewolf planted his feet in the way Olaf had instructed him, and swiped at the attacker with his right claw. To his total surprise the man blocked with his forearm, completely stopping the blow. There was a second's pause, the man cocked his head to the side slightly as he looked up into Scott's stunned face, then plunged his knife into Scott's guts. The sheer force of the impact folded the wolf in half and knocked him on his ass, in addition to which the wound burned like no other injury he'd suffered since he'd turned. As he lay on the ground gasping for breath, Scott pulled one of his hands away from the injury, and saw that it was soaked in blood, and that his blood continued to flow from the gash in his stomach and began to pool on the ground. The man walked around behind him and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauling him up into a kneeling position with one hand.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The man held his face right next to Scott's ear, so he could be heard over the continued screaming of the sound system. His voice was obviously being fed through some sort of scrambler, presumably built into his mask. "Surprised? Perhaps you thought you were invincible? There's nothing that excites me quite so much as seeing someone realise that they've built their house on sand, and the look of shock and surprise in their eyes as the foundations they thought were rock-solid crumble to nothing in front of them is better than sex." Still holding the back of Scott's neck, he brought his knife around into the werewolf's view with his free hand; it glittered in the weird, neon colours of the club's lights. "Silver plated. Not quite as effective as a solid silver blade, but it holds an edge so much better, as you will shortly discover." He pressed the blade into Scott's throat. "And you know the funny part? I don't have to hide any of this, you assholes will cover it all up for me! I don't have to worry about the police, the F.B.I., disposal of the bodies, nothing!" There was a crash and suddenly the man was knocked to the side.

"You should've been worried about me, mother-fucker!" Without the man holding him up, Scott collapsed back to the floor, clutching the tearing wound in his abdomen, and saw the zombie that the man had been fighting earlier; by now the incendiary had burned itself out, but it had completely consumed the right-hand side of the zombie's torso, and he'd lost an arm as a result. The rest of his body was blackened and smouldering, and he was holding the remains of a bar-stool, which he'd smashed across the head of the gunman. Not bothering to respond verbally, the man rolled back to his feet and rounded on the undead. He caught a second attempted blow with the now bent and buckled bar-stool, and with his bare hands, ripped the zombie's last remaining arm off.

Scott forced himself to his feet, his every movement felt like he was being sliced in his guts all over again, and the blood poured freely down his abdomen, and down his legs in little rivulets through his fur, turning the dark grey black under the club lighting. Nevertheless, he made himself move, step by step, to where the man now had the zombie's head between his hands, and was squeezing. There was a cracking sound audible over the ambient electronic squealing as the undead thing's skull began to buckle, and Scott lunged forward and raked his razor-sharp claws down the back of the insane gunman.

The man's tactical combat webbing was shorn from his torso, and his black turtleneck was shredded, but to Scott's horror, his claws didn't even make a scratch on the man's flesh. Hurling the still-squirming zombie across the room,the man whirled around to confront Scott again. He back-handed the werewolf, laying him out on his back and shattering the bones in the right half of his face. He landed spitting teeth, but unlike the knife-wound his fractured skull healed almost instantly. A vicious kick to his stomach landed almost directly on the ragged knife-wound, and was delivered with such force that Scott was propelled several feet backwards into the clutter of debris on the club floor. He'd never felt this much pain before, it felt as though his innards were on fire and his vision began to blur and grey around the edges as he came closer to passing out.

"Well, you just earned yourself something special." The man's hand went to the holster where he'd kept his knife, but it had fallen away with the rest of the combat webbing. He made an irritated noise and bent over to rummage around in the detritus on the ground for his stuff. Scott summoned up as much will as he could manage, and, bloody drool dripping through his gritted teeth, he was able to get up on his knees, and, with one hand pressed to his freely bleeding wound, crawl over to the man's bandolier of shotgun shells. He plucked a couple from the little loops of fabric which held them in place and, as the maniac straightened up and turned to Scott, the werewolf made on last despairing lunge, he mashed them into the man's face. As he hoped, the incendiary agent, exposed to the air, sparked to life, and white-hot flames engulfed the man's entire head. He screamed and dropped his knife.

At that moment, the 'Staff Only' door through which Sweeny's cronies had escaped earlier burst open and more men in tactical gear, this time with 'SECURITY' in block capital letters in fluorescent material on their flack vests, ran through, and opened fire on both of them. Scott gasped and collapsed to the floor as he felt hot lead tearing through him, shattering ribs, vertebrae, both shoulder-blades, and punching holes in his lungs, heart and liver. The wounds closed almost as soon as they opened, but the pain was still very real. The man seemed more-or-less indifferent to the automatic rifle-rounds thumping into him, and none of them seemed to penetrate anyway, but his scream took on a note of rage and frustration as he ran, still burning like a firework, from the building.

The security men, zombies by the smell of formaldehyde emanating from them, surrounded Scott, pointing their weapons at him. One of the ones in the back pressed his fingers to his throat-mike and muttered something, then, as Scott managed to roll over to look at the door, Sweeny came sauntering through, hands in his pockets, still wearing his god-awful clubbing suit.

"Jesus titty-fucking-Christ! Look what that asshole did to my club! What the fuck is this goin' to do to my insurance premiums!? Is that my bar-tender? It is! He killed my fuckin' bar tender! Now I'm gonna have to put out want-ads and hold interviews; it's gonna be a whole thing. God damn it, there goes my weekend." He strolled over to Scott and peered down at him from behind the ring of security personnel, still pointing their guns at him. "That you, kid? Sam, was it? No, Todd? Something like that…" He pulled out a hand from one pocket and snapped his fingers. "Scott! That was it! Look, Scott, I really appreciate you tryin' ta take down the guy who wrecked my club, I really do, so what I'm gonna do is have one of my guys call one of your guys to come pick you up, completely free of charge. That sound good?" Scott groaned in pain. "Great, glad ta hear it. Anyway, about that business we were discussing earlier; I'll have somebody send you the details, but don't forget; you owe me now.

Bigtime."

۩‹‹‹‹﴾﴾~~۝~~﴿﴿››››۩