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Fine Zinc Teeth
There was a time Jedao would have said that half a century was barely any time; less than a mortal life, not more than two generations. But the world has changed so much since he first put the Americans' uniform on. Even the uniform has changed - they don't call dance halls dance halls any more, for another thing. But the smell of the place - sweat, desire, alcohol - that much is the same.
He slinks in under a stranger's face, although he doesn't disguise his own scent when he smiles, glittering, at the bouncer: a flashed lure that Fives might not even notice or recognize, let alone pursue. It took a few months to get someone to handle all the things which apparently needed handling for his "retirement", and a few more to track down one particular squad of decommissioned weretroops, out of thousands, mostly paperless, in the busiest city this side of the Pacific. But Jedao did find them.
He dances without keeping track of the time, lets his face slowly slide back to its default arrangement, lets his spine relearn how to hold him up without being army rigid. He has several drinks - people buy them for him, which is nice; one or two of them he even dances with until they can't keep up with him any more. Fives rotates from the receiving line onto the floor as the night wears on and patrons get drunker, and he maneuvers himself into Fives' line of view, always moving, twisting, flashing glances that catch on Fives' eyes as the beat hits. Slowly, as if by the whim of the music, he draws closer.
He slinks in under a stranger's face, although he doesn't disguise his own scent when he smiles, glittering, at the bouncer: a flashed lure that Fives might not even notice or recognize, let alone pursue. It took a few months to get someone to handle all the things which apparently needed handling for his "retirement", and a few more to track down one particular squad of decommissioned weretroops, out of thousands, mostly paperless, in the busiest city this side of the Pacific. But Jedao did find them.
He dances without keeping track of the time, lets his face slowly slide back to its default arrangement, lets his spine relearn how to hold him up without being army rigid. He has several drinks - people buy them for him, which is nice; one or two of them he even dances with until they can't keep up with him any more. Fives rotates from the receiving line onto the floor as the night wears on and patrons get drunker, and he maneuvers himself into Fives' line of view, always moving, twisting, flashing glances that catch on Fives' eyes as the beat hits. Slowly, as if by the whim of the music, he draws closer.
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"Maybe we could even do it someday," he adds, a little more quietly and with a hint of wistfulness to it. "Have you ever been to the Grand canyon? We watched a documentary on it a while ago and it looks amazing. It just... it just turned out that way. No one blew it up or anything." He sounds a little awed.
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"Once." The memory makes him pensive. There isn't much that makes him feel small, and even less that makes him feel young. "In China, there are dragons in the old rivers, but none of them made anything quite like that. I thought I felt Old Colorado breathing on my shoulder, a few times...maybe he's sleeping, deep in the cliffs. There's little grey foxes there. They all called me a fat half-coyote." He's fondly amused at the memory. "It's a world of its own, that place. Maybe a couple worlds."
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"Oh," he breathes, eyes going wide at the idea of a majestic, powerful old dragon sleeping in the cliffs of the ancient canon. The awe doesn't last long, though, washed away by the image the general's last words paint, and replaced by a quick grin and a bright, startled laugh. He's only seen the General's fox form a scant handful of times, but fat is not a word it brought to mind... and the urges it had brought to mind are probably best not thought of when pressed against him.
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"I've, uh, I've never met a real wolf." He almost stutters the words, trying to get them out there as a distraction from what he'd just done, and absolutely refusing to look across the cafe to where he's sure Echo must be giving him a horrified look. "I guess they'd probably think we're just as screwed up as the local weres do." The dog genetics added into their mix to supposedly make them more biddable and loyal hasn't done them any favors with natural born weres in the city.
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"Pure animals are very...straightforward, in a way. Timber wolves are wary and territorial, and they'd kill any pure were that came into their range alone. They know they can't stop an incursion from their magic cousins in force, so they want to nip that in the bud. With you...sometimes they'll play with dogs, if they aren't under food scarcity pressure. Dogs odd enough and gregarious enough not to trip competition instincts every time. Although I'd want to test it cautiously if i were you."
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"Red wolves?" He doesn't care if they're smaller, or even part coyote... he and his brothers are part dog, they have no room to judge. He just thinks it would be interesting to meet and interact with even a distant sort of relative, especially when the closer ones they have here in the city think they're mongrels and beneath them. "Would flirting be... bad?" He's not sure if he should be bothered by that idea or not, and he doesn't think he is so he should probably check to make sure.
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He is. Rambling.
"You do need to be careful with any females in estrus, though, you wouldn't want a pup transforming in the middle of the woods with a mother who didn't know how to deal with that."
The malamute mothers at the mills didn't really know either, but they were at least acclimated to human presence, and the breeders - for all their many, many other sins - were invested in keeping most of the pups alive.
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"It's only really a risk factor during spring, but the smell is a little crazy-making, just to warn you."
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They'd had to learn early and learn the hard way not to react to that, at least not outwardly, but he still remembers the first time one of their female commanders had examined them on parade while in estrus. Remembers being instantly, achingly hard at the scent of her and wanting desperately just to throw himself at her. Remembers the three boys who'd broke ranks being shocked back into line and beaten bloody for it later. The barracks had been a chaotic mess or horny, confused and frustrated pre-teens that night.
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"It'd probably be...a little comparable to dogs in heat, for you. You must have run into that from city strays by now?"
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"They tend to run. When they smell us." Thank the gods, he doesn't add, but definitely thinks, that they recognize a much larger, more terrifying predator by scent, as so many of the city's animals do.
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"Anyway, yes, it's worse when they're yowling 'please now please come on' and don't look like a garbage mop."
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"So definitely no, uh, no going anywhere with wolves in... in the spring?" He's sure that's what the General said, but he's definitely a little dazed and, well, it's something to say. Something to ask to shift the conversation along while he collects himself. And tries not to obsess about the General's toothy grin or how much he wants to taste him.
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He catches Fives' gaze, his voice low and intense with conviction.
"Don't decide in advance that anything is beyond you."
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"Yes sir," he answers, low and throaty, just as intense in his way.
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He licks his lips and makes himself sit back, pillow still positioned strategically. "We can leave soon, if you want," he makes himself offer. "I know Tup will be especially excited to see you." Dogma might too, though it's hard to predict with him... and Fives doesn't really care to try. He knows he shouldn't still be bitter, but that doesn't change the fact he is, and Dogma's almost obsequious fawning over him makes it worse, not better.
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CW: killing and eating animals, blood
Re: CW: killing and eating animals, blood
Re: CW: killing and eating animals, blood
Re: CW: killing and eating animals, blood
Re: CW: killing and eating animals, blood
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