Moments Progressively Thereafter
Now that you've made me want to die
You tell me that you're unboyfriendable
And I could make you pay and pay
But I could never make you stay
Oz belongs to Joss
Timeframe: Post-New Moon Rising, Season 4
Lyrics by Magnetic Fields
Oz woke up with a start. He was twisted up in his green sleeping bag, flannel wrapped around his legs. Van was home, so that was not a weird thought, but then, the events of yesterday, the leaving, everything came rushing back to him. He sat bolt upright, throat choked with grief that couldn't be swallowed.
Moonlight was streaming through the van windows, as Oz felt his body begin to glitch, to change, to wolf just a little. After the events with Tara, his control was weak. It had only been recent after all. Watching his hands curl, hair growing, he began to calm himself to force the wolf to recede, but the memory of Willow and Tara, the jealousy that he had felt rack him to his very soul lingered too strongly. Thinking Oz, analytical and laconic, was completely overcome by werewolf, in that there was no Oz. Wild, instinctual, the wolf only knew need. Tearing open the van door, he burst forth into the night, fur glistening as his sleek body chased down the shadows that lingered in the full moon.
The next morning, like every morning following a full moon, Oz awoke disoriented and naked in the woods. Just one of these times couldn’t he pull some leaves over himself or something. He got up, not feeling better than the night before, but rather as if he had a release of energy, just plain worn out. He ambled back in the direction his van may have been, shivering in the early morning light. As he spotted it in the distance, he knew he had to go farther away. Across oceans, again. His hurt and rage seemed to fill more than this whole continent could hold. He had wanted to kill Tara and truth to be told if she was here right now, he would try again. Anger and remorse and grief were battling for him. He knew he had to keep a clear head, get away from here now, anger would fade or build along the way.
--
FIRST KILL- 1 month later
The wolf ran. The wolf was free. The wolf wanted blood. Up until this point, shreds of Oz lingered inside the wolf unable to cope or deal with the emotions that swirled up and strangled him. As he receded, the wolf took over. At first it had nurtured, but now it was his dictator. The wolf was going to take out the pain that it knew on a girl, a woman.
Redheads are hard to find to Istanbul.
In fact, seeing his first one, Oz/Wolf had thought it was her, waiting just around the corner, in the darkness that was creeping over the city. He searched the features, but this was not her, this Willow that abstractly made a picture in the mind of the wolf. Bile rose in its throat as once again, Oz retreated into the corner and let the wolf take over. Wolf walked up behind the girl, smelling her and breathing her in through the nostrils. Quietly, silently, although the wolf wanted to howl in joyous glory, he came up close to her. Wolf wanted to see her face, so he kicked a stone to draw attention. The girl turned, freckles dotting her nose, hair copper in the fading light. She saw a boy. An Oz-shaped boy looking plaintively at her. She smiled, thinking maybe a mistake had been made, turning back to her path, thinking how you rarely saw a redhead in Istanbul. England had been full of them and when she came here on an exchange program she had never imagined...
Wolf knocked her to the ground, gnashing teeth at her neck and arms, the finesse that would come with time was totally non-existent. Blood spurting onto fur, that had recently been donned. It only took seconds until the life had left her body. Chewing on a piece of her flesh and gulping it down, the Wolf was pleased with its meal. The best he had ever have, one of the few, in fact that he had ever had. Loping to the river, he bathed in the light of the rising moon and bayed his happiness to the ancient city.
Oz, real Oz, the last of him retreated so far that the Wolf felt confident that it was in charge now.
-
BUILD - 3 months later.
Werewolf was the terror of Istanbul. The werewolf that had once been Oz, that is. Sleeping all day, dashing through the thin streets, haunting the Mirhab of mosques when he could sneak inside. Old Istanbul was his favorite portion of the city. Tiled, bricked, detailed, dark, an easy place to hunt. His favorite mosque lay near the edge of the river near the Ataturk Bridge. The Azapkapi Mosque was decrepit, red-carpeted and seemed to hold the ancient secrets in its stones. Here the werewolf would prowl at night, the need to kill rising higher and higher, a fever pitch that was palatable. Near the early morning hours, the smell of blood and incense could be almost tasted near the edges of its minarets.
During the day, in the boy-known-as-Oz form he would walk around Istanbul in a daze, picking pockets when the money from his kills ran out, sleeping wherever he lie. Not many vans to be had. He was awake during the day, semi-conscience of his surroundings, but in the same breath, he was less a personality. A glaze guarded his eyes from seeing, the wolf keeping control of the boy who inhabited. Oz, as Oz, had mastered the wolf, learned to keep it away, but he had never integrated it, only hid it. Now the wolf was doing the same to him. Using the body as it pleased. It no longer took the full moon, it no longer took anything, because the beast was already there.
You tell me that you're unboyfriendable
And I could make you pay and pay
But I could never make you stay
Oz belongs to Joss
Timeframe: Post-New Moon Rising, Season 4
Lyrics by Magnetic Fields
Oz woke up with a start. He was twisted up in his green sleeping bag, flannel wrapped around his legs. Van was home, so that was not a weird thought, but then, the events of yesterday, the leaving, everything came rushing back to him. He sat bolt upright, throat choked with grief that couldn't be swallowed.
Moonlight was streaming through the van windows, as Oz felt his body begin to glitch, to change, to wolf just a little. After the events with Tara, his control was weak. It had only been recent after all. Watching his hands curl, hair growing, he began to calm himself to force the wolf to recede, but the memory of Willow and Tara, the jealousy that he had felt rack him to his very soul lingered too strongly. Thinking Oz, analytical and laconic, was completely overcome by werewolf, in that there was no Oz. Wild, instinctual, the wolf only knew need. Tearing open the van door, he burst forth into the night, fur glistening as his sleek body chased down the shadows that lingered in the full moon.
The next morning, like every morning following a full moon, Oz awoke disoriented and naked in the woods. Just one of these times couldn’t he pull some leaves over himself or something. He got up, not feeling better than the night before, but rather as if he had a release of energy, just plain worn out. He ambled back in the direction his van may have been, shivering in the early morning light. As he spotted it in the distance, he knew he had to go farther away. Across oceans, again. His hurt and rage seemed to fill more than this whole continent could hold. He had wanted to kill Tara and truth to be told if she was here right now, he would try again. Anger and remorse and grief were battling for him. He knew he had to keep a clear head, get away from here now, anger would fade or build along the way.
--
FIRST KILL- 1 month later
The wolf ran. The wolf was free. The wolf wanted blood. Up until this point, shreds of Oz lingered inside the wolf unable to cope or deal with the emotions that swirled up and strangled him. As he receded, the wolf took over. At first it had nurtured, but now it was his dictator. The wolf was going to take out the pain that it knew on a girl, a woman.
Redheads are hard to find to Istanbul.
In fact, seeing his first one, Oz/Wolf had thought it was her, waiting just around the corner, in the darkness that was creeping over the city. He searched the features, but this was not her, this Willow that abstractly made a picture in the mind of the wolf. Bile rose in its throat as once again, Oz retreated into the corner and let the wolf take over. Wolf walked up behind the girl, smelling her and breathing her in through the nostrils. Quietly, silently, although the wolf wanted to howl in joyous glory, he came up close to her. Wolf wanted to see her face, so he kicked a stone to draw attention. The girl turned, freckles dotting her nose, hair copper in the fading light. She saw a boy. An Oz-shaped boy looking plaintively at her. She smiled, thinking maybe a mistake had been made, turning back to her path, thinking how you rarely saw a redhead in Istanbul. England had been full of them and when she came here on an exchange program she had never imagined...
Wolf knocked her to the ground, gnashing teeth at her neck and arms, the finesse that would come with time was totally non-existent. Blood spurting onto fur, that had recently been donned. It only took seconds until the life had left her body. Chewing on a piece of her flesh and gulping it down, the Wolf was pleased with its meal. The best he had ever have, one of the few, in fact that he had ever had. Loping to the river, he bathed in the light of the rising moon and bayed his happiness to the ancient city.
Oz, real Oz, the last of him retreated so far that the Wolf felt confident that it was in charge now.
-
BUILD - 3 months later.
Werewolf was the terror of Istanbul. The werewolf that had once been Oz, that is. Sleeping all day, dashing through the thin streets, haunting the Mirhab of mosques when he could sneak inside. Old Istanbul was his favorite portion of the city. Tiled, bricked, detailed, dark, an easy place to hunt. His favorite mosque lay near the edge of the river near the Ataturk Bridge. The Azapkapi Mosque was decrepit, red-carpeted and seemed to hold the ancient secrets in its stones. Here the werewolf would prowl at night, the need to kill rising higher and higher, a fever pitch that was palatable. Near the early morning hours, the smell of blood and incense could be almost tasted near the edges of its minarets.
During the day, in the boy-known-as-Oz form he would walk around Istanbul in a daze, picking pockets when the money from his kills ran out, sleeping wherever he lie. Not many vans to be had. He was awake during the day, semi-conscience of his surroundings, but in the same breath, he was less a personality. A glaze guarded his eyes from seeing, the wolf keeping control of the boy who inhabited. Oz, as Oz, had mastered the wolf, learned to keep it away, but he had never integrated it, only hid it. Now the wolf was doing the same to him. Using the body as it pleased. It no longer took the full moon, it no longer took anything, because the beast was already there.