The police report that was filed claimed that Robert Miles had stolen beer from his grandfathers mini-fridge, stolen his grandmothers '89 Lincoln, and crashed it over the side of Picnic bridge, most likely drowning as the car slipped beneath the icy waters of the Detroit River.
His physical description was: slight build, four foot eleven inches, sandy brown hair, green eyes. No distinguishing birthmarks or scars. Mother dead, father unknown, grandparents legal guardians.
His grandparents claimed that Robert had never acted out before. He was “fourteen. Full of energy but not mean. Not like this.”
Everything was filed under the old story, a story about teenage angst gone wrong and foolish mistakes. Shaken heads filled with regret at how young men get wild and this is what happens.
Robert never read the police reports. He was told about it later. Had he been interviewed he would have explained how he had stolen a beer from his grandfathers mini-fridge. He stole the beer because he had been thinking about his mother and he wanted to feel something other than sad. The rest was a blur.
He remembered waking up in icy waters with a powerful arm around his wait pulling him away from his grandmothers car. He remembered the burning in his lungs as he tried to hold in air for just a few moments longer, terrified of drowning. Then being dumped into a powerboat and shivering.
He vaguely recalled being carried from a dock, and into a small white building that seemed to be floating on the river.
When he woke up fully aware he saw he was in a large circular room with wooden floors and a large hulking figure near the rooms only door. Light was shining in from round windows and Robert guessed it might have been morning.
The hulking figure was dressed in a police uniform with a officers leather jacket that probably took an entire herd of cattle to produce. He was blond with tightly cropped hair, thick yellow eyebrows that sheltered deep green eyes. He spoke, a low growl, intimidating and full of authority with an underlying gentleness. Robert had heard the term “steel claw in a velvet glove” but didn't know what to compare it to until now.
“I'm not going to be secretive, like all those movies you see, and deal things out in annoyingly small increments. I am going to give you enough information for you to come to conclusions on your own, and for you to be able to deal with everything that's going to happen to you in the coming years. Some things, yes, I won't tell you until you are ready, just like I wouldn't expect you to be able to lift four hundred pounds without training for at least a year. And like any good weightlifting routine, you need to warm up first.
“Here's your first warm up. I'm your father. I drugged the beer in your grandfathers fridge hoping that he would drink it and pass out. I was going to then kidnap you and make it look like you ran away. You drank it instead and I decided to change plans and reduce the amount of people looking for you by faking your death. That is the only conspiracy surrounding you right now. No one killed your mother, she died in an accident. There isn't a secret society that is out to kill you. Also, at the end of everything I am about to tell you, there is a very real possibility that you will hate me. I am prepared to deal with your hatred, but there are things you need to know, things that will help you live your life, and make it worthwhile.”
Robert sat up. He was in a pair of plaid pajamas that didn't fit very well. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his elbows on his knees. Slowly he threaded his fingers through the hair at his temples and pulled viciously. When he didn't wake up he flung himself back into the bed.
The officer, his “father” stood up. Robert guessed he was easily six feet tall, maybe even seven.
“What do you want with me?” Robert stared at the ceiling. His voice had cracked, and he felt completely alone, and everyone he knew thought he was dead.
“For you to take your place in the world and not squander it.” The officer turned to leave. He opened the door and the sound of waves filled the room.
“Are you even going to tell me your name?” Robert demanded.
“Fenrir. Also, I'm a werewolf. Which means you are one, too.”
Speechless Robert stared at thee giant as he closed the door behind him. As soon as the sound of the door locked words ripped themselves out of his mouth.
“WHATEVER! YOU PSYCHO!”
Several hours later “Fenrir” had not returned. There was a small bar fridge filled with mostly deli meats and a loaf of bread. Robert devoured all of it while he paced the room, mumbling to himself mostly, but yelling at the locked door as well.
“Sure. You're a werewolf. Then your going to kill me with a silver knife or something for your dark god and WHO THE HELL KIDNAPS THEIR OWN SON! There are better ways to do things. You're a cop! What kind of cop does that. Won't drop four hundred pounds on me but you sure will dump a ton, huh? Moron.” He stopped in front of the circular window again. The only thing he could see was what looked like an abandoned factory along the shoreline. He was sure he was still on the Detroit river, but he didn't know where along the river he was.
Randomly seizures of hope jolted him. He imagined that he was part of a conspiracy, despite what he'd been told, that he was part of a secret society and he was now going to be the One, hero of his own epic story.
“Idiot. You've been kidnapped by some psycho. That's it. Werewolves. Stupid.”
Bored, he began to tear apart his bed. Might as well set a trap, he thought.
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