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He was laying there in self-piteous pain and then suddenly, he was upright, shot so fast that his spine screamed in protest. Lucas ignored it, because really -- what in the ever loving eff was he supposed to do about a second visitor in the middle of a sleepless night?

One he didn't hear?

THAT WAS SITTING ON HIS BED?

The ex-soldier drew in a short breath, and exhaled, trying to use the calm that was exuded when looking down the sights of a gun. It felt...oddly appropriate. "Two in one moon cycle is hardly terrible," he replied in a lazy tone that was not at all in tune with the misgiving look in his eyes or the stumbling beat of his heart. "I understood what the last visitor wanted, but uh...I admit you have me at a disadvantage."

Sure. Talking with random strangers in his bedroom was becoming normal. What was his life coming to?

His brows skewed in shock and confusion, though his smile was wry and tight. An unfriendly smile. "How do you know his name--?"

But she had him. And then -- then he wasn't himself. What was happening - he wasn't even human--

Lucas uttered the loudest, most frightened '********' of his life, trying to yank back, kicking at the sheets, the bed, her if she was close enough, kicking at the arm that was not his was not human was not his--!!

"What the ********, what the ********?!" The notes of his usually smooth voice was a near hysteria that made it crack and break entirely. His left arm shook horribly, trying to look at it, trying to flex his fingers (claws) and feel his palm (paw).

He was still trying to draw himself up and away from her, clutching the spot of his arm that wasn't yet fur, horror making him ashen as he looked at her -- beseeching, angry, accusing, scared. "What the ******** do you want, lady?!"

Lucas was swallowing air and it still didn't feel like enough. He was shaking so badly he was surprised the bed wasn't thundering against the wall with the force of it. And now -- now, somehow, this calm, Red Lady had managed to make him feel bad for freaking out, as if it he had somehow been unreasonable. He was in such a bad place mentally that he almost believed it.

He gasped, like his heart stopped, and tightened his fist. "Lady," he said through clenched teeth, "I don't even know what help I need to be agreeing to anything of you. THIS -- " He hefted the bestial arm. " -- THIS didn't happen until you showed up uninvited!" Please, universe, god, whatever was out there, make some damn sense! But he couldn't put it into words, not yet, not when air was a currency he was shockingly short on. He supposed he was due for a panic attack.

He clutched his oblong arm to his chest, his anger mostly melting away into a helpless confusion. Lucas knew when he was in over his head and it had started the day he'd met Autumn. She'd warned him, and now...now here he was, with a furry clawed hand, staring at a phantom woman on his bed that knew what he'd been suffering even though he hadn't been able to tell a soul. There was no answer to what he was supposed to do. Even her idle joke about his past visitor didn't put him at ease. He wasn't sure he'd know what 'ease' felt like ever again.

"What," he asked quietly, a tremor still audible in his voice, "am...am I supposed to do?"

Normally, a calm red-head in his bed would have made Lucas all charm and come-on's, but in this instance, he felt so -- uncomfortable, beneath her, beneath understanding any of this. He was pretty sure the furry hand and thrumming fear made it worse than boot camp.

"Are -- are you a were -- s**t, am -- am I a -- ?" He tried to insist he hadn't been bitten or come into contact with anything that should have awakened anymore than a sense of needing to sleep, but he realized that he could be truly and horrifically wrong. All his knowledge came from games and movie lore; Other Ashdown had existed and all he knew to compare it to was a horror game. He didn't know. He could do nothing but submit to her instruction.

He hated feeling weak and powerless, but he had literally just been wondering who to turn to for help...and here she was. Lady Red.

A hollow laugh escaped him, faint and weak. Know the shape, she said, as if he hadn't spent countless days and nights memorizing it just in case it should disappear like the other. Drawing in a shaking breath, he closed his eyes with some difficulty, and tried to focus. Remembered the small scar on the left side beneath his pinky finger. Remembered the alien feeling of the scab on part of his palm that he'd gotten from falling over from lack of balance. He remembered, and finally, slowed down and did what he was told.

His eyes opened, slow, tentative. Lucas could see his hand, just as he had recalled it. His eyes turned then to her hand, following her arm to her face, and there they lingered, his expression guarded.

"So that's it? I'm -- I'm a were-rat?" His lips pursed. "And what happens if...if I forget? What happens to...?" The prosthetic arm caught the dim moonlight as he turned it towards her, brows furrowed. "What and who are you? What -- what the hell is the purpose of all of this?

Her choice of words didn't necessarily make Lucas feel like he could trust her. I could, she said. Not that she would, or wanted to, but she could. If she wanted to. Not exactly an endearing statement to the ex-soldier, holding knowledge and control over him in such a way.

"Look, Lady, I -- I've dealt with eight foot monstrosities and an alternate reality that isn't so alternate that is attacking people and now -- now this. So you have to forgive me if I'm...I'm less than thrilled. And more than lost."

He exhaled slowly, measured, trying to grapple for the calm he so desperately needed, even as his fingers delicately curled against hers. What was it with people who broke into his home at night holding his hand? "I -- do I need to avoid silver? Do -- do I need to barricade myself somewhere on a full moon? Is biting someone a worry?" Please no. He really didn't want to try and explain this to Thorne. "And what -- what do you mean, if you were in Ashdown? You're right here, aren't -- aren't you?"

Lucas looked at her, so close, but there were miles and leagues of distance between them. He lifted his prosthetic hand and gently, fingers curled, rubbed the back of his fingers over the red mark on her arm. "Sorry," he offered softly, quietly.