The lights in the cabin dimmed. Their pilot relayed a safety briefing over the intercom while the attendant exited to the cockpit. Stay seated until the sign goes out, meals will be served when the climber reaches the halfway point at geosynchronous equatorial orbit, and the attendant can be reached by the intercom at the front of the cabin. Kahlo had memorized parts of the emergency protocol from his flights. There was no mention of any anti-werewolf protocol, perhaps to placate the passengers before they climbed into space in this tiny box. Thank you for riding the Google-Swan Tower, the pilot finished.
Kahlo prepared himself, like the old lady unfolding her blanket and the blonde guy putting on headphones. Everyone leisurely settled in for the ascent. With any luck, they’d be distracted if Kahlo let slip any changes. He tore open the package of ear plugs.
A harsh whistle blasted through his ears and Kahlo almost exploded into a pile of fur right in his chair. He jammed the foam in, and sunk into his chair as casually as he could. He pulled his heels from his shoes and shoved his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt; small actions to remain inconspicuous. He had to keep his cool; he was on camera. The noise rattled his body. If he closed his eyes and tried to fake sleeping now it’d look too obvious.
Kahlo threw his gaze to the others. They weren’t bothering with him, thankfully. No one else seemed to hear the noise as they flipped through pages in their book or songs on their phones. The guy in the dress shirt stepped into the bathroom. Kahlo focused on a tan messenger bag in the luggage cage. Discomfort wormed its way through him, filling him with the urge to squirm, to writhe, to shout.
His jaws felt melded together, each tooth morphed and sharpened. Blood trickled down his throat, tempting him to drop his composure. He willed the muzzle not to take shape around his still-forming fangs; prayed for another part of him—his hands, his feet, anything not immediately visible—to transform instead.
His eyes stung and vision sharpened. One tear rolling down his cheek and it was over. Someone would ask, draw attention to him. How would he respond? He could only shake or nod and hope they accepted it. The whistle rose in pitch and beneath his long sleeves hair grew out in patches along his arms. If he moved too fast, the sweatshirt would burst. His hands widened to host blister-like growths on his palms. Black fur streamed out of every pore, stopping the keratin of his nails from scratching the back of his hands. He didn’t need to see the hellacious claws he now possessed—he could feel them poking into his stomach through the layers of fabric.
“You okay?”