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by: Christophe Viridian
5 June 2012
Sometime after 4 am
Unknown // Pits of Azkaban

Life in a box. If it wasn't a cell, it was a god damn box, one that Reynolds would use for show, transport from one cell to the next. Didn't matter how small the box was, he was still bound by chains, fitted with a muzzle that constantly tore the corners of his mouth until they bled. It was only a day after his shift, and he was surprised he was awake at all. It had to be the hundredth shift or something like it, but no matter how many times his bones contorted, no matter how many times he thrashed and abused the walls of his cage, it didn't get any easier.

The moon, he figured. Based on the mutterings of Reynolds and the days in between his shifts, he knew it had something to do with that bloody moon. Werewolf, he knew, was infused in his system, but after all this time he could only pick out the words like 'scales' or 'fire' and 'maul' whenever Reynolds spoke since he used a muffliato most of the time when recording his notes.

It had been a while since he thought about his family. Ten years, by his estimate, was a long time to be away. It wasn't until recently he started seeing them in his dreams, especially during his blackouts during the shift. He wondered how old Kristabella's kid was now. He wondered if Nick ever made amends with Alexandra, if Kara ever found out the truth... He wondered if he'd ever see them again... Unfortunately, and a bit of brilliance on his part, he needed to keep those thoughts from his captor, from the doctor. The last time he showed any sign of recollection he was isolated for what he thought was a month or two, fed only through a tube, whenever they saw fit. Reynolds couldn't know he remembered the faces of his family, nor could he know that he intended on finding them if he escaped from this hellhole.

When the door opened, he looked up. Unlike the many times before, he didn't turn to face his visitor. He already knew who it was by that stench of old coffee and stale cigarettes. He already knew who it was based on the way his steps were uneven; the sound of footwear clicked on the concrete floor. Christophe felt a low growl in his chest, and before he knew it, he was charging the front of his cage. His breathing rose and he roared as he ran towards the doctor with his hands up to strike.

"Back." Reynolds commanded, but it was too late. Christophe was already bounding toward him...but the older man didn't flinch. "I said BACK!" Reynolds tapped his wand on the metal grating of the cage and a bright white tendrils of electricity lashed out at him, jarring him, biting him, burning him until his body seized and lost control of itself. He shook from the inside out, trembling as he crumbled to the floor into a pile of aching bones and gelatinous muscle. Christophe stayed down. He knew better...well, now. He didn't want to suffer that again, and given Reynold's track record, he would not hesitate to do it again. Reynolds' tattered, cracked leather shoes carefully stepped inside the cage.

Christophe's face was placed against the warm concrete, but his eyes focused on the broken sole of the doctor's shoes. His yellow eyes were aglow when they met those of the man in the white lab coat as he bent down to speak.

Reynold's wore a vindictive smile... "Good morning, ol' sport. It's time to go."
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