Content Warning: Misogyny, Profanity, Violence
It was a stupid thing to do, Orange admitted to himself.
He was a soccer player, not a boxer, and certainly not someone who got in life-and-death fights with gangsters. Still, he couldn't run. It just wasn't in him.
Someone once said to him: sometimes, even when everything's overwhelming and you don't think you can do it, you have to take a stand. It wasn't until he turned the corner of the old farmhouse and saw Jake, Etta and Demarco waiting for him that he remembered it had been Miranda who'd said it. That fit, he supposed.
"Look, I know I'm not a serious fighter," Orange said when he got close enough so he wouldn't have to shout, "but I was in some pretty rough matches. I can take a hit. I... I want to help. I need to be here."
He expected Jake to argue. Instead, the other man just exchanged a look with Etta. The fair-haired woman nodded knowingly.
"Good to have you," Jake said, clasping his hand. "Stick close to Etta. Keep your wits about you... and try not to freak out over what's about to happen."
Before Orange could ask what was going to happen, Jake was leading the four of them out of the yard.
"None of you seemed surprised to see me," Orange said, falling into line next to Etta.
"It's who you are," Etta replied simply. "Like you said, you need to be here. Sometimes, there is only one possible choice."
"Right..." Orange said. "Anyway, what's the.... ummm... wha'? Why are they taking off their clothes?"
Even as he stammered out his question, he found himself watching Jake and Demarco quickly and confidently stripping totally naked in front of him.
Before he could do much more than stare, the pair were engulfed in a blinding flash. Within that burning light he could just barely see their bodies contorting and changing. With piecing howls, two monstrous shapes emerged from those chrysalises of light.
"The... they... they're werewolves," Orange gasped.
Some small part of Orange's mind insisted, for one last time, that this could not be happening. This final objection made to the impossible but undeniable reality in front of him, that part of his mind gave up and disappeared behind the much larger part of his mind that was telling him he should be running right now.
"We did tell you that," Etta said gently.
From somewhere nearby came an answering howl. Even in his shocked state, Orange instinctively recognized the new cry as a challenge. The grey-brown werewolf that stood where Jake had once been howled again, answering the challenge with one of his own.
"They're werewolves!" Orange repeated.
"Yes," Etta said. "And so are the Barovs, so be glad we have Lux and Jake on our side."
Bone deep instinct was screaming at him to run, to hide, to escape. He realized that he'd already taken several steps backward, cowering at the sight of the two monsters who had once been Jake and Demarco. It would be so easy to just turn and run.
"If you're going to freak out and run, I'd appreciate it if you did it now," Etta continued, calmly. "Honestly, I'll understand and I won't hold it against you. It'd just be easier for me to know where we stand."
"Stand," Orange said softly, half to himself. Then, with more confidence, "I'm taking a stand. I'm good. I'm with you."
Still stunned, he watched as the two werewolves... freaking werewolves! ... dashed down the path ahead of them. He found himself glancing over at the surprisingly neat piles of discarded clothes and then looked back to Etta.
"I'm not taking off my clothes," she said.
"OK," Orange nodded. "Me neither."
"That's too bad," Etta said, deadpan.
"Should we be trying to catch up to them," Orange asked as Etta set off, almost leisurely, down the path after Werewolf Jake and Werewolf Demarco.
"Trust me, you don't want to get in the middle of a brawl between werewolves," Etta replied. "I expect our opposite numbers know that too."
"You mean..." Orange started.
"Those guys," Etta nodded.
The familiar forms of George T and his henchman Damian emerged from the woods ahead of them. Orange felt his blood boil at the sight of the drug dealing scum who had tormented Corrie and so many others. As he had once before, he focused on his breathing, focused on keeping control.
"I got this," Orange said. Werewolves might be beyond him, but George T wasn't.
"Orange," George snarled in his rough voice. "What did I tell you, boy. I said - Don't. Piss. In My Fucking Pool!"
"We're taking you down," Orange said confidently.
"You're taking me down, boy?" George laughed harshly. "No, I'll tell you what you're doing. You giving me back what you took! You're gonna give me back the ledger and that little bitch Corrie, and then I am going to beat you until you show me some fucking respect."
"Corrie isn't a thing," Orange snarled. "She's a person, and one more worthy of respect than you are."
"She is nothing but three warm holes to fuck," George scoffed. "But now you've got me curious... Which one was your favorite?"
What Orange did next wasn't a plan. It wasn't even rage.
It was, like Etta had a said, simply the only possible choice.
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Struggling to rise, Orange spat out a tooth, along with a mouthful of blood. It hurt to breathe. He was pretty sure he had a cracked rib. He'd probably broken at least one finger against George's face but that, he thought, had been totally worth it.
George towered over him, looking more furious than triumphant.
"Give me the fucking ledger," the gangster panted.
"No," Orange said defiantly.
"I am going to fucking kill you," George snarled.
"George, stop!" a woman's voice shouted.
"Corrie, you stupid bitch," George snarled. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"
"Yes, I do," Corrie snapped back. "I've gotten away from you... and I'm taking down you and the Altos... and then..."
"Corrie, enough!" George commanded. Then his voice changed, becoming softer, gentler. "Give me the ledger, babe, and come back with me. I can fix this for you. I can still make you a star."
"I can't give you the ledger," Corrie said. "We don't have it."
"What you fucking mean you don't have it?!" George demanded, all pretense of charm abandoned.
"It's going to the proper authorities," Corrie said confidently.
"You stupid bitch," George chuckled. "We own the police..."
"I know," Corrie said. "You told me. So we didn't give it to the police. Orange gave it to a friend... one who happens to know that lady on the news... Representative Bridges. You know, the one who used to be in the Agency. She has the ledger and she'll know the right people to give it to."
"You... you couldn't... you can't..." George stammered. "You can't do that."
"We already did," Corrie said. "You're going to jail, George. You're going to jail for a very, very long time."
"You can't do that!" George shouted.
"Oh also, babe, I'm totally breaking up with you," Corrie said. "Bye. See you never."
"George Tobar," called a man, running up the path at them. "You're under arrest."
"What?" George blinked, finding himself faced with two uniformed police officers.
"I thought we didn't trust the cops," Orange whispered to Corrie.
"Generally we don't, but Officer Scott is Jordan's brother," Corrie replied.
Faced with the pair of police officers, a stunned George looked around for the support of his lackey, Damien. The unfortunate henchman lay in an unconscious heap on the ground. Etta, standing over him, just smiled.
"You're under arrest," Officer Scott repeated. "You are charged with assault, terroristic threat and criminal trespass. I understand additional charges are pending from the Crown Prosecutors office."
"You can't arrest me!" George shouted. "Do you know who I am?!"
"Yes, sir, I do. That's why I'm arresting you," Officer Scott said firmly. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court."
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