Title: Lone Wolf
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda.
He guesses the legends were serious when they said only silver or another of his kind can kill him. Time no longer touches him. He's trapped forever in that moment when he was seventeen, not aging a single instant, always staying the same.
Sometimes he claws his flesh down to the bone just to watch himself bleed. It's a miracle when the flesh closes over the wounds and those red gaping mouths are sucked back in upon themselves and disappear.
He's tried nearly every drug out there, alone and in amazing combinations no mere human would ever dare. Once he figured out that he didn't have to worry about frying his brain, he could relax into the freedom of doing whatever he wanted to himself. He no longer had to fear, because not even pain could last.
In those first years of his lycanthropy there had been the dread of hunters or the ripping teeth of his own kind. Plus, at first he hadn't really understood what he was, so he had been afraid of what he might do or what might be done to him.
Now though, everything's so much simpler. The universe and the world have both changed and everything's different.
He is the last of the werewolves, and sure, he can always make more, build up his own pack, but he doesn’t want to. He has always been happy as a loner. He doesn't mind tramping the spaceways alone. There's almost a comfort in solitude. He is the Last Werewolf, and it's a title he carries with pride, even if the humans and aliens don't have a single clue about what he is and what he's capable of.
Nietszcheans can smell the difference on him, but they don't quite know what it is about him that makes them cringe away. They sense that he's more of an alpha than they can ever be, that he carries the wildness in his veins and he's not afraid to rip them apart if he has to. They avoid him, and they don't even know why. It amuses him, though he's never taken the time to bother educating any of them. He likes the mystery he carries.
He doesn't worry about silver either, not anymore. With the advent of nanotechnology it was a simple thing to have silver-eating nanobots injected into himself. They rest dormant within him, but at a single hint of silver touching his skin, they'll go active and gobble it all up before it can barely break the surface of his flesh, much less pierce him, kill him. So he's safe from that single weakness as well.
He is invulnerable. If he wanted to, he could probably set himself up as a god. He could rule a planet or a solar system as the Grand High Mugwump or whatever. But he doesn't want to.
For some strange reason he can't even explain to himself, he would rather travel from planet to planet with his guitar. He makes a few credits here or there, but it doesn't really matter. He's just happy to have the freedom to go wherever he wants whenever he wants.
He has long since forgotten the press of moon pale skin against him and the strawberry scent of deep red hair. He has forgotten soft breasts and shapely legs and the kiss of lips against his. He has forgotten the pain of seeing red hair mesh with blond as two women fall in love and he's forever pushed away. He has forgotten the pain of knowing that wolves mate for life and that he's lost his chance at true happiness.
He's a lone wolf, and he doesn't need anything else, just the freedom to travel wherever when the mood strikes. He's always been happier alone.