When you first learned of werewolves' amazing regenerative powers, you didn't appreciate how you'd experience all the pain of a month-long recovery in a few minutes. Now you know how your flesh gropes clumsily like a blind man, sealing itself back together, repairing torn nerve endings in a frenzy of agonizing life-urge. In seconds, the living energy of Gaia has healed you inside and out and left you shuddering from pain and nausea.
It's past midnight and traffic on the nearby road is infrequent, so you regain your natural form, what werewolves call the homid. That transformation is always easier than the others—barely any blood drips from your ears anymore—but the cold hits you like a bucket of ice water. Noting the cameras, you dart across the road to the rusted-out Chevy Astro in the Speedway parking lot, pull yourself inside, store your bow and arrows, and then just sit there.
What are you supposed to do? Cry? Scream and rage? Accept your fate as a permanent cub in a three-Garou pack, where the youngest member is fifty-three and they all think the world already ended?