But It's Better if You Do 12

Title: But It's Better if You Do Chapter 12
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco, League of STEAM
Genre: music video fic, horror, mystery, steampunk
Word Count: 1085
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: eh
Warnings: none


Brendon stared at the door that Spencer disappeared through and hoped his friend was ok. He looked back at JR and asked, "Was Rogers killed the same way as the others?" His friend nodded once. Brendon looked once more around at the warehouse and noticed what was missing. "Where's Crackitus?" He asked.

Just as JR shrugged, the inventor in question slammed through one of the heavy side doors that dotted the interior of the brick building. "Boy guys, things are REALLY getting exciting now, huh?" The older man's eyes gleamed in excitement and his mustache seemed even more charged and perkier than usual. "Rogers was definitely kill by a werewolf!" He dropped a gory, blood covered bag on top of the table before Brendon, the poor man gagging from the overwhelming smell.

"Crackitus, what is that?" Brendon grabbed one of the dirty spoons he had been washing and cautiously poked the bag, it moved very little.

Crackitus glanced down at it as though noticing it for the first time. "Not important," he waved at it and remounted his energetic flow he had entered with. "He was killed by a werewolf, guys! Do you know what this means?" JR and Brendon stared blankly at him in answer. "It means: we know nothing!"

"Great."

"Splendid."

The lack of enthusiasm in the young men before him caused the inventor to check himself before he ranted again. "No see, we had suspected that Rogers was behind this, but with him dead we have a suspect eliminated!"

Brendon handed the bloody bag to Zed as the zombie passed by, "Put this in Crackitus' room, thanks. He was also our only suspect."

"Well," JR rubbed his hairless chin thoughtfully, "I think we're just gonna have to catch it tonight before it kills again, it's proven to be unpredictable now."

Brendon couldn't help the tight ball of anxiety that started to roll around in his stomach. He had a feeling that he knew where this was going, "Why can't we just kill it?" It would be far easier to put an end to the beast's life than to find a way to subdue and restrain it.

"There's very little reliable information on werewolves, Brendon," Crackitus shook his head in exasperation as though the younger man should've known the answer already. "We also don't know how much of these murders are him, or the curse working through him. We need him for observation, we can't waste this opportunity!"

Brendon visibly cringed, an opportunity for him to get killed. He did not particularly enjoy making enemies, let alone enemies of the supernatural origin. They always seemed... nastier. He finally shrugged his shoulders and realized he already had enemies, may as well get rid of them one at a time. Resigned to his fate, he jerked his head over to one of the work benches, "So what've you got for us to play with?"

Crackitus grinned a mustache-raising smile, a sneaky gleam sparkled in his eyes, "Oh, I think you're gonna like this."

-

The cobblestones beneath him were slick from the fog and it took a careful step to keep him from slipping. That, and the silver-tipped cane he clutched in his hand. This was not the only tool Brendon had with him, nor was the cane ordinary. Across his coat-clad back a net gun hung by a leather strap, at his hip was a colt revolver already loaded with special bullets for the job. And in the breast pocket of his waist coat rested a syringe holding enough tranquilizer to bring down an elephant.

It was the cane, however, that gave the young hunter the small sense of security he had. That, and the assurance that whatever he was hunting would not be able to sneak up on him. He knew this because it was already trying to.

For the past half of an hour, his sensitive ears could just make out the heavy steps that slapped the ground with more of a gait than a measured pace. And there was the slight, sweaty stench that laced through the moist air around him. Brendon was certain he was being followed, but the trick now was not to transition from hunted to victim.

In all honesty, he was confused why the beast didn't reveal itself or attack yet. He was alone, quite probably weaker, and his back up was half a city away. Crackitus and JR had decided to split away from Brendon and spread the rest of the league throughout Chicago in hopes of catching the beast in one night. Sadly, Brendon was the only one on the hunt without a partner. A flare gun rested on his hip, opposite the revolver and ready to signal the others when he subdued the werewolf.

He decided that it would probably be best to search from a higher vantage point, giving him an advantage much needed for shooting. With some effort and a few close calls, he had finally climbed his way onto one of the nearby roof tops. He balanced on the edge and looked down into the alley below. He knew the werewolf was getting closer, so it should only be a matter of waiting before the creature stalking him would be close enough to strike.

A biting wind assaulted his side, blowing his bowler off and into streets below. He winced at his loss but knew he had to stay in his place and not chase after the hat. As he squatted down to wait the strangest sound carried on the wind from across the city, a wolf's howl.

As the scuffling he had listened to all night drew ever closer, he wondered what creature had howled. The sound came from farther away than he knew the werewolf was. He frowned in confusion before soon noticing that the shuffling steps had stopped. He cocked his head to the side and tried harder to listen for the telltale sign.

It wasn't there.

He stood up and leaned over the street and squinted into the blackness. His eyesight was better than most but he still couldn't quite distinguish the various shadows beneath him. He leaned a little bit further and then heard the panting and shuffling again.

He turned his head just in time to see a pair of yellow eyes surge towards as clawed hands ripped into his shoulders and sent him hurtling down into dirty alley bellow.