The raw power of Shock and Patriot rippled the air around them, laying the villain even lower. Plastic man's hydro jet looked powerful enough to cut through steel, and judging from the cries of pain coming from Shrapnel that was exactly what was happening. Bast's plan had worked well, the pack coming together beautifully to put their adversary down. Fenrir nodded slightly in appreciation of the simplicity involved, a simple diversion and this fight was nearly over. He may be the strongest, but he was almost certain she was the smartest. 

Plas's stream had slowed now, his reserve of water run dry, but by that point it didn't look like Shrapnel was getting back up anytime soon. Between the moisture and Shock's lightning it almost smelt like the aftermath of a summer storm, the pleasurable smell making Fenrir's nose twitch even as he hefted the heavy tree still in his hands. He looked down at the prone figure of Shrapnel, the wolf in him scorning the metal man, but the human in him full of pity. The feral metahuman wasn't sure why the villain had chosen to go on a rampage, didn't know why he had decided to endanger so many lives. Whatever Shrapnel's reason Fenrir was certain that it didn't justify the terror he had put so many innocents through, but he still pitied the metallic giant, and thought the best thing for him now was to be handed into the authorities. The wolf in him though, it believed in crushing its enemies so they couldn't attack again. It was the wolf that made the decision to strike the prone villain, to put a definitive end to his menace. 

The tree came down in a mighty overhand swing, trunk smashing into Shrapnel with so much force that the pavement underneath him made an audible crack even as the metal man groaned for mercy. Fenrir lifted his makeshift club, only to bring it crashing down once again, the sound of contact booming like thunder. This time Shrapnel barely shuddered. Again the tree went into the air, and again Fenrir struck. This time the tree itself broke in two. The wolfman left it where it was, strewn across his enemy lying pathetically in the dirt. 

He could feel his blood rising, a ringing in his head that sounded like a distant howl. His senses started going into overdrive, nose being flooded with the tangy scent of spilt blood, ears picking up the individual heartbeats from his pack. His fingers itched and tingled, mouth salivating intensely with the anticipation. His vision started to go red, ready for the kill. Desperately the man inside his Fenrir's hybrid body tried to fight his primal urges. A battle raged in his head, as real and as dangerous as the one his pack had just fought, between man and beast. Slowly his vision blurred, the here and the now mixing with memories long past. 

[i]A clinically clean white room, bright lights that provide no shadow to hide in. A boy, weak and starving, huddled in a corner, stinking of fear. There was no escape, for either Fenrir or the boy. A voice echoes out, strong, strict yet devoid of warmth.

"You are a monster. We know it. That child knows it. You know it. Why fight it? Give in to your base desires, become what you are meant to be. The weak must perish so that the strong can thrive. That child is weak, and you are strong. You could become the strongest, but first you must give in!" And so the voice goes on like, until he feels he can take no more and is forced to surrender what feels like the last of his humanity. His mouth fills with blood and flesh, warm and sticky down his throat. He feels like he should gag, but nothing has ever tasted sweeter. Then nothing, except for his shame and his horror and the sick dread of what he has done, and what he would have to do again. Of what he would do to Shrapnel. Of what he would do to anyone who gets in his way. . . 

Then another voice, strong and commanding. A voice that would brook no argument, but filled with patience and understanding. Hawkman. This too was a memory, but unlike the last it was a treasured memory, one that spoke of hope.

"Control dammit, you need to have control. You can be a savage and win every battle you fight, but then you'll just become like the ones you fight. No, the way forward is to control your savagery, harness it and use it. You'll never be like Superman, hell you wont even be like Batman, but when you learn what I have to teach you that wont matter, you wont be a monster, you'll be your own hero. Now CONTROL IT!"[/I]

The words faded, but the lesson didn't. Fenrir took several deep lungful's of air, forcing his breathing back under control. Slowly the world came back into focus, the library, his pack, the broken tree lying across the defeated Shrapnel, thankfully still alive. Shame filled him, and he was forced to look away, but looking away is not the same as forgetting. Perhaps the first voice was right, and Hawkman was wrong. Maybe he was a monster. . .