When Pat Morris woke to the sound of a familiar alarm, he was struck by how tired he felt.

Really, there could only be one culprit: That damn Applebee’s he’d eaten for dinner the previous night. The woman sleeping beside him considered it her favorite sit-down restaurant, something that felt ridiculous to Pat, but he wasn’t going to complain outwardly.

Anyway, that was not the most important thing. What truly mattered was that the sound was not an alarm, but rather a ringtone. Someone was calling him at this early hour, a reality he had to be prepared for. 

It went with the territory.

Pat picked up the phone. “Yes?” he inquired frantically.

“Pat, you need to go over to the station right now. There’s something we need to respond to.”

The young man gulped as he thought through all the things this might mean. Maybe it was positive - at 26 years old, a promotion was within the realm of possibility, but still improbable. More likely it was bad news, an emergency of some sort. Or maybe Pat himself was in trouble.

Well, I’m not going to be a coward. I’m going to do my damn job. 

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” Pat inquired. “It’s 4 AM - this had better be wicked important!”

“It is! Just get over here now, you can ask questions later!”

Pat hung up the phone and donned his bulletproof vest and other cop attire. In the interest of not appearing corrupt and getting civilians to continue backing the men in blue, Pat also put on the bodycam that he was mandated to wear on duty.

As he stepped out of his girlfriend’s home and toward his vehicle, Pat grumbled, rubbing his eyes from lack of sleep. Even in the middle of summer, the day took seemingly forever to begin, but maybe that was just from waking up so early.

This is a big deal. The sheriff wouldn’t be like this unless there’s truly an emergency out there. God, I hope whoever it is okay…except the criminal.

As far as Pat was concerned, there were only two possibilities: A domestic dispute or a punishment. If it were a medical emergency he wouldn’t have been summoned at all, and if it were a shooting or something similar, he’d be dispatched right to the scene.

Well, at least I won’t get shot. Probably not. But that’s what a bulletproof vest is for, isn’t it?

Pat drove to the police station almost on autopilot. It honestly probably wasn’t much safer than it would have been to drive under the influence, something cops routinely (and rightfully) arrested people for.

When he arrived at the Wildebush Police Station (affiliated with the Boston Police Department) there were several other civilian vehicles parked outside. This was unusual - normally, there would not be so many officers (or civilians) present at the precinct at such an hour. 

 Obviously, something here was far from normal.

Sheriff Brody, a tall, muscular man with a suit that lacked a tie, waited outside the building. He wore a severe expression on his face, seemingly sizing Pat up down to his very soul.

“Patrick Morris, we need to talk.”

Fuck me, I’m getting dismissed, aren’t I?

“What about?” Pat inquired. “Something must be serious, right?”

“A few minutes ago - right when we called you - we received an urgent plea from the home of one Edna O’Leary. She lives alone about ten minutes from here.”

Pat sighed. “Why didn’t you just go yourselves?”

“Because,” Sheriff Brody replied sternly, “I figured you were the best cop for the job. You’re the least green out of all your brothers…”.

The younger man frowned. “The least green? What does that even mean?”

“I mean,” the sheriff responded, “you’re the one of your brothers with the most experience, which means you’re the best one to take on this job. Believe me, it’s not going to be an easy one.”

Pat rolled his eyes. He still couldn’t believe he’d been delegated to this task of all people, when it could have been someone awake at this time.

“So what’s at Mrs. O’Leary’s house, then?” Pat inquired. “Or rather…who? A domestic dispute?”

“No,” Sheriff Brody said. “Well…kind of. But it’s likely not what you’re picturing.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Patrick, we’re wasting time! Do you want to be the reason Mrs. O’Leary gets hurt, or do you want to help her?”

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That was one of the sheriff’s favorite tactics: To guilt-trip. He would present the worst possible outcome as a certainty if you didn’t get to the job in time. Which, to be fair, was often the case, since you were only supposed to dial 911 for the most urgent matters.

“I want to help,” Pat insisted.

“Then you’re going to do it,” Sheriff Brody replied matter-of-factly. “Just get in the damn car and drive there.”

Just like that, there was nothing more to be said. Pat quickly donned his uniform, which contained a baton and stun gun. He would do whatever it took to neutralize the threat. As soon as he’d entered the police academy, he’d taken an oath on the Bible to protect and serve, so he would do exactly that.

As soon as he plugged the address of Mrs. O’Leary into the police car’s GPS, he was off, driving much faster than a civilian would ever be forgiven for through the early morning. He passed the numerous forested areas of Greater Boston on the way to the home, gritting his teeth.

Please, God, I’m not much of a praying man. I’ve never asked you for much. But please, don’t let me be too late!

Pat ran at least two red lights en route to his destination. He never let his foot off the gas, driving so quickly that the wheels lost contact with the road at least once. It was just like one of those Saturday morning cartoons from the days before streaming - but why think of such things right now? This was no cartoon!

He damn near crashed the car as he parked it, but he was present enough to climb quickly out of the vehicle and appraise the situation. It couldn’t be more than an hour or so from sunrise, but the air was still cool and crisp. Too bad he had little time to enjoy it.

Edna O’Leary lived in a Victorian-style home guarded by a security system. Indeed, an alarm was blaring, but the frizzy-haired woman herself wasn’t even covering her ears.

“What’s the nature of your emergency, ma’am?” Pat asked her as calmly as he could. Really, were these formalities as necessary as his superiors let on?

“There’s a beast in here!” she shrieked. “It’s attacking me and my husband when we’re just trying to sleep!”

“Ma’am, do you happen to know what sort of beast it is?”

“It’s trapped in the closet right now - I managed to lure it in!”

It was then that Pat saw Mrs. O’Leary was leaning firmly against a door, desperately trying to keep it closed. But the door itself was fighting back. Or rather, something on the other end was banging and scratching it.

“Ma’am, I will need you to get out of the way so that I can deal with this beast,” Pat told Mrs. O’Leary. 

“Right” the frizzy-haired woman responded. “I’ll do that right away.”

Mrs. O’Leary stepped away from the door, and Pat pulled his stun gun out of its holster. But he barely had time for that, because the creature busted through the door and leaped out, baring its fangs at Pat!

The stun gun flew out of Pat’s hands, landing on the floor. The officer growled at the creature, which he finally managed to get a glimpse of.

“It’s a Lycanroc!” Pat exclaimed. 

Luckily, Pat still had his trusty baton at his side. All of Boston’s “men in blue” were required to carry one at all times, regardless of what threats they faced. He brandished it like a baseball bat, and he was ready to hit a home run right through the Lycanroc’s skull.

I don’t get it! How did it get here? It doesn’t exist in real life!

“The hell is a Lycanroc?” Mrs. O’Leary exclaimed.

“No time! Just don’t let it bite you!”

The Lycanroc howled at the ceiling, and Pat sprang into action, jabbing the baton forward at the creature. But this did not go as planned - the Lycanroc clenched its teeth against the baton, resulting in a tug of war between Pat and this fictional creature.

“Get away from her, you beast!” Pat shouted.

The Lycanroc kept growling, and its grip on the baton tightened. Fortunately, the BPD at least required its members to have a modicum of physical strength, so Pat had spent many hours in the gym bulking up. He dug his heels in, not caring if he damaged the carpet. Mrs. O’Leary’s life wasn’t replaceable, but the upholstery was.

Despite his physical training, Pat felt his strength waning little by little. He had to try something new in order to win this fight. (And if what he remembered about Lycanroc was true, he didn’t want to lose.)

So Pat kicked the creature in the chest, which knocked it backward. The chewed-up baton was free, but Pat knew better than to touch the saliva if what he’d learned was accurate. Therefore, his stun gun was the next best thing.

Before he could reach the stun gun, it went off, hitting Mrs. O’Leary in the leg. Pat could only watch as the woman crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain. 

Better that than getting bitten, or shot with a real bullet, Pat thought. That’s what he told himself in order to avoid worrying about injuring a civilian, even inadvertently.

Pat grabbed the stun gun and aimed it right between the Lycanroc’s eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the officer stated testily, “but I will not hesitate if that’s my only option.”

In response, the Lycanroc took a flying leap at Pat, who seized his chance to shoot the creature with his stun gun. In midair, the Lycanroc fell to the ground. 

Unlike Mrs. O’Leary, the Lycanroc was clearly unconscious, for it did not move. Pat smiled at a job well done. 

“I’ll have you shipped off to the kennel as soon as the others get here” the officer said with a smile.

Mrs. O’Leary remained on the floor, grimacing, which reminded Pat that not everyone had come away from this fight uninjured. The officer rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, trying not to sound condescending.

The woman clenched her teeth. “My whole body is burning, especially my hand.”

Pat frowned. “The gun shot you in the leg, though, not the hand. Why is your hand the part that’s burning?”

“You’re the cop, you tell me!” 

But I’m a cop, not a medic! How am I supposed to know?

And then something dawned on Pat. A possibility more chilling than he liked to acknowledge.

As soon as he glanced at Mrs. O’Leary’s left hand, it was confirmed - a series of red, bloody tooth marks had carved a deep impression into her skin. 

Pat swore under his breath.