Sam tried not to pace, but he couldn\'t help it. The smells on the third basement level were insulting and offensive in so many ways he\'d lost count within five seconds. It made him doubt why he was there, doubt that it was a good idea, doubt that he was sane.
His intentions were excellent, honourable and perfectly acceptable up on the floors not infested with the stench of werewolves, but down here he could do nothing but question them, pacing in front of the elevator like an expectant father, waiting for the right werewolf to step out of the little box so he could offer him a job.
It was the third night in the full moon cycle, he\'d ascertained his roles and responsibilities from Vomas and he was now attempting to recruit his team of workers. This was the best time that he knew to contact Sable, though he could have gone through the technical channels and contacted the boy\'s carer or his oligarch, but he didn\'t want to. He\'d wanted to do this the right way.
Now that he\'d been here five minutes and three other werewolves had stepped out of the elevator that he didn\'t know, however, he wasn\'t particularly caring for right or wrong. He was no longer imbued with the pleasant feeling of righteousness gained from knowing he would be able to help out someone in need, by offering him to fill a need he had. He just wanted to get the Hell away from the godawful stench and back to where his senses weren\'t being assaulted by the smell of feral, pheromone-riddled canines.
The elevator arrived on the floor once more and Sam watched the doors anxiously, still pacing, hoping to God that this would be the delivery he was yearning for. When the doors slid apart, however, his heart sank when the first person he saw was a tired-looking brunette woman, but it lifted again almost immediately, when he spied his target beside her.
"Sable!" he cried, sounding more relieved than just seeing a guy in an elevator likely warranted.
