In the wee hours of the morning, a nondescript SUV pulled into the gravel parking lot of a campgrounds. A sign, lit by a flickering lamp that seemed on the verge of dying, helpfully reminded campers to secure all food items lest bears find them. The passenger side door opened, and the smoldering butt of a cigarette hit the ground. A nondescript boot came down on top of it, quashing out the embers as a very nondescript man got out.
He seemed the perfect idea of mediocrity, until you got to his face. His lower jaw bulged out like a bulldog, belaying a mouthful of crooked and yellow fangs. His skin was sallow and pale, and seemed to be ready to peel off and leave a grinning skull underneath. His cheekbones were high and severe, contrasted by the small pinpricks of red pupils sunk into cavernous eye sockets, perpetual dark circles underneath. Smoke emanated from the monster’s mouth, acrid and foul.
“Alright people, let’s get started,” Agent V-33, Callsign ‘Nosferatu’ snarled in a scuffed, decrepit voice, “Intel says there’s been signs of a rogue werewolf pack in the area killing or potentially turning unfortunate hikers. Song, I need you to find them. Sources say they’ve been hiding in the northern ridge, but you know werewolves, they don’t like to stay in one place for long. Greenhorn, help look for tracks. You might learn a thing or two. Death Dealer, you take point guard. I need your eyes and ears watching every shadow. Nothing so much as shits in a bush without you letting me or the team know. Sarathiel, you and me will take rear guard. We move out in 10 minutes.”