You dare not stay any longer in this form of death, this monster you've become. You sniff the air, searching for other threats, but find none. The fight is over, you tell the screaming, murderous voice inside you.
"Kill more. The city is right there. The Map People are soft and weak. You can..."
No.
You force yourself back into your direwolf form. Your body transforms, and you sink into a pit of panic. You are a werewolf, after all, but you are also an Eskimo with an emergency kit. The backpack you carry on your hip is intact. In it, you carry clothes that allow you to blend in with humans again. The only problem is that you're in the middle of nowhere, and if you turn back into a human, you'll freeze to death before reaching the highway convenience store. A damn irony.
You, the warrior wolf, need a solution. Bane is dead, but where are the others? Clay and the pack. You need to make a call. And for that, you need fingers. But if you try to transform now, you'll turn into a human popsicle before you can dial 911.
A perfect paradox. A warrior of the night, a savior of the Earth, trapped between the glory of his wolf form and the fear of a shameful death by hypothermia.