He prowled the Palace corridors, rubbing the fang marks on his throat from time to time, his unease and restless irritability growing. He didn't like being this way—it was nothing like his usual self—but he couldn't seem to do fight his way out of it.
After what felt like decades, he found himself at the System Security office complex. Something inside him seemed to say "That's it," so he went inside.
The desk sergeant—the same one who had been there the day before—looked at him in surprise. "Is there something I can do for you, Captain?"
"I … I don't know." Thompson rubbed at the fang marks, frustrated that it didn't seem to help, then began scratching at them. "Is Chief Kaufman here?"
"No, sir, she's patrolling. You can wait here till she gets back, if you want to. Uh … you shouldn't be doing that."
"Doing what?" Thompson snapped.
"Scratching yourself like that. You could … well, hurt yourself."
"Dammit, they itch!" The reminder made it worse; Thompson's scratching went deeper, beginning to draw blood. That helped a little, so he dug in more.
"Sir, don't!"
Thompson paid no attention, needing that bit of relief, small as it was, even when the desk sergeant hit the station alarm. Half a decade troopers seemed to materialize around him, and he heard the sergeant order him restrained.