Anthony stood behind the curtains on the stage, listening to Brianna's piano recital. He didn't know the name of the piece, but it swooped and soared, and was triumphant. It wasn't perfect, but she played with heart. When it ended, she took her bows and enjoyed applause, and walked off stage. She hugged him behind the curtains.
"Beautiful, dearest."
"I'm just glad it's over! You're up next!"
She laughed as he grimaced. The violin in his hands, he strode on stage and introduced himself.
"Good evening, ladies and gentleman! Wasn't that one of the most beautiful pieces you've heard tonight?" He paused for the applause. "That's quite how I felt. Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Anthony Davids. My parents own this concert hall, which is why my name was bigger then the rest on that playbook!" There was laughter in the audience, since more then a few knew Anthony enjoyed showing off and playing his violin. Most of the people in the audience were at least acquainted with his family, through business or politics or just plain friendship. But everyone knew that Anthony was also becoming a legend on the violin. There were more then a few near swooning ladies as his smile beamed out across the audience.
Anthony stood just about 5'11" tall, and was only 17 years old. He could look forward to being as tall as his father, in the mid 6 foot range. Like his father, his hair was wavy and long. High cheekbones, a strong chin, and bright green eyes flashed out at every pretty woman in the audience.
"Well, then, might as well get this over with, right?" He played a single, quick note.
"And that's all folks, thanks for coming to the show, enjoy your evening." He feigned leaving the stage, more laughter. He then played a rapid fire staccato of climbing and dropping notes, which echoed across the hall, slowly cresting and falling to the deepest note, which he held a very long time. Hearts, male and female, began to pound as the note held their breath. When it stopped, it seemed to continue in their minds.
Anthony abruptly faced the audience and began to play in earnest. Vivaldi's winter. Tonight, he'd play The Four Season's, starting with winter and working his way backwards. The notes swooped and soared, raced and slowed. Not one mistake, each portion a masterpiece in and of itself. Sweat trickled down his brow, down his pale skin, across his back and chest, though the audience couldn't tell. He strode across the stage, during the fast parts. And he stood on the very edge of the stage, seeming to loom above the audience.
"A paragon of humanity!" "A master of the art!" "Pride of New Hampshire!" "No, America at large!" Anthony drank in the praise. At the crescendo of Summer, he stopped. His eyes screwed up with pain, stepping backward a few steps, and fell to his knees, the violin's neck snapping as it hit the stage. A gasp went up in the audience.
Anthony gasped, eyes flying open. His vision flashed, colors washing too and fro, images distorting. He felt as if he were being compressed and stretched out, and his skin was on fire. He removed his coat and tossed it aside, undid his cuffs and stared at his left arm, the other one holding him up from the floor. Compression, stretch, twist, his body screamed in pain. His teeth felt like they were being uprooted, his eyes gouged out! Anthony screamed and fell flat on the stage. He could see Brianna running out towards him, her mouth open in a scream, but he couldn't hear her.
Why can't I hear her? What's wrong with me? He passed out.
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He awoke in his room, sunlight creeping in around the edges of closed curtains. He stretched his legs a little, and sighed. He hated waking up usually, today would be a good day.
His eyes widened. He remembered pain. He screamed.

Brianna woke up, and ran over to him. She said his name, and grabbed his hand. Anthony calmed down. He was okay now. He breathed hard, his heart pounded, but he stopped screaming. His parents ran in next, worry on their face. They didn't look at him, instead they looked at each other.
"What happened?" His mother began to sob, and his father held her. "I remember falling, and the pain. Was it a heart attack?" His father opened a window and wheeled full length mirror from it's place by the oak wardrobe. Light played across the richly furnished room, and Anthony sat up. He still wore the pants he had worn to the recital. Anthony stretched, glanced at the mirror, and rubbed his furry neck.
Furry? What the- he stared at the mirror. Short, black fur. His shoulders, back, chest, stomach, arms,back and sides of his neck. FUR. Anthony jumped up, and stumbled to the mirror. His face was relatively the same, though it had a few days worth of whiskers. He looked at his eyes. Instead of the deep, irish green, they were a deep and dull red. Almost brown. He turned his face sideways, and looked at his ears. The lobes had disappeared entirely, and were pointy and animalisticly furry. He looked at his hands. The fur covered the backs, and up to the wrist. The nails were normal looking, but felt... wrong somehow. He felt one with his hands, and realized that they were a little thicker, and stronger. He looked at his face again, and realized it wasn't completely normal. He touches his jaw and his nose. Barely noticeable. They had changed a little too, though only he might notice. He looked at Brianna. She would notice, too.

"The doctors say it's genetic. Mutation. Mutant. Some kind of gene. It was stimulated by puberty, though apparently might have lain dormant all your life." Anthony laid back down on his bed. "You were playing your heart out. Almost literally. It was your best concert yet." His father's voice shook with pride and sadness. "You were straining like a body builder, and moving like lightning. Your best..." His father began to choke up. Anthony looked over at Brianna, who hadn't left her place on the bed. She started to speak.
"The strain on your muscles activated the gene. A normal person would have cramped up, a musician would have felt tired. You turned into... whatever you are now." She rested her head on his shoulder.
I doubt this is how she expected her first time in my bed to be.

"Your teeth, too." His father had regained his composure. "Your teeth. They are almost feline now. We'll get this narrowed down, but as of right now, there is no treatment."
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Herpestid. Mongoose. Genotype mapping had narrowed it down. He had genetic markers of more then a few different species. Anthony looked up from his book. The beach was lovely, and this stretch was a private stretch, a hotel in hawaii. Dazzling light from the full moon played across the waves. Brianna was probably asleep in the room. It was his 18th birthday. His father would be announcing his son's condition to the board of directors, along with the terms and conditions of his new will. His shares would go to Anthony, though voting control would go to the board. His father had said it was both for his own good, and the good of the company. Publicly, there would be no connection. He would disowned. Privately, his mother still drank herself to sleep, as she had for years. His father still played golf. Anthony still hated broccoli, though his taste for meat had increased. Brianna still loved him, and her parents couldn't have hated him anymore then they already did before, but she was half a year older then him, so how could they stop her?

In the mean time, his parents still funded his private account, so Anthony picked up his cell phone, rolled over and picked up the phone book. "Now, who delivers teriyaki chicken this time of night?"

Anthony kissed Brianna's forehead. She was sleeping in her bunk on the train, somehow managing it despite the rumbling, clacking journey. How on the green earth ANYONE was expected to sleep was beyond him.

He left their car, locking the door behind him, and began to wander the train. The landscape crawled past the windows. He walked out the door, and hands in pockets, he leaned in the causeway between the train cars. The ground raced past, faster then he had thought looking out the windows. His eyes were maladjusted to the dark, and the shapes of the trees loomed foreboding and malicious in the dark. A man came out from the opposite door from Anthony, and lit a cigarette. The man was tall, taller than Anthony's diminished 5'10" inches, and had a paddy cap in the crook of his tweed jacket clad arms.

The night was a balmy summer night. Some kind of leafy forest was going by, dark against the starry sky. Somewhere between Montana and Louisiana. Left the former yesterday and expected to arrive in the latter tomorrow. Brianna enjoyed traveling... Brianna...

Anthony was amazed. She was his best friend, easily his intellectual superior. There were times where he wondered about whether or not she fit more in a lab or a library.

"Is what I thought of Elena." The man was speaking with a thick east European accent. "She was very bright. Very good with words. She spoke with authority. You do not learn to speak like heroes. You do not learn to be genius. You are born that way. Oh, my apologies. I am, how you say... Telepetha... Potha... Mind reader. You think loud, like child talking to parent."

Anthony had barely suppressed his thoughts about thought invasion when the man had answered. Of course the man hadn't been prying. It must be very hard to block out some people's thoughts.

Anthony did his best to blank out his thoughts, and succeeded a little too easily. He was staring out into the night when he heard a popping noise. The man ground out his cigarette and sighed.

"Gunshots do not carry so well on train. Man is dying, right now, as we speak. Do not be worrying, was very bad man. Made money off of women, kidnapped and worse. Man I work for did not like this. Man I work for is good man, in his own way. I am to be doing something else, to be making sure I am not involved, is how good a man he is. He does what he does."

Anthony stared at the russian, then down the car. Gunshots? Death? A man's life, snuffed out, while he was lost in thought. An evil man, to be sure, but nothing more to mark his passing then vague noises and the confession of a Russian... Russian what? Mafia?

"Latvian. Yes, mafia, of sorts. We aim to clean up crime back to pure. Steal money and things. Sell things to other people. Keep innocents, like women, clear of business. Man deserved no honor. Got some anyway, to die like man, on feet, eyes open. Me, I hope to die in sleep of very old age, worn out by many great-grand childs." The man put the hat on his head, and Anthony got his first good look at the Latvian telepath. Hair about ear length, black. Longish nose, sallow cheeks. He looked like a WW2 movie french resistance contact, complete with a day or two's stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep, and generally not happy.

"Don't forget my hat. Is good hat. Very stylish." Wait, what?