Date: Mon, 4 Sep 2023 17:30:15 +0100
From: Toby Wolfham <tobywolfham@gmail.com>
Subject: Werewolf Island / Chapter 15

WEREWOLF ISLAND

by
Toby Wolfham

(C) 2023 Toby Wolfham
All Rights Reserved.

Contact: tobywolfham@gmail.com
(For comments, inquiries, and communications)


Chapter 15: The Animal


Moored to the sand by his fears, Trayack knew that he would not be able
to enter the water without Striker's help. First, even the earth of it
frightened him. This was not a slow-running stream that he was familiar
fishing in; this was something quite different, almost shapeless, and
definitely unpredictable, with its current and tides. The sheer vastness
of this ocean, that stretched further than his advanced werewolf eyes
could see had, with certainty, filled him with cold dread.

Striker felt sorry for the boy. So young, yet his eyes did not fill with
the same sort of magic that they should have. These were the eyes of a
boy who had had his childhood robbed from memory. He had been forced to
land on his feet before he could walk, and taught to kill before he could
eat. He kept his hand on his shoulder, and stared into his eyes with the
same warmth as a loved one might. He loved this boy, it was true. Striker
could happily see them both absconding the ocean and living somewhere. A
normal life, that was what he aspired to give him, to jerk him free of
this hellish island and his sick family. Giving him moments to collect
himself, Striker did not give him any longer than that.

"I hate to hurry you along, but..."

Behind Trayack, he saw the rustling, and through the varying aromas
presented by the jungle, he could smell his family, coming to kill him,
coming to hunt him. There was no turning back, at least, not without some
leverage. Behind meant death; forward meant death; what was he to do?
Surely he could divulge from either path, abandon Striker to board the
submarine alone and he might be able to go out back to the jungle and
kill the biggest animal he could find, drag it back to the pack, and they
would welcome him again. They might even finally see him as a man for his
initiative. They might even fuck him.

"Trayack."

Striker's sudden urgency turned his attention back to the warm that he
offered. They didn't love him. He could see their eyes bearing down on
them from the other side of the scorching sands, envious and malevolent.
No. Death waited for him in those trees. Surely without an alpha to lead
them, they would devolve to chaos. No law. None of the rules applied.
Finally, he made his decision, amidst the glare of a hundred glowing red
eyes, he breathed air in to his lungs and took the step.

"Good, good lad," whispered Striker, his own breathing stunted by the
mounting panic of the situation. What were they waiting for--the
werewolves? It wouldn't take them long to overcome their suspicion of
the beach; he could already see skin peeking out from the brush, a
snaking foot came out next, broaching the unknown. "Further we go," he
chanted. "One step, another... I hope you know how to swim."

Firmly, Trayack nodded. Despite the terrain, there were lots of bodies of
water scattered around. "I love to swim."

"Then swim, come on, with me."

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

At first, the blue depths astounded Trayack, and the bleary water made
his eyes dance in his head, unsure of what he was seeing. An unfathomable
world. No sooner had he put his head under, and he was engulfed. Far from
what he had known water to be, this undersea plateau was infinity, like
the starry sky, littered with specks and grains, visible but invisible at
the same time. He looked down to find himself in a bottomless voice. How
did he come to be so deep when he was touching the ocean floor not
moments ago? Now there was no ocean floor, there was no sand beneath them
nor no surface above. He had been transported utterly into an azure
landscape--nothing more--and astonished by it all, he wondered if this
was what heaven really looked like.
And then he remembered to breathe.

Or, rather, his body had, and forced him into a choke, only to find there
was no air to suck in. An eruption of bubbles spewed from his mouth, his
limbs flailed wildly. If not for one of his arms being restrained by
something, he might have drowned, but as things quickly slotted into
reason, he set his focus on the grey steel that barely existed on the
horizon.

Striker did not anticipate the boy panicking quite as much, he had had a
difficult time of holding on to his hand to lead him. He had said he
could swim (and he could) but perhaps what he should have asked him was
will you: will you swim? Forcible tugging remedied that just in time and
Trayack began to swim. Youth and experience had Trayack impressed once
again at his capabilities; Trayack broke away from his hand in a
determined effort to reach the sub as quickly as possible and he had a
hard time keeping up with his powerful strokes. He almost looked like the
head of a spear, sailing through the sky; so effortless and streamlined.
Reaching the sub was where the next challenge arose.

The cylindrical sub was solid grey and finned at either side; rotary
propulsion at the rear and a small fitted searchlight at the front. It
was not anchored in anyway but managed to keep afloat nearer to the
now-visible surface. Aware of the rudimentary layout of the vessel,
Striker knew where the airlock chamber was, but the rigid valve handle
was too difficult for him to unscrew. It was placed at the top of the
sub, in order for the crew to escape quickly should it be sunk. He
clamped down with his feet and tugged the wheel methodically as he could
at first, with a strait-laced rhythm which drove him, to no avail. The
valve was too sturdy, its thick steel too much for one man; and he needed
to rise soon to go up for air.

Trayack itched to join him, but his natural fear of the ocean held him
back. He thought of him, down there, saw the bubbles rising frantically,
and knew that he must be in trouble. Picturing him caught up in
tangle-weeds or in a creature's indomitable jaws was that push he needed
to plunge his head under the foamy waves and he finally set his eyes on
the depths below. They were infinitely more terrifying than he'd
imagined, not because of what he saw--that was easy to look at--but
because of what he didn't see. Where were the whales and sharks that
he'd been told infested the waters surrounding the island? Not thinking
about it anymore, he used the stream of bubbles to quickly find Striker.
He was relieved to find he wasn't in trouble but he could see that he
needed help regardless. He joined in, much to Striker's surprise. They
exchanged mutual looks of gratitude before they used a combined effort of
strength. Trayack's werewolf body, even in its pubescent state, doubled
the man's easily and together they unscrewed the tub. It nearly sucked
them into its gaping metal mouth along with half the ocean, causing
Trayack to panic. Striker kept good hold of him, and one hand on the
lidded door and again calmed him with his wonderfully deep eyes, and
quickly his lungs eased the pain. He followed Striker into the tube.

Inside, Striker found a pair of detachable harnesses, equipped with
oxygen tanks and masks. Immediately he swam to them and started to slip
his shoulders into it, while urging the boy silently to do the same. He
had a fine young body, Striker netted with an inappropriate admiration as
he did as he was intruceted.
Trayack didn't know what he was doing or what was going on as he
followed the man's lead, but his trust ran deeper than his suspicion.
Putting on the mask as Striker had, he was taken aback by the fact that
he could finally breathe! He almost shouted!

No, Striker shook his head, nodded at the boy to maintain stillness,
while his own lungs were fit to bursting. He climbed the short ladder and
pulled the lid back down on top of them and resealed it with a calm
twist. The lights flickered to life then. A murky prison, and they were
trapped in it.

Thankfully, a stunted lever was all he needed now.

Trayack insisted on helping.

Suddenly there was a deafening roar (a monster?) all around them, and a
violent tumult to follow as the water was sucked out of the airlock
chamber like a dragon's inhale.

It was a shocking change for Trayack, who grasped on to the nearest metal
he could and held on. When it was over, he was dripping wet, looking like
a drowned dog, and shivering slightly to the touch.

"Tray... it's alright," whispered Striker.

"It... it is?" He shuddered and looked into his eyes.

Warmly, Striker nodded. "Yeah. See that light there, the red one? It
says Pressure equalised. That means it's safe. We can go inside now. Do
you think you can do that?"

The swim had been so surreal that he couldn't even recall doing it but
here where there was air, slowly reality began to settle into place. He
looked around with the wide eyes of a child and examined this new
division from everything he knew. He didn't like it. The cold greys and
pipes and metalling groaning; they were oppressive and condemning. Poor
Trayack had flashbacks to the ship that had brought them to the island;
playing in the boiler room. Hearing his brother telling him it'll be
alright, and suddenly remembered: this island had changed them. If there
was anything that he should be scared of, it should be the placed he'd
called home most of his life, not this vessel that would take him away
from it. It was a cold hard saviour but it was here and he was have to
accept it. His brother and father were both dead. Hearing Striker, this
stranger, echoing his once-brother's words of comfort when he had been a
good person, fallible, but sane and human, was a great comfort to him,
and he quickly threw himself into his arms with a startled cry. The wet
sounds of their naked bodies slapping together filled the chamber.

Striker gasped in surprises and then laughed.

Yes, the lad needed more comfort than perhaps anyone. It would be selfish
of him to go on and start to get a rundown of the sub (just like him, all
business, no pleasure) when he was here, wet and crying, and wanton. He
had lost a lot, damn his inferior resistance.

"You're safe," he chanted into his ear and stoked up and down his
slick back. "You're safe. Nothing to worry about now."

Perhaps it was a placebo, but it was one he needed to hear as well.

He was telling himself: you're alright, you're alright, like a prayer.
Never a praying man, he felt like he needed to thank someone for his
fortune when so many had perished. He had a lot to be thankful for right
now.

They both had.

Sniffles over, Striker pulled back and looked into his beautiful gleaming
face and kissed him before offering that used-to smile that always seemed
to bring Trayack back from any sort of misguidance. "Enough sappy stuff.
Let's get inside."

Ever the patriot, Dirk Hauser was not willing to let his projects run
amok in his own laboratory. That bitch, Adrienne might have been a softer
touch but he was not. He was grateful to small mercies. She was all about
studying, and not interfering. She didn't have a problem capturing them
and drugging them though, hypocrite. While she got her rocks off in the
observation deck (a fancy balcony walled-in with glass above the main lab
that also eclipsed several other parts of the facility through different
windows), he got hands-on. Sometimes too hands-on, but that was his
business. The werewolves responded better to physical elements anyhow.

It was Hauser who came running up to him, almost excitedly.

Commander Murphy had to roll his eyes.

"Commander... Commander!"

"What is it, Hauser?" He stopped and turned to face the man. He hated
having his daily exercises interrupted.

"Did you authorise the prisoners to intermingle with Project X?"

Murphy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And why not? All they
do is fuck each other, what does it matter if they talk to your so-called
Project X? He's just like them... on steroids. He can be put down with a
few tranquillisers like any animal."

"No, he can't he..." Hauser paused. The Commander's hard stare was
instantly silencing. When his stare had softened, he puffed out a pigeon
chest in a lab coat and breathed. "X is different. His DNA has been
genetically altered. He's an experiment. You know this, you authorise
everything after all. Why did you allow them to meet, knowing what might
happen, are you trying to jeopardise our work?"

Murphy scoffed. "So, you figured me out, huh?" He sighed and shook his
head. Sometimes, as much as he knew Dirk to be a patriot, and however
much he preferred him to her, sometimes, just sometimes, he could really
bite his balls. Standing up from his position on the floor juggling
barbells and put his hands on his hips--authority-wise--"We have been on
this island for ten years, Hauser. And all we have to show for it is a
bulked-up freak in a tube. I could have fed some gym rat a bucket of
`roids and have the same result in a few days. It's time for some
action, you lab boys are testing my patience."

Hauser was confused. His frown displayed it clearly.

"Combat data!" Murphy exclaimed, his patience passed breaking point.

"Sir?"

"The whole point of this project--not just X--all of it, was to create
soldiers. Super-soldiers. Men capable of tearing apart the enemy, forces
of darkness, whatever you call it. Threats. Basically. It was your job to
make sure I get my soldiers. So far, it's just X. And I've had enough.
He looks ready to me, damn ready! Why you keep him locked up all the
fucking time is beyond me. It's about time we test him out with
potential threats. This Red... he is a soldier, strong, and now infused
with a stable form of the werewolf blood, right? He seems as good a test
as we're gonna get right now that would exemplify what we might be up
against. We're running out of time."Hauser glanced away, looked around
the pristine office. Military memorabilia and honours decorated the walls
and his desk. He didn't need reminding that Murphy was decorated,
either, this room was just a picture of it. He looked back to the man,
some would call a legend--not here, not anymore--at his ageing form and
pitied his futile attempts and maintenance of his physique. Sometimes he
believed that Murphy was only interested in accentuating violence, and
that as what brought him to this overdue confrontation, the situation on
Weapon Testing. He squat down in front of him, spoke on a level he might
understand.

"I love this world," said Hauser. "But there are many things in it
that take time to harness. We can't protect anyone if the tools we use
are more damaging than the enemy. Force is one thing, yes, sometimes
necessary, but they need a mind, too."

"Bullshit," Murphy laughed. "Wipe their minds and make them soldiers,
isn't that what we do?"

"Yes, but... this Project X is not ready, and may not be ready for many
years. The werewolves on the island, they're not suitable. Mr. Red is
still consciously aware of himself and who he is."

"All the more reason to let them at it."

"Not so. How many volunteers are we going to get to undergo these kinds
of studies? A thousand, maybe? Knowing the risks, a hundred at best. Mr.
Red is virulently holding on to his humanity, while the others have lost
theirs. I think, that if he were to lose it, he would be useless... might
as well throw him back up there with the others."

"What you think? Do you think I care what you think, Hauser?"

"No, I do not. But we will go over your heads if needed. I will go to
Adrienne, and we will write a report--"

Murphy began to laugh.

"Sir?" Hauser flinched.

"You do your thinking in labs, on clipboards, not on the battlefield.
That is my domain, and that is where we intend to place these soldiers."

"True, but..."

"Enough buts," Hauser got to his feet and pulled his pants up. "We're
making soldiers for war, no buts. We need to produce some results
eventually."

"We were. With Red showing such promise, his mind still intact, we were
going to pit him against the tribals. Show how much he's improved."

"He's not a werewolf yet, right?"

"No, that's right," Murphy conceded. "But Rushing... we found that
they lose their minds too fast. We need to take it slow, introduce him to
the blood without letting him lose sight of the bigger picture. I really
think that with enough time, we could transform him."

"Forget Red. X is where its at."

"Sir, do you intend to tell me that you are throwing Project Red away?"

"No, I'm not throwing Project Red away. I am testing him, as well as X.
If Red survives the encounter in Testing, then by all means, you can keep
him; test him, train him as much as you like. But I need my soldier now.
And our big boy down there is the closest we've come in all this time."

"I'm still going to consult with Adrienne..."

"Consult all you like," sneered Murphy, buttoning up his uniform once
again, prim and proper.

Hauser knew he wasn't getting anywhere with this.

Adrienne would be in Observation, and he would join her post-haste. They
will try to go over his head.

He would let them, for now. But if he--or she--dared to come close to
terminating his project, then they would suffer.

"He's not ready," Adrienne tutted, marking down meters and dots on her
files. "He's not ready at all."

From above, she could see it all happening:
Dmitri could see her, up there in the heavenly rafters, safe from harm
behind the glass protection. Foolish. He could smell her. Her ripe,
unused sex stank of want, but she didn't know how to use it. He would
teach her. Nail her to a wall and shove his face inside, flick his tongue
and drive her wild, like his did, like he used to.

Forgetting, he was forgetting.

Who did he?

"A woman--yes--a woman," he babbled, pacing the chamber a sweaty wreck,
his body glistening with perspiration, veins bulging from the rampant
muscle increase. "Not that one, not that woman. She is not the one. Not
the one. Damn woman! What was her name!"

He couldn't remember his wife's name. Her face, too, was fading into
the back of his mind, in danger of being lost forever.

How dare they take his memories away? His mind. It was slipping.

The room he was in had been purpose-built to test the inhabitant. The
four walls were mirrored glass, so that he could see himself, but behind,
there were impenetrable sheets of solid steel. The only way out was from
a small, single-carriage elevator that could be lowered only from the
shaft above. A rickety thing. At least he remembered that.

"Who was she?" After he stopped pacing, Dmitri sat on the floor against
a wall hugging his knees, rocking back and forth like a lunatic. "She's
going, going... I cannot remember..." he was pulling out his hair in small
chunks. Black strands, longer than they should have been. He stared at
the clump of wet hair in his palms that strung around his fingers like
twine and his eyes filled with tears. This was not his hair, was it? He
didn't recognise it. Something else was pushing out his natural hair and
taking its place. Something from within.

His eyes snapped suddenly to the reflection facing him.

The former emaciated, a pale and sickly man, who'd drank far too much
vodka and ate far too little; he was gone. What faced him was something
else, something with a wicked glint in its eye and teeth far more animal
than man. He saw the sheen of muscles that weren't his, and the strong
hands, and capable feet, and began to cry. No longer could he bear to
look at himself, at this solid, trapped thing he was becoming.

"Who am I?" Already forgotten was the face of the woman in his dreams,
lost like the runt of a litter. "Where is my self?"

You are death, came a voice in his head.

You kill to eat. Eat to kill. You are an animal-machine.

It is your very purpose to exist to kill.

This voice assaulted his brain, erased things known with its violent
messages. He knew that it was the truth, however. He was there to kill.
But what was he to kill?

Finally, he looked back at the reflection.

"What a man," he grinned like a wolf. "What a man."

Dmitri spread his hairy legs to look at his manhood. It was how he knew
it to be, and as the erasure had come so easy, so had everything he had
learned about restriction and morality. His religious upbringing was
eaten away like flies did rotten fruit. Everything went like that.
Painless, but mentally apocalyptic. Dmitri was gone.

In truth, his name had been forgotten long ago.

Dmitri hadn't even been his real name, had it?

Not in covert ops; they used pseudonyms. His was Dmitri. And it was his
identity, if that was what a name was. Without an identity, what mattered
of one's character?

Quickly, his babbling questions--his desperate attempt to hold
on--devolved into childish gurgles, almost babylike. The hair in his
palms, he looked at again, and then he pressed them to his lips. The
texture disgusted him, he would no more eat hair than he would his own
shit. But then again, the animalistic urge began to take over him.


"Indoctrination has been a failure with this one," said Adrienne,
coldness fracturing in a frosty crack as she peered down through the
glass and into the chamber where the project no-one expected to succeed
did exactly as expected, laying dead at the centre of the room in a pool
of his own blood and excrement.

"Erasure. Complete."

"Adrienne. Not another," Hauser huffed, approaching the glass screen.
There had been a hint of sadness in her voice and when he looked down, he
understood why. "Oh my god."

It disgusted him to see this failure--theirs, not his--it shouldn't have
happened. Too many times it had, and the coldness of science had
prevented them from feeling too badly about it, but here, something
struck him. Perhaps it had been the confrontation with Murphy or his own
dwindling sanity that prevailed, but whatever the case, for once in a
long time, Hauser felt.

"How much longer?" Said the woman at his side.

"I don't know, Adrienne. This cannot go on. Failure after failure..."

"But never like this."

Hauser watched her as she stepped away from the glass. Was that a tear
she wiped on her sleeve? Couldn't have been. Not her.

But it was.
"This project has been a disaster. It was promising at first, sure, but
is it worth the devolution of the human mind, heart and soul?"

Adrienne sadly shook her head.

Down below, Dmitri, a shell of his former-self, lay on his back in the
growing pool, pleasuring himself frantically with one hand wrapped firmly
around his blood-engorged shaft, and two fingers slipping and sliding
messily in and out of the filth around his anus; wet squelch of
defilement followed my animalistic grunts turned him around that final
corner at speeds too fast to brake.


He's going to kill you, said the hate-filled, violent voice inside
Red's head. He's going to kill you and use you, fuck your come-filled
hole into a ripped up mess good for nothing but eating.

"I don't believe that," said Red, both in rebellion to the destructive
voice within, and to the beast of a man that had tossed him clean across
the room. His body rolled and tumbled over the icy surface of glass and
slammed into a wall of pipes and terminals which hummed and hissed steam
at his arrival.

"It is not your place to believe," Silas snarled, his monstrous face,
no longer man, but wolflike, was the monster that glared out of the
darkness. "It is too late now... the wolf has you."

Red knew that Silas wasn't referring to himself, but he, the man who had
been lured to the island by acts of war; he whose plane had been
electronically programmed to malfunction and crash onto this damned
island; he who had been pre-selected as a potential candidate for genetic
experiments. He referred to Red, because Red's body had been invaded
again and again, and now the presence of new blood in his veins
threatened to overpower him. It was himself that he feared, not Silas. It
was also himself that spoke detriments, urging him to surrender to the
blood and the come. As he lay there in the cold, the ringing in his ears
shut out the voice, so that he could finally have a moment of clarity to
understand, and understand he did, because he'd always been a quick
study, sharp to grasp at things unseen as he glided through the clouds at
death-defying speeds and so this was not much of a stretch, despite the
horrors that prowled in the corners of his mind. Red clambered to his
feet, shaky but fiercely determined, his blue eyes shone to rival those
of the monster, and to no surprise, the beast shuddered; it was time to
conquer the darkness, make it recoil in fear, send it scampering into a
piss-soaked cage while fate awaited. He refused to let fear win.

"It hasn't beat me yet," he said with a half-laugh, half-choke, even
though the pain was sending pile to his throat. "I'll get the better of
it."

Silas seemed amused, a slight grin of menace smeared his jaw.

"I'm getting out of here. It won't be easy, but I've been through
worse."

"Fool. You have no choice."

"I think I do. I'm not going to give up like you did."

"I didn't give up," growled Silas.

A slash of Silas' claws in the air almost seemed to create a shockwave,
an arc of frost erupted towards him, and he felt the glaciers brushing
the hairs on his body. Interesting power, he thought to himself. Such
strength, capable of pushing air at such force. But it made no difference
in the end, did it? He laughed.

"You mock me?"

"No. I pity you."

"You pity me, for what? I am stronger, more powerful, I am everything a
human could never be. You will pity me less when you're blood in the
dust!"

"You want to hurt me. That's exactly why I pity you. I don't want to
hurt you, why should you?"

"Because you are weak!"

"Am I? I haven't gotten angry and lashed out. No, I have control of my
emotions. And that's why it beat you, and why it won't beat me. If
you're truly strong, you'd never have let the beast take your body."

Silas rumbled.

"It's just a disease, Silas. You can beat a lot of diseases with enough
willpower and help. That is why I'm determined to get out of here.
There's a cure--maybe not for you, it'll be too late--but for me,
there's hope! You might be just the help I need to break out and get the
cure from the scientists here. Wouldn't you want to do right for once,
instead of just laying here letting them pump you full of chemical
garbage?"
Silas did. He lowered his claws. "I know that I am just a thing to you,
ugly... but I don't want to be that way forever." His words were broken,
as if in the middle of tears, if such a creature could cry, he most
certainly was not attempting to hold them back, not neither were the
freely pouring. "You pity me, I understand now," he said.

"But I do not want to be pitied, or hated or feared. I want to be
respected, I want to be loved."

Red approached him.

"You are loved," he said with a warm certainty, reaching up to touch
the man's face where skin and hair met.

Silas' eyes beamed down at him, and he relished the touch.

Red's fingers ruffled through the fur of his chest and downwards and
back up again. He really was beautiful, despite the deformity. "A
monster with a heart is no monster at all, don't you know?"

"I did not know," he said, eyes downcast in sadness until Red brought
them back to meet his.

"If we let diseases, differences, ugliness or beauty define us then
we're victims. And I don't know about you," Red smirked. "But you're
definitely nobody's victim."

"And you aren't, either..."

"That's right," Red smiled, jubilant. Had he finally gotten through to
the brute, then he might have a powerful ally on his side. The doctors
and scientists had their methods though, no doubt, comprising of an
arsenal of chemicals and gases; equipment designed specifically with
werewolves in mind. It worried him to think that not even Silas would be
enough. He concluded his argument by appealing to his sense of pride.
"You're a strong man, Silas. Stronger than me, stronger than them. They
shouldn't have you locked up like this, it isn't right."

Silas faltered in his aggressiveness, insecurities breezed against him.

Red licked his bloodied lips. "You can I... we could--"

Before Red could finish, a sudden blinding light behind them; the door to
the outer corridors and elevator beyond seared white-hot in his skull
like a flash grenade. He fell back towards Silas, and Silas clutched him
to the safety of his furry chest.

"Do not--"

"Shut up, you fucking slave," jeered Murphy.

In his hands--both of them--was a true monster: a heavily modified AK-47
rifle, customised with sparking batteries and buzzing wires, to look more
like it belonged in some sci-fi horror than here in a man's hands, a
high-powered stunning destroyer; it would kill Red outright, should he be
caught in its trajectory. Silas, however, would be somewhat more
difficult to take down. Murphy entered the chamber with a snarl on his
face.

At Murphy's insult, Silas bizarrely displayed an act of cowardice and
pulled himself backwards so that he was not facing the man, much like a
disobedient dog would do its owner after it'd been caught disobeying.

"X. You let that one go, now, he's no good to you.

"Get back in your straps and you won't be punished too badly. Got it?"

Silas frowned and kept his head tuned away.

With mounting struggle, Red tried to wrestle against Silas' immense
control but the werewolf was too strong, and already he felt his bones
breaking, his spine cracking, under the protective-killing hug. With a
wheeze he cried out, consciousness slipping.

"Stupid. Let him go. Or I'll execute you both."

"Si..." Red couldn't plea hard or fast enough.

The weapon buzzed to life, with an excitement that teetered on bloodlust,
its blue bolts zapping along the extended barrel and shaft like a
scorpion preparing its poison, ready to strike.

"You have been a thorn in my side, X... strong enough to be the perfect
specimen, but still somehow not ready. What the fuck do I have to do to
create the perfect Lycanthrope soldier--"

The first shot hit Silas in his back and he doubled over, almost crushing
Red in the process between the folds of his muscular chest and abdomen.

Red couldn't even cry out, the breath had been pushed out of him.

Murphy turned the knob on the side of the huge, lightning cannon-like gun
and it emitted an urgent throb of want. It was charging up for a second
shot.

Meanwhile Silas fell to his knees as the tiny arcs of blue electricity
danced over his fur and over his bare flesh as he tried to resist the
effects of the stunner. They sapped him of his energy and gripped his
core like nothing before, and, although he'd suffered the effects of
this tool once before he had never rebelled against it again. This was
different. This had Red in mind. Red, this beautiful, strong male capable
even now of touching him deeper than the flesh, reminding him of the fact
that despite his grotesque appearance, a human once dwelled within these
warped bones and morphed muscle; a human who loved and laughed and lived,
a human who had friends. God, how he wished he could remember them, their
names or faces, but all was lost like white on a cloud. He was falling.

Murphy would shoot again--anything to keep X in line--if he would rebel
again. He'd already broken free of his bonds and that was troubling
enough. He'd seen it all on his cameras: Silas commanding the human
subject to pleasure him, and the human male reciprocating. It was a
disgusting and vulgar display of power. Silas was meant to be a soldier,
who would do anything he commanded, not, not anything he wanted. "It's
obvious, Silas, that you haven't learned your place yet."

As the second shot was charging, Silas' tear ducts wept for not the
first time since being holed up in forced captivity. He didn't want this
anymore. The pain he felt was nonexistent, but his muscles still shut
down as as result of the weapon. They knew how to hurt him. Up until now
he has been a machine without feelings. Red had awakened them again and
now that they were awake, he could not help but feel the sting ten times
as hard.

"Wait--stop!"

The voice that came from above was not Silas'.

"Stop what you are doing!"

"You have gone mad."

The voices from above, almost mistaken for heavenly if not for the
startling contrast of harsh distortion, were the voices coming from the
overhead speakers. If not for their voices, nestled in the complete
darkness of the room, they might have been undetected.

"X is clearly not ready," came the voice of Hauser. "I told you. Too
many steroids, he can't control even himself. What hope do you have of
advancing him?"

Murphy looked around, halting, as if even he was puzzled by the vocal
uprising against him. "It is none of your concern, remember! You wanted
to start again with new subjects. I did not!

"Commander, understand..." Adrienne interjected.

"X is my concern and mine alone. You two cannot interfere!"

"Silver. Sunlight. Blood: the few things that can outsmart a
lycanthrope, and you have chosen to create this project with none of them
in mind! How do you hope to--"

"I said it is none of your concern! X is mine."

"But if he should get out of control--"

"--we'll have no way to stop him."

"Exactly right.

"An invincible warrior: that is exactly what we need right now in this
dark hour. A beast that cannot be killed by conventional means. They'd
never see it coming. That is why X exists... a prototype to both defence
and offence. See out enemies quake when he crushed their skulls in his
teeth."

Adrienne, the fairer of the two scientist grimaced. "Please. Mere
violence alone is not the answer. We must--"

"--we must do as immediacy dictates. The more you two fail to complete a
perfect werewolf, the more fatal the situation. What I've done, as you
judge it, is a failsafe. If you produce nothing, then at least we have
something."

At this, Silas' fists clenched.

"I... am... not... a thing."

Red maintained his position at his side.

An act of rebellion, however crass, deserved being cut short; Murphy let
loose a second shot.

"No!" Cried Red as even he felt the pulse of electricity, mostly
blocked by the huge barrier of Silas; he could not even imagine the pain
that he must be experiencing. Red had pissed down his legs and he
suffered a blackout before he heard the voices of the arguing trio again.

Silas had sank to his knees, a roll of dribble thickening a patch of fur
at his chin, suffering the effects of the blast. The sparks were still
shooting over the layers of fur and muscle like dancing bolts of
lightning.

"Enough of this madness!" Hauser shouted.

Murphy shrugged off the scientist's attempts to grapple him and then
turned the gun on him and his accomplice instead. The backed away,
cowardice seeped in their bones. "Run, cowards," he barked, powering up
a third shot. "Run like the traitors you are."

Strauss and Adrienne didn't immediately run. They backed away, towards
the open door, still smoking.

It was Murphy's error to ignore the werewolf's sympathiser, as
immediately Red was on his feet and rushing the soldier from behind. With
a crash the huge weapon hit the icy floor--as did its wielder--Red
 grabbed the back of the man's head and beat his face to the ground.
Blood came spurting from his nose and lips. Red guessed he didn't
realise his own strength but a part of him -- a dark, primal beast--
wanted this. He wanted more than to just make this figurehead bleed.
Bleeding wasn't enough, bleeding was a severance, this man needed to
hurt, and hurt bad, for making him what he was; for making him desire
pain, and blood and sex. It was vengeance, wasn't it? A purely base
desire to cause hurt at its source. Red knew it as it was happening. He
heard the cries for him to stop from the humans but he didn't hear their
meaning; like a dog, knowing to sit on command but not really wanting to,
Red snorted at the requests and continued. It wasn't until he was
successfully thrown off of Murphy that his pupils began to return to a
normal depth and he ceased in his attack. Murphy's resistance had struck
him in the heart.

"You won't kill us," he said, with a conviction that roared to life.

Murphy saw it, in Red's eyes, a fortitude of a different kind.

"You need us too much," added Red.

The groaning of Silas brought the man to an attentiveness that was like a
mother to a child, caressing his face, hushing him and soothing of his
woes. Silas quickly calmed in his presence and the electricity
dissipated. He dragged himself up from he floor, aware that his intended
mate, Red, had been tossed aside by the human male. In retaliation he let
out a violent, blood-churning growl that sounded like glass and blood
being pelted out from a rocket launcher.
Scary, yet oddly comforting. Red knew that that act was an act of love,
to some extent.

Silas loved Red as Red loved Silas, and in the moments following Red
quickly rolled away from Murphy who had swung his fists at him in attempt
to quell his efforts.

"Bastard," spat Murphy.

Red caught some breath and threw a kick to the man's shins. He didn't
fall again but staggered forward, straight into Silas' outstretched
claws. Winded by Red, there was no way that he could have avoided the
monstrous appendages in full serving. Deeply they pressed through his
flesh, presenting a generous outpouring of blood and gore in their wake.
Through his spine they divided, four prongs of solid white bone shredding
and pulverising. The man couldn't even scream as no sound came from his
lips through the explosion of innards. Torn asunder further by the
claw's retreat, there was not much left of the man's chest to be
identified be even the most seasoned coroner; the crunched-up bone
segments that once was the ribcage went skating over the ice like fine
china across a kitchen floor. Murphy's clothes were dyed red back to
front and up and down as the man himself crumpled to the floor in
essentially a heap, the expression on his face--frozen--was a horrific
amalgamation of shock and awe: shock at the unexpected turmoil and pain
that ushered in his ultimate demise, and awe at the success, the pivotal,
monumental satisfaction of the result and efficiency that X had used the
tools that he gave him. Yes, oh yes. This was exactly what he was made
for. When the sad irony settled in, the frozen features melted into
something less fixated.

A death face.

When Hauser leaped for the weapon, Silas planted his monstrous foot on
his arm. He screamed as the tendons ripped, and bones were crushed.

"No, wait," Red was clinging to the werewolf, pleading with him.

A snarl of hatred spilled from the barely discernible lips like red wine.
Silas wasn't to be controlled anymore, not by them. Their faces all
melded into one, a universal representation of oppression. They were his
enemies.

Red tugged on to the the fur of his forearm but could not stop him. He
was like a tank on the run. Forcing himself to hold fast Red watched as
the beast whose identity had been stolen, dive like a panther in the
night from the brush towards his unwitting prey.

Hauser was the first to run, grabbing Adrienne by the sleeves of her lab
coat, he threw her in front of himself and made for the door.

Without mercy, Silas tore her apart.

"God! Stop!" Red couldn't stop a damn thing.

Hands behind his head, he caught flecks of blood as the corpse of the
repentant woman was slung like a heap of garbage into a distant barrier.
They spattered his face still warm before the crunch of her spine.

Silas wasn't done. Next he went after Hauser, the scientist, already
through the door by the time he'd finished with Adrienne, blinded by
rage. It had given him time to shut the doors behind him and indeed apply
the electronic lock which had been disengaged remotely for Red to gain
explicit access by Murphy. He'd had nothing to do with that debacle, and
he certainly wasn't going to die for his cause--his ambitious
disaster--he sealed the doors from the outside and fled down the hallway
to activate the facilities emergency alarm located within a glass case
(which he shattered with his elbow) and pressed. The sirens went off as a
battalion of head-splitting air-raid bellows and red lights in every room
and platform as if the whole underground structure was under attack,
which it was, though the danger was safely secured in a single room.
Hauser knew that Silas having activated his lust for blood, no door would
really hold him, so the emergency was declared. He fled as fast as he
could towards the elevator. Already behind him he could hear the damage
that was being done at the other end of the long corridor: grindings,
slamming, and sparks, all became a flurry that invigorated the need to
fucking run. He pressed the elevator button and it opened with the hiss
of a vicious cobra; all he had to do was go inside and he'd be safe.
There was no way the monster could (even if he escaped the chamber) bound
the shaft and follow him. But there was something wrong. A red alert
appeared on the screen at the side of the doors. A locking mechanism.

"Murphy, you..."

Red followed cautiously behind Silas. There was no mercy to be had here:
Red was in danger as much as anyone during Silas' deliverance, and if he
faltered, then he'd be struck down--no playing favourites--keeping his
distance was the only choice he could really make. He watched as the
beast slammed his massive clawed hands against the doors, watched as the
frames juddered and bent, and watched, watched alike. A part of him felt
guilty for not being able to do more but that was the way it went when
self-preservation became the sole proprietor of the soul. Even so, he
approached Silas; the body heat he waa exhibiting was unbelievable.

"Silas... stop!" He said with a bravely authoritative tone.

"I... must," growled the beast as he continued his scraping and denting.

"Please," pleaded Red, gently now.

He was at his back. Red stroked the thick hide there and hoped in his  to
whatever god that existed that he could get though.

"Come on... you have to still have some humanity left!

"You've been her so long that you can't even remember yourself, but
you can change that! Just... stop what you're doing and you'll be able
to see! I don't wanna be the one to look at your dead body on the ground
because you couldn't control yourself. Now. Do it.

"You have to be a better man, Silas. And that is your name. I know you
probably don't remember, anymore, but..."

"No, I..." Silas stopped, mid-push.

Red beamed, hopeful. "Yes, you do! You remember! You remember who you
are. Are you ready to do just that--realise--born for whatever you what
to be. Once again, living in the cage, you lose all hope of being, of
existing...

"Paranoia is the enemy of our race. If only we can beat--"

"--nothing is everything. All we ever do is destroy, so why delay the
inevitable?"

Unable to argue the point, Red applied something else to Silas' back, a
firm, assuring punch. It was not enough to hurt him but he made damn sure
that he must have felt it. "Don't give up hope. Never give up. That's
what brought you so far. You're a very strong man. Why you couldn't
escape before now is beyond me."

"Maybe I wasn't trying."

"Did you want to be a weapon."

"I think I did."

"You think that you think you did. They brainwashed you."

A solid crunch and the door collapsed under the bulk of the werewolf, no
longer man's slave.

Behind him, Red followed with a growing intensity; the heartbeat that he
once felt now felt different, more urgent and angry inside him. It was
telling him to hurry, because time was short. A rebellion was going on,
not just within the sin-soaked walls of the facility but within the walls
of his own flesh and bones. He didn't want to be like Womack, Silas, or
any other variant strain of walking disease. Sure, he felt for them,
maybe even loved to a certain degree, but Red was a man who had built up
his prestige through his actions, not someone else's. Nobody would have
hold of his soul the way the skies did, and soon, he vowed that he would
take to them again. First, he had to get above ground and find the cure
that he knew in that same rampant heart existed somewhere within his
reach.