Marcus, a long-standing member of the Council, embodied pride to its very core. His tenure was significant, his belief in excellence unwavering, traits that often manifested as arrogance and a perceived hunger for power. Yet, in his own mind, every action, every calculated move, served the greater good of the wolf world. He was a man perpetually simmering with a barely contained anger, a characteristic that hindered his ability to connect with others. In his estimation, no one possessed his level of dedication to the betterment of their kind.
Unlike his counterparts on the Council, Marcus was not merely diligent; his focus bordered on obsession. Within his territory, he possessed an intricate knowledge of every rogue's whereabouts, maintained a vigilant watch over all exiles, the defective wolves. Though these outcasts were forever barred from the blessed Meadows of the Goddess, Marcus still considered them.
A nagging thought persisted: what if they grew bold? What if one day they dared to strike back against the true Bloodline? It was this possibility that fueled his meticulous surveillance. The vast expanse under his command was, in his mind, a chessboard, each grid holding the precise location of those deemed defective.
Efficiency, swiftness, and a detached calm defined Marcus's methods. He considered sensitivity a frivolous distraction. The Council had decreed the return of the defectives into the fold, and he would execute his duty, ensuring the repatriation of them all.
The Council's decision, however, was devoid of consideration for choice. Whether these defectives had established lives, whether they desired to rejoin the pack, was irrelevant. They had no say in their fate.
With the decree issued and his subordinates dispatched to capture—no, to escort—the defectives back, Marcus's role was now one of waiting. Soon, he would be met with the arrival of those lesser beings, deemed unfit for the pack yet destined to receive its protection.
Unaware of the silent, lupine undercurrents, three men in police uniforms entered the skyscraper. Their objective: the fifth floor. The commander, a seemingly ordinary officer, consulted a small tablet. Jonathan Meyer, forty-five, dark brown hair, blue eyes, a scar behind his right ear – the information scrolled across the screen, identifying him as member of the cyber crimes team.
The front desk assistant offered no resistance, no query. The three men moved with an unnerving purpose, striding past her towards the elevators without a word or a glance.
On the fifth floor, as the elevator doors slid open, the tallest of the three men subtly flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply. He could isolate the scent, the one anomaly in the sterile office air – not quite wolf, yet undeniably not human. Leaving his companions by the elevator, he moved with a predatory grace towards Jonathan Meyer.
"Mr. Meyer," he spoke, his tone sharp and devoid of warmth.
Looking down at his target, the officer noted the rigid set of the man's shoulders. Meyer hadn't turned, yet his posture radiated tension, as if an instinctual awareness had been triggered. Perhaps his subconscious had registered the presence of something…other.
Regardless, the officer had no time, nor inclination, to ponder the extent of Meyer's awareness.
"Why?"
The single word was all Jonathan Meyer uttered, his back still turned.
Resting a hand on the man's shoulder, the officer lifted him with surprising ease, as if he were handling a recalcitrant child. He then steered Meyer towards the elevator. He understood the unspoken question, the plea for explanation.
But he was a mere cog in the Pact, not the lowest, but one among countless. His orders were clear: bring the defectives home. The 'why' was beyond his purview.
The group of four soon exited the building. A large coach bus idled at the curb. The three men directed Jonathan Meyer onto the vehicle.
Without prompting, Meyer found an empty seat and sat down, a silent resignation in his movements.
Marking another name off their list, the officers surveyed the growing assembly within the bus. The disparity in apparent age was stark. Some bore the fresh wounds of recent exile, while others carried the invisible scars of a lifetime spent navigating the human world. Yet, a shared expression of fear and bewilderment clouded their faces.
"Let's move on," one of the officers stated, his gaze sweeping over the collected individuals.
The driver closed the bus doors, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Their list was dwindling. Soon, they would deliver their cargo to the Council mansion.