The piercing howl tore through the air, a final, guttural cry that was immediately swallowed by a frantic rush of feet. Upperclassmen, their faces taut with tension, barked instructions that were half-lost in the chaotic symphony of a pack preparing for battle. The air crackled with a palpable, frenetic energy, and Trinity felt it coil in the pit of her stomach. She'd never been prepped for this kind of scenario, and her mind, trained for order and precision, couldn't process the sudden, overwhelming disarray.
She stood frozen, a statue of uncertainty, as Thomas, the very picture of purposeful movement, ran off to a post she could only guess at. Her wolf classmates, their instincts honed by years of training, ran toward the warrior house, a unified, unthinking wave. They left the defectives behind—a small, static group, unsure of their place or purpose in this orchestrated pandemonium. The sheer volume of it all, the collective will to move, to fight, to protect, was almost deafening.
"Come on, let's move," Johnny's shout cut through the noise, a sharp command that roused them from their stunned stupor.
They followed the current of tense energy, a small eddy in the roaring river of the pack, until they reached the weapons room. The air was thick with the scent of leather, metal, and sweat. Everyone strapped on leather vests, heavy with an internal padding that promised protection but would need to be shucked off in a heartbeat for a shift. Trinity did the same, her hands fumbling with the unfamiliar clasps, the weight of the vest a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. Some wolves grabbed swords, the familiar weight of the blades a comfort to them. But Trinity, with a tremor of resolve in her hands, opted for the guns. These weren't the non-lethal pellet guns of their training drills. These were real, loaded with silver bullets designed to kill.
With shaky, deliberate movements, she took two guns and several magazines, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of her own skin, and tucked them into the designated pockets of her vest before taking off with the others.
Once outside, the frantic energy of the pack shifted into a tense, controlled anticipation. Rows of wolves, their lines sharp and taut, waited to be assigned their roles. A hulking wolf with muscles that strained the seams of his shirt stood before the warrior house. This was Wesley, a warrior known for his brutal efficiency. His words were a series of clipped commands, each one a hammer blow of information.
"Third Stagers, second line of defense! Fill the pockets where the warriors are scouting! Every edge of the pack must be covered!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the low hum of the crowd. "Second Stagers, constant movement! You'll be circling the interiors of the pack, not far from the Third Stagers! Pass information with ease!" he continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembled wolves. "First Stagers, you'll be inside the pack! Groups of ten, surround the vulnerable areas: the elderly's home, the school, the Alpha House, the Beta House, the clinic! Split up! I don't have time to hold your hands! Let's go!"
Wesley's words were a catalyst. He took off, trusting the years of training to guide the wolves. The Third Stagers, seasoned by drills and experience, moved with a practiced fluidity, their teams forming without a single wasted word. They were a well-oiled machine, their movements a testament to their years together. The Second Stagers took a little longer, their movements a clumsy imitation of their superiors. They were a chorus that was still learning the song, and their hesitation, their indecision, was a tell in a game where every second counted.
The First Stagers, however, were a different story. This was uncharted territory for them. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and determination, shifted between Luca and Trinity, a silent acknowledgment of the leadership they had seen from them during their training.
Ryan, ever the pragmatist, didn't waste a second. He organized his group with a surgeon's precision. "Mona, you're with me. Timothy with Jess. Trinity you're on your own. Two teams, no defectives. We're splitting up, let's go!" he commanded, his voice a pillar of authority. He knew that putting three sharpshooters on one team was a waste of talent. This was about maximizing their skills, not about comfort or camaraderie.
Luca, seeing the need for order, stepped in.
"It doesn't matter how we divide. I'm just going to put you into teams," he announced, his voice a steadying force. He assembled the teams, making sure to distribute the defectives evenly, and then assigned their locations. The teams with full wolves went to protect the children and the elderly, while the defective teams were sent to less critical areas.
"Move!" Luca shouted, his command a release valve for the tension. He took off with his team, headed toward the children's school, the most vulnerable point in the pack. Ryan and Mona left for the hospital, a critical location for any casualties. Jess and her team headed to the high school, its rooftop a perfect vantage point for a sharpshooter. Trinity's group went toward the Alpha House, while the last team went to the Beta House.
Trinity's group moved at full speed, a blur of motion and purpose. She pushed herself, her lungs burning, her muscles screaming, but she couldn't keep up. They were a well-oiled machine, and she was a loose cog. But she didn't slow her pace, even when they disappeared from her sight. She knew the way to the Alpha House. She would get there.
She was running on instinct now, the forest a blur of green and brown. Her breath was shallow and controlled, a steady rhythm that belied the frantic beating of her heart. She was a single-minded missile, her focus narrowed to the path ahead. But then, as she approached the dense woods that separated the Alpha and Beta Houses, something shifted. A smell, a subtle wrongness on the wind, caused her to freeze. It wasn't the scent of a rogue, not a hostile smell. It was something else, something she couldn't place, but a warning nonetheless.
The path to the Alpha House stretched before her, but her gut, a primal compass, was pulling her toward the Beta House. It felt like an eternity that she stood there, her mind at war with her instinct. But the strange scent, the sense of wrongness, was too powerful to ignore. She capitulated to her curiosity, her feet already turning in the direction of her home. Her controlled, shallow breaths gave way to deeper, heavier ones, the sound of her own exertion a drumbeat in the sudden silence of the forest. The metallic weight of her gun was a comfort in her hand. She took the safety off with a click, the sound a promise of violence.
A low crack of thunder rumbled overhead, and the heavens, once a peaceful blue, turned a bruised, ominous gray. A foreboding settled in her stomach, a cold dread that mirrored the sudden chill in the air. The closer she got, the more she could hear the sound—a loud, snapping crack, like a thunderclap but sharper, more rhythmic. It was the sound of a whip.
"Six."
The man's voice was clear, crisp, and dispassionate.
And then the heavens opened up, a thick, cold rain washing over the world. Her clothes, heavy with the weight of the downpour, plastered to her skin. A light steam lifted from her body, a ghost of her own exertion. Her breathing, once heavy, was now becoming a series of gasps, her lungs fighting for air.
"Ten."
She finally broke through the tree line, her eyes scanning the scene. Her world narrowed to the man on his knees. His hands were bound by silver shackles, a stark contrast to the white stone beneath him, which was slowly becoming stained with his blood. Warriors, dressed just like her, stood in neat rows, their faces impassive, watching as a whip tore through the air and met the man's skin again and again. His skin, ripped open, bled freely, the rain and blood mingling on the stone. He didn't make a sound, didn't flinch, didn't move. The only sound from him was the quiet jingle of the silver shackles as his body, a monument to defiance, tensed and relaxed with each blow.
"Twelve."
The whip cracked again, the sound echoing in her mind. Trinity felt transfixed, her mind unable to comprehend the scene. Why, in a time of crisis, was this happening? She had felt the sting of a whip once, a punishment she carried on her back in the form of scars. But this was different. This was more. And still, he made no sound.
As she stepped out of the tree line, she saw Alana, her purse a forgotten relic in a mud puddle. Her expensive heels, a symbol of a life of ease, sank into the softened ground, leaving her off-balance and vulnerable. Tears mixed with the rain on her face, indistinguishable from the storm.
"Alana!" Trinity called out, her voice soft, tentative, a whisper of a question in the storm.
Alana turned, her eyes wide with shock and horror. "You're not supposed to be here," she said, her voice a plea, a warning.
But Trinity was no longer looking at Alana. Her world had narrowed down to the man on his knees, just past Alana's shoulder. Boris.
Her breath hitched, her lungs struggling to pull in air. It was Boris. He was the one being punished. Her world, once a panoramic view of the chaotic pack, was now just him—his blood on the stones, his hands bound by silver. The image was a vivid, visceral reality that consumed her. The whip cracked again, a sound that, for her, was no longer a crack but a tear, a ripping in the very fabric of her reality.
"Why?" The word was a gasp, a hollow sound that barely escaped her lips.
Alana's eyes, a mirror of Trinity's own pain, locked on her. "It's always your fault," she said, her voice a cruel, low hiss, a jab at the most tender part of Trinity's emotional landscape.
"Fourteen." The man's voice, clear and precise, cut through the rain, the tears, the pain, and the rage. It was the only sound that mattered.
Authors note:
For those who don't know there is an auxiliary chapter. Doesn't matter if you read it or not right now. But it will have significance later on.