There Are Wolves . The Losers . One-shot . Shifter!Verse .
Author: Faithunbreakable/ pprfaith
Title: There Are Wolves
Series: Shifter!Verse. Prequel to Here Be Dragons. Use the tag, svp.
Rating: hard R for gore and death.
Summary: Clay will not die here. And neither will Roque. Pre- Movie AU. Shortish.
Disclaimer: I do not own.
A/N: The reaction to the last ficlet was awesome. So, predictably, the verse ate my brain and the lovely vesselandpestle poured oil into the fire. Or ideas onto the bunny. Whichever. She also betaed. Because she's lovely. Ahem. Thank you for the amazing feedback, people.
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There Are Wolves
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“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Roque spits through comms shortly before a burst of gunfire interrupts his stream of curses. A scream of rage is followed by more rattling and Clay would worry, except he’s got his own goons to shoot. They’re big and well armed and there’s a whole lot more of them than there are supposed to be.
He ducks, rolls, changes the clip of his gun as fast as he can and hollers, “Andrews! Cane! Report!”
There’s no answer and not even gunfire anymore. Somewhere, the fight is already over. “Roque!”
“We are so fucked, Clay!” is his answer, followed by, “Would you die already, motherfucker?!” and, “I’m almost out!”
Clay closes his eyes, counts to three, and keeps shooting through it. He doesn’t need his eyes. He can smell the enemy, feel them, almost taste them. Taste their blood on his tongue, hot and sweet. He wants to taste it.
Instead he barks the names of his team once more, hopes for any response. Any at all. He’ll take someone gloating over comms that they’re caught. Caught can be freed. Dead can’t be undone.
There’s no answer, except from Roque, who yells incoherently in rage and then announces that he’s down to knives and then…
Then he’s just down.
A single scream, wet and pain-filled, a gurgle. Clay can still hear him breathing, but it’s a stuttering, precarious thing.
Fuck this.
He empties his last clip, flips the grip on his gun, and throws it. It hits one of the guards they’re fighting in the face, shoves his nose into his brain with a crunch, a wet sound, a fine spray of blood like red mist. The guy goes down and Clay allows himself a single smirk as he steps away from his flimsy cover, arms spread at his side.
The idiots stop shooting, thinking they’ve won and Clay just keeps walking and walking, feeling his gums itch and his jaw stretch uncomfortably to make room for bigger teeth. (The better to rip you the fuck apart with, my dear.)
There’s six of them. Two to his left, two on his right. One in front, one a bit behind that one, checking on his newly dead buddy, gun lowered. Rookie move.
They call for him to stop, guns trained on him. He smirks. These bullets are not silver and Clay will not die here. He licks his lips, tastes his own blood, runs his tongue over teeth that are too white, too sharp. Hungry. Clay will not die here.
These men on the other hand… these men killed his team.
The first one is only fifteen feet away when a warning shot comes from his right, along with a scream, panic. The bullet grazes his arm and he flinches out of reflex, nothing more. Still walking. Ten feet.
The man screams for him to stop, stop or he’ll fucking shoot, the other one is still alive, they don’t need him. They don’t need him a live and what the fuck?! His eyes have changed, flat and yellow, his sight shifted. He smells their fear and likes it, likes how the stench grows stronger as they understand, begin to see. In his ear, Roque fights to breathe with a lung filling with blood. For that, they will all die here.
Clay lowers his arms to his side, bends in the knees and lunges.
The first man goes down with his throat torn out before he knows what’s happening. The one kneeling with his friend is next and his gun takes down the two on the left-hand side before Clay abandons the weapon and his living (dead) shield and lunges for the remaining two. They scatter, smarter than the others, and try to catch him in a pincer move but he the smell of their fear is sharp, acidic, outright panic now, what’s going on, what the fuck, what is he?
Wolf.
He’s a wolf and they just slaughtered his pack.
His fingers curl and twist, nails sharpening, lengthening, and he feels a ripple of fur along his spine. The wolf is close, so close, and they howl in unison for their fallen comrades.
They howl and kill with their bare hands (claws), kill quickly and messily, and they taste their enemies' blood, hot and sweet.
They let the bodies fall where they may as they rip out of the courtyard and into a hallway, following the faint trail of the familiar. Cane is riddled with bullets, his expression frozen in anger rather than fear. They step around instead of over him.
Movement to the left. A half-dead guard, wheezing for breath, trying to be quiet. It doesn’t save him. Dead, dead. Unmourned.
Andrews is further down the hall, spread-eagle and bloody. His eyes are closed. Roque still breathes, still lives. He stopped cursing, though, words eluding him.
A shot comes out of nowhere, catching them in the shoulder. They howl and rear back, crouching low and moving fast. A blur, a swipe of claws, another one down.
Roque is lying on a pile of bodies, grinning with blood on his teeth, knife in one hand, clutching his torn stomach with the other. Literally holding his insides in. He stinks of blood, death and sickness and there is nothing sweet about it. Not from him, not from pack.
He makes a sound that sounds like their name and the wolf recedes, leaving Clay thinking in the singular again. Leaving him thinking. He clutches his dying friend’s hand in his, squeezes. The knife clatters to the ground. Loudly. His claws prick holes into Roque’s skin and he frowns, looks down at their hands. He should be calling Clay a pussy for holding his hand like a girl, but he can’t talk anymore.
He just twists his hand until he can see Clay’s, dark and furred, nails like knives. Deadly. Alien. Wolf.
He knew, has known for years, but Clay’s never shown him. Roque’s seen the scars on his chest and back, but never the thing that was born from them.
His grin grows wider, satisfied and fascinated until a cough tears from his lips, blood and spittle flying. Almost gone. “Roque,” Clay says. The word sounds loud in the quiet building. Only the two of them now.
Soon, only one.
Roque shakes his head, squeezes Clay’s hand and then tugs on it. After a moment he understands, raises it himself to lie on his friend’s chest. Roque grunts, frowns.
Not right then. He twists Clay’s fingers, tries to talk, doesn’t manage. Finally he manages to point one of Clay’s claws at his chest and the older man finally understands.
He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t scream no like he wants to. He didn’t choose to become this and he’s never inflicted it on anyone else, not in twenty years. But Roque… Roque is dying and still fighting, still grinning.
Clay closes his eyes, inhales blood and death and pack.
Real pack. To have someone...
He’s selfish in the end, or selfless. All the same.
He doesn’t ask if the other man is sure, doesn’t insult him that way. Instead he bends to press a kiss to Roque’s temple. He licks his lips, tastes sweat and mortality. Humanity.
He’s going to miss that. Then he curls both hands into claws and rams them home.
“See you on the other side,” he whispers.
Roque gasps and laughs.
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Comment?
Title: There Are Wolves
Series: Shifter!Verse. Prequel to Here Be Dragons. Use the tag, svp.
Rating: hard R for gore and death.
Summary: Clay will not die here. And neither will Roque. Pre- Movie AU. Shortish.
Disclaimer: I do not own.
A/N: The reaction to the last ficlet was awesome. So, predictably, the verse ate my brain and the lovely vesselandpestle poured oil into the fire. Or ideas onto the bunny. Whichever. She also betaed. Because she's lovely. Ahem. Thank you for the amazing feedback, people.
.
.
There Are Wolves
.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Roque spits through comms shortly before a burst of gunfire interrupts his stream of curses. A scream of rage is followed by more rattling and Clay would worry, except he’s got his own goons to shoot. They’re big and well armed and there’s a whole lot more of them than there are supposed to be.
He ducks, rolls, changes the clip of his gun as fast as he can and hollers, “Andrews! Cane! Report!”
There’s no answer and not even gunfire anymore. Somewhere, the fight is already over. “Roque!”
“We are so fucked, Clay!” is his answer, followed by, “Would you die already, motherfucker?!” and, “I’m almost out!”
Clay closes his eyes, counts to three, and keeps shooting through it. He doesn’t need his eyes. He can smell the enemy, feel them, almost taste them. Taste their blood on his tongue, hot and sweet. He wants to taste it.
Instead he barks the names of his team once more, hopes for any response. Any at all. He’ll take someone gloating over comms that they’re caught. Caught can be freed. Dead can’t be undone.
There’s no answer, except from Roque, who yells incoherently in rage and then announces that he’s down to knives and then…
Then he’s just down.
A single scream, wet and pain-filled, a gurgle. Clay can still hear him breathing, but it’s a stuttering, precarious thing.
Fuck this.
He empties his last clip, flips the grip on his gun, and throws it. It hits one of the guards they’re fighting in the face, shoves his nose into his brain with a crunch, a wet sound, a fine spray of blood like red mist. The guy goes down and Clay allows himself a single smirk as he steps away from his flimsy cover, arms spread at his side.
The idiots stop shooting, thinking they’ve won and Clay just keeps walking and walking, feeling his gums itch and his jaw stretch uncomfortably to make room for bigger teeth. (The better to rip you the fuck apart with, my dear.)
There’s six of them. Two to his left, two on his right. One in front, one a bit behind that one, checking on his newly dead buddy, gun lowered. Rookie move.
They call for him to stop, guns trained on him. He smirks. These bullets are not silver and Clay will not die here. He licks his lips, tastes his own blood, runs his tongue over teeth that are too white, too sharp. Hungry. Clay will not die here.
These men on the other hand… these men killed his team.
The first one is only fifteen feet away when a warning shot comes from his right, along with a scream, panic. The bullet grazes his arm and he flinches out of reflex, nothing more. Still walking. Ten feet.
The man screams for him to stop, stop or he’ll fucking shoot, the other one is still alive, they don’t need him. They don’t need him a live and what the fuck?! His eyes have changed, flat and yellow, his sight shifted. He smells their fear and likes it, likes how the stench grows stronger as they understand, begin to see. In his ear, Roque fights to breathe with a lung filling with blood. For that, they will all die here.
Clay lowers his arms to his side, bends in the knees and lunges.
The first man goes down with his throat torn out before he knows what’s happening. The one kneeling with his friend is next and his gun takes down the two on the left-hand side before Clay abandons the weapon and his living (dead) shield and lunges for the remaining two. They scatter, smarter than the others, and try to catch him in a pincer move but he the smell of their fear is sharp, acidic, outright panic now, what’s going on, what the fuck, what is he?
Wolf.
He’s a wolf and they just slaughtered his pack.
His fingers curl and twist, nails sharpening, lengthening, and he feels a ripple of fur along his spine. The wolf is close, so close, and they howl in unison for their fallen comrades.
They howl and kill with their bare hands (claws), kill quickly and messily, and they taste their enemies' blood, hot and sweet.
They let the bodies fall where they may as they rip out of the courtyard and into a hallway, following the faint trail of the familiar. Cane is riddled with bullets, his expression frozen in anger rather than fear. They step around instead of over him.
Movement to the left. A half-dead guard, wheezing for breath, trying to be quiet. It doesn’t save him. Dead, dead. Unmourned.
Andrews is further down the hall, spread-eagle and bloody. His eyes are closed. Roque still breathes, still lives. He stopped cursing, though, words eluding him.
A shot comes out of nowhere, catching them in the shoulder. They howl and rear back, crouching low and moving fast. A blur, a swipe of claws, another one down.
Roque is lying on a pile of bodies, grinning with blood on his teeth, knife in one hand, clutching his torn stomach with the other. Literally holding his insides in. He stinks of blood, death and sickness and there is nothing sweet about it. Not from him, not from pack.
He makes a sound that sounds like their name and the wolf recedes, leaving Clay thinking in the singular again. Leaving him thinking. He clutches his dying friend’s hand in his, squeezes. The knife clatters to the ground. Loudly. His claws prick holes into Roque’s skin and he frowns, looks down at their hands. He should be calling Clay a pussy for holding his hand like a girl, but he can’t talk anymore.
He just twists his hand until he can see Clay’s, dark and furred, nails like knives. Deadly. Alien. Wolf.
He knew, has known for years, but Clay’s never shown him. Roque’s seen the scars on his chest and back, but never the thing that was born from them.
His grin grows wider, satisfied and fascinated until a cough tears from his lips, blood and spittle flying. Almost gone. “Roque,” Clay says. The word sounds loud in the quiet building. Only the two of them now.
Soon, only one.
Roque shakes his head, squeezes Clay’s hand and then tugs on it. After a moment he understands, raises it himself to lie on his friend’s chest. Roque grunts, frowns.
Not right then. He twists Clay’s fingers, tries to talk, doesn’t manage. Finally he manages to point one of Clay’s claws at his chest and the older man finally understands.
He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t scream no like he wants to. He didn’t choose to become this and he’s never inflicted it on anyone else, not in twenty years. But Roque… Roque is dying and still fighting, still grinning.
Clay closes his eyes, inhales blood and death and pack.
Real pack. To have someone...
He’s selfish in the end, or selfless. All the same.
He doesn’t ask if the other man is sure, doesn’t insult him that way. Instead he bends to press a kiss to Roque’s temple. He licks his lips, tastes sweat and mortality. Humanity.
He’s going to miss that. Then he curls both hands into claws and rams them home.
“See you on the other side,” he whispers.
Roque gasps and laughs.
.
.
Comment?