🐺 Moonbound — A TF141 Werewolf Tale
Written with unapologetic bite. From the very beginning. As it should be.
ACT I: Blood on the Pine
It was supposed to be a clean extraction. One final drop and gone.
TF141 had already shifted—some into full-grown wolves, others smaller for speed. They moved as shadow and muscle, ghosts in fur sweeping through the last enemy perimeter. The target was down. Mission complete.
But then…
The forest howled back.
Not with wind. Not with wolves.
Hunters.
Viktor.
The infamous hybrid hunter, fully human and grotesquely effective. Born cruel, sharpened brutal. No one knew how many creatures he’d skinned. They only knew no one had ever escaped him.
Behind him: his personal hunting group. The best there was. Not augmented, not supernatural. Just lethal. Efficient. Unrelenting.
TF141 didn’t hesitate. They ran.
They changed forms mid-stride, dodging sensor drones and terrain. They ran until their breath turned to fire and ice danced at the edges of their vision.
And then a scream.
Soap went down.
A trap—embedded like bone under snow. Not military. Not known. Something else. Custom, silent, vicious. His leg was caught and bleeding, his form twitching between juvenile and adult in confusion and pain.
The rest of the pack skidded to a stop. They knew the scent. They knew they couldn’t stay.
And then she appeared.
ACT II: Her Lie, Their Survival
She came through the trees unnoticed, too small for tactical gear, too soft for boots. Just a girl, maybe six, stepping through the killzone like she lived there.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t flinch.
She crouched beside the trap, examined the mechanism, then clicked it open with the casual grace of someone who’s done it too many times for her age.
The wolves didn't move.
She gathered them.
Ghost. Soap. Price. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Kamarov. Nikolai.
All of them—bruised, panting, helpless—tucked beneath her coat or arms.
She walked silently up to Viktor, not making eye contact; never eye contact.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t slow. Didn’t even stiffen.
Just: “Found them in a den. No signs of a mother. They might be good hunting dogs.”
No response.
She entered the camp’s fringe with blood on her sleeves and wolves in her grasp.
She slipped inside her tent.
No one asked.
No one cared.
ACT III: The Morning Before Anyone Wakes
The wolves lay scattered on her thin bedroll and the floor—barely breathing, twitching in sleep, curled against ripped fabric and half-faded warmth.
The tent was small. Too small.
She didn’t sleep.
She didn’t speak.
And long before sunrise—when the sky was still ink and frost—
She got up.
First came the boots. Cleaned until they shone like gems.
Then the blades. Sharpened one by one.
Then the pots. Scrubbed until her fingers bled.
Sixteen wolves behind her.
Ten hunters beyond the canvas walls.
And a little girl, daughter of Viktor himself, standing silent in the dark, racing the sun.
Because if breakfast wasn't done by dawn—