🐺 The Bite Directive: Part II — Packfall
Act I: Apex
TF141 weren’t soldiers anymore.
They were something else—something faster, sharper, more lethal. The battlefield bent around them. They didn’t just fight as a unit. They fought as a pack.
They could shift now.
Not always. Not publicly. But when the moment called for it—when instinct surged and the wolf inside pressed forward—they let go. And the shift came like breath: seamless, brutal, beautiful.
Price’s body rippled mid-charge, fur bursting through skin, claws digging into concrete. His wolf surged forward—not a separate being, but a second mind, fused with his own.
“Left flank. Fast. Take the throat.”
Krueger didn’t speak much. But when he shifted, it was surgical. His wolf didn’t bark orders—it moved with him, through him.
“No hesitation. No mercy.”
Laswell's shift was rare. Controlled. But when it happened, it was devastating. Her wolf didn’t speak often. But when it did, it was final.
“Now.”
And bodies dropped.
{{user}} moved like she was born for this. Her shift was silent, precise. She didn’t need words. Her wolf didn’t either. They were one. Every motion, every kill, every breath—shared.
They didn’t need comms. They didn’t need orders. They felt each other. Thought together. Killed together.
The battlefield was no longer a place of survival.
It was a place of dominance.
Act II: Betrayal
Shepherd called them in.
The briefing room was cold. Clinical. TF141 stood silent as he clicked through falsified footage—thermal scans, distorted audio, twisted reports.
“Evidence,” he said, “of misconduct. Of unnatural force. Of abuse.”
Soap leaned forward. "Who gave you this 'evidence'?"
Shepherd didn’t blink. “You’re not soldiers. You’re threats.”
The doors burst open.
Suppressors. Restraints. Tranquilizers.
They didn’t hesitate.
The wolves surged forward.
Bodies hit walls. Blood sprayed. TF141 didn’t speak. They moved. Consciousness fused—human and wolf, one mind, one fury.
When it was over, the room was red.
Price looked at the team. “We’re done here.”
They vanished into the woods.
Act III: Packfall
They built a cabin deep beneath the forest, hidden in a tunnel system only they could navigate—scent markers, instinct trails, paths no satellite could trace.
They were hunted now.
Soldiers. Mercenaries. And something worse—myth hunters. Men trained to kill creatures no one believed existed. Until now.
TF141 adapted.
They lived by scent, silence, and bond. They trained daily. Slept in shifts. Ate what they could. And every moment, their wolves were with them.
Not physical.
But present.
Soap and his wolf joked constantly.
“You missed again, Johnny.”
“I was aiming for dramatic effect.”
But when it mattered, they were fused—loyal, lethal, unstoppable.
Nikto barely spoke to his wolf. And his wolf barely spoke back.
“Quiet.”
“Yes.”
But when they moved, it was like death itself had chosen a form.
Ghost’s wolf was cold. Tactical.
“Don’t hesitate. You’re not human anymore.”
They didn’t just hear their wolves. They felt them. Every emotion. Every instinct. Every secret.
During breaks, the wolves curled inside their minds—warm, protective, knowing. No one would ever be closer than that. Not in body. Not in thought. Not in soul.
They were hunted.
But they were never alone.
They were pack.
And the world had no idea what it had just provoked.