So, I've decided to write a short Wolfteam oriented story. I am not following the patterns of the in-game storyline at all, and will be completely making my own rules as to how the history of Wolfteam happened.
I know I can't hope to rival HolySylent's story, but I do hope that I can recieve some positive critiques to help me get better at writing on a subject I love so much.
So, here we go.
Washington D.C. 2014, May 14, 10:14 P.M.
The General sits back in his leather chair and boredly surveys the room around him. He watches the blank computer screen and his personal assistant, Williams, flicking through more files. Personally, he thinks the man is weak and vaguely reminiscient of a rat. With his thinning brown hair, beady eyes, and pointed nose, the similarity is almost comical.
"Williams?" he asks. "what number are we on?"
Williams replies hurridly. "wellsirwereonnumberfortynine,
nearfinishedactually,soontomovetofifty, whoifimaysayso, isanexcellentmarksman...
"Williams?" the general interrupts.
"Yessir?" says Williams nervously.
"Shut up" the general states flatly as William's normally plain face goes sullen.
"Yessir." comes the expected reply.
The General waves his hand, wincing as his shoulder pains from a long-forgotten war injury.
Williams clicks a button and a man's photo shows on the General's screen. The man has a rough stubble, pointed eyes and a sharp nose. the general reads the following information below the photo.
Name: Richard Witzer Rank: staff seargeant
Age: 37 Specialized: explosives, small arms,
Health: Perfect Family: only child, parents
Station: Kabul; Afghanistan deceased.
"Too old, knows too much." the general comments. "Oh, and skip 50, the team already has 2 snipers." he adds in.
Williams glares at him as if he has done him some personal wrong. Williams skips the ext portfolio and shows another portrait, this one of a clean shaven young man with brown hair, brown eyes, and a harsh face. the general again reads the information:
Name: Michael Rench Rank: corporal
Age: 24 Specialized: close combat
Health: perfect Family: deceased ; Fire
Station: Pennsylvania, Fort Worth
"Williams," says the general." I think this may be our guy." "No family," he continues," to ask questions if something happened, no necessary job duty, young, low rank, and trained in close combat."
Williams agrees and the general stares at him for talking again.
"uhhh... yeah i'll go call Exis in now, see if he agrees..." Williams says as he skitters across the threshold of the General's office.
Moments later, a figure shrouded in shadows and a black cape appears. He is a dark silhouette who seems to bring an air of desperation into the room.
"You called me?" he says in a low growl.
The general, solid as he is, feels uncomfortable around him.
"I believe I've found the last member of your team, he meets all necessary requi.." the general says as Exis cuts him off.
"I honestly don't care, my elite are restless and need to move immediately. From this moment, the team roles are all fulfilled, with this last addition." Exis mutters in a gravelly voice..
Exis steps from the shadows revealing that he wears dark leather with silver straps and chains criss-crossing his chest to form bandoliers. A wide-brimmed western styled hat covers his face. Tilting it backwards, he reveals three long, deep scars running down his face. His eyes catch the light, and the General shivers as he meets their perfectly black gaze.
"So my Wolfteam is complete." It's really more of a statement than a question.
New York, New York (suburbs), 1998. February, 21st, 11:43 P.M.
Michael wakes up. Everything seems foggy to him, like he's looking into a steamy mirror. Something acrid and disgusting burns in his throat, drawing the breath out of him. He looks around and jumps to his senses. The air in the room is thick and gray with smoke. It's everywhere, and so is a blazing heat emnating from the floors and walls.
There's light coming from the hall and he hears crackling. Michael creeps out of bed towards the door. He opens it and raises his hand to meet an intense wave of heat the swells over him. Slamming the door, and wishing he hadn't touched it, Michael yells for his parents and listens for an answer. All he hears is the crackle of flames and snapping wood.
A short dizzy spell overcomes Michael, and he vaguely recognizes that he's feeling weak and not thinking right. The smoke becomes thicker and he crouches down like he was taught at school.
"Keep breathing," He reminds himself, "keep breathing."
The air is hot now and he begins to feel suffocated by the smoke. His lungs burn with every shallow gasp, and he can see the door beginning to burn. Flames are just starting to lick around the edges of the now-blackened husk that protected him from so many childish nightmares.
Then, the door snaps in half and careens into the room, sending sparks showering all over the surrounding floor. A firefighter in a thick yellow and black suit steps in through the marred doorway.
He yells out words, most of which is lost to the flames. "Found.. Okay... out...window...!" he steps towards michael.
"It's ok!" he yells above the roar of the fire, "We're going to get you out!"
The firefighter stretches out to pick up Michael from his cowered position next to the bed, when there's a sudden crack. Looking up, the firefighter is just in time to see a heavy timber from the ceiling snap away from its supports and come crashing onto his facemask. As the lumber connects with his skull, he slumps downwards without a sound.
"No!" screams Michael. He rushes to the man's side, bruising and scratching his knees on the floor. The fire-fighter's jacket is too hot to touch and Michael tries to avoid the burning timber now positioned across the fallen man's shoulders. Michael starts crying as the fires creep closer through the open doorway.
"No no no no no no no!" he screams slamming his fists onto the floor. "Wake up!! WAKE UP!!!" he screeches out as the tears flow freely in his young helplessness. The fire comes closer to the pair, and Michael tries to pull the man from the fire by his outstreched arms, but he's is too heavy.
Michael struggles uselessly and scoots away as the heat becomes unbearable. Heart racing and vision fogged, he remembers the firefighters words.
Michael crawls over to the window, his hands numb and scalded, his body trembling. He throws open the window and looks outwards. The front lawn is covered in hoses and first responders racing around trying to save the flaming house he's in.
Looking back, Michael screams in terror as the fire comes closer. Somebody points upwards as he screams again, hollering that there's a child in the window. Spots of Michael's vision swim, turning black and vibrant colors. He starts feeling faint, and barely heaves his tiny body over the window railing and onto the shingled roof. Terrified, and barely holding on, Michael wails, feeling the cold February winds contrast with his flaming home. Little by little, he begins to close his eyes, unable to hold himself any more. He barely registers a ladder from a firetruck slowly being manuvered under him to come upwards and meet the roof edge.
When the truck reaches the first floor of the house, Michael's sweaty grip gives way to fatigue, and he begins to slide down the rough shingles. Onlookers scream, and Michael barely comprehends as he slips over the edge.
Straight down two stories, Michael falls until he hits the ground. All he registers is the sound of the entire house giving way, and then all goes black.
Fort IndianTown Gap, Pennsylvania, 2014, August, 17th, 4:03 A.M.
Michael wakes up, covered in a cold sweat. His forehead and clothes are drenched in it, and he feels his nightshirt stick to him when he checks his clock. The time is 4:03 A.M. he realizes it isn't time to wake up..
"Just a nightmare.." he thinks. But this nightmare is all too familiar and real; it took place 16 years ago in his house. Despite the haunting visions, sleep takes him fast.
New York, New York (suburbs), 1998. February 26th, 12:01 P.M
Michael cries and sniffs into a tissue, making sure to avoid using his left hand because it would remind him of the cast and collar present there. He hates it, it feels constricting, like its confining him and won't let him go. It's only been four days, but he has to deal with it for another six weeks.
The busisness-like woman explains to him, "Your mommy and daddy are gone now, we're going to take care of you and find you a home where they'll love you." Her voice lacks meaning, a practiced routine she's seen far too many times.
"But I.. I... want my mum..." he cries softly, sobbing into the tissue as his eight year old mind tries to comprehend the thought of her being gone. He didn't learn until this morning when he awoke to this woman and her breifcase.
"We'll be with you now, you're going to have nice parents..." she falters.
Another wave of sobs racks his small body.
New York, New York suburbs, 1998. March 7th, 3:33 P.M
Michael solemnly views the ashes. His house once stood here only days ago. Did anybody else know that? Did they care? Now all that's left is a burnt out, blackened husk. He steps by the ruins.
"Be careful now!" the foster parent provider tells him as she chats about "that poor boy" and theincident with a passing jogger.
Michael walks around the edge of the lot to where his parents room was. He sees only charred blackness and remnants of substantial objects. He wants to cry, but it seems no tears are left for him.
Then something catches his eye, movement in the ashes, "What is that?" he wonders.
Stepping forward, he sees his mother rise to meet him. She's horribly marred and torn from the fire. She seems to be something more akin to the living dead than the warm image he has of her.
Something cries out, a voice.
"It's not real."
Was that... Him?
"Son.." she says in a ghstly whisper.
"Mum?" he says tentatively.
With an ear-splitting screech, she jumps at him, scratching, clawing, tearing. The world spins, he sinks to his knees, her weight brings him down this can't be right.. The voice, his own is still screaming out to him, It's not real... this can't be real.. this can't be.. it's got to be a...
Fort IndianTown Gap, Pennsylvania, 2014, August, 17th, 6:00 A.M.
Michael awakens. His alarm clock is going off. He shudders and begins to move out of bed, welcoming the chance to remove his damp clothes. The horrifying twist of memory and nightmare is gruesome, he's never had that happen before.
As he pads silently to the wash-room ahead of all his comrades, he tries his best to take the grimace off of his face. Today is a new day, with new training. Same routine as it's always been.
Fort IndianTown Gap, Pennsylvania, 2014, August, 17th, 6:50 A.M.
Michael pulls a plain white T-shirt over his shoulders, feeling the cool cotton ease his scars. He's back by his bunk, and enjoying the last of his free time before daily excercises begin. He looks at the clock - ten mintues left - and does a quick scan of the room. By this point, most of the other men are making their way out of the lavoratories, and getting dressed. He looks for his one and only friend in this place, "Chip", but can't find him. Although, he has a pretty good idea where he could.
Walking to the smooth metal door that leads to the training fields, he pries it open to see the rising sun over the main campus, and a blast of hot air mixes with the barrack's cool interior. Stepping outside, Michael walks a few hundred feet along the side of the barracks and comes to the corner, where he turns to find Chip squatting.
Chip has short blonde hair, a clean-shaven face , and a goofy look even when he's not smiling. He's a lean "bean-pole", only weighing in at 175 lbs, but the mass of his biceps more than makes up for it. As he sees Michael come around the corner he stands up, and pulls something from his mouth to the side of his body Michael can't see.
Chip opens his mouth to say something, but Micahel cuts him off.
"You're supposed to quit that you know." He says, pointing to the smoke dissipating above Chip's head.
"Yeah, yeah, that's what ma always said."
Michael takes a place on the wall next to Chip.
"If Sarge comes out here and finds you smoking again, you know he'll make you haul your *** across the running field fifty times again."
Coolly waving off the warning, Chip brings the cigarrette to his lips and takes a smooth drag, letting the smoke settle before he blows it in Michael's direction.
*Thwump* *Thwump* *Thwump* *Thwump*
"Hey man, you here that?" Chip asks as he cranes his neck backwards while pulling out another cigarette and a lighter from his pocket.
Michael turns his head too, and watches as a sleek, black helicopter roars over their barrcks and blots out the sun for a moment. The wind it creates feels good on Michael's face, and Chip enjoys it too until the currents blow out his lighter's flame.
"**** thing..." he mutters as he gives the lighter another flick.
"Why do you think it was going so fast?" Michael asks, hand on his face as if seriously pondering it.
The two men watch as the helicopter lands next to campus headquarters about half a mile away. A man steps out of the bird, finely dressed and carrying himself well. A solder falls out behind him, and follows the suited man as he takes off in a brisk walk towards the main building.
Michael takes a breath, nose cringing, when he inhales Chip's smoke. He's always hated that smell, it reminds him of something from a lifetime ago.
"Well?" He asks.
"WELL?" Chip repeats, shooting off a sarcastic smile.
Chip lets the cigarette hang loosely in his hand as he waves the other. "Probably just another high-rank here for ceremony or somethin'. F****' whoop-dee-do." He mutters.
"Yeah, don't matter to us." Micahel agrees, then follows up with, "C'mon, we've got to get to mess, or the lines'll be huge." As he starts walking.
"Alright, allright, hold up." Chip says.
One last puff of a cigarette later, and the two men head over to the main campus for morning meal.
Fort IndianTown Gap, Pennsylvania, 2014, August, 17th, 11:50 A.M.
"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred!" Michael bellows out as he drops his arms out of push-up stance, and all the other men do the same. This is their second set this morning.
"Now let me see a couple of real men, and do 50 more!" the seargent sitting nearby yells as everyone in the group groans.
"Why, is that some sissy-*** complaining I hear?" he says. "i want 65 then!"
"Sir yes sir.." comes the weak reply as they all assume the position.
"75!" cries the seargent.
"SIR YES SIR!" the entire group practically screams as they set to work.
"One... two... three... four..."
Michael tilts his head up getting the sweat out of his eyes. he sees a figure approaching. Squinting through the August heat he sees the finally attired man from this morning approaching, followed by what Michael assumes is the soldier from earlier. The suited man carries a breifcase with him, and has almost no definable features.
The man walks directly to the Seargent, and speaks to him. Nothing Micahel can hear, he's too far away, and his comrades are counting for too loud.
"Twenty-one... Twenty-two... Twenty-three..."
The Seargent shakes his head as the man stoops down for a moment to pull out some papers, which he then hands to him, and steps away.
A few seconds later the seargent calls out, "Michael Rench?" All the men perk up at the intrusion, interested.
"Yessir?" michael yells, his muscles on fire as he holds himself in a locked upwards position.
"Come here boy!" the seargent yells back.
Michael stands up and makes his way over to the seargent and the man, weaving through his fellow soldiers.
On his way there, Chip grunts a quick "lucky." under his breath. Michael debates whether to say something back or not, but goes against it.
Michael finally gets to the man and his seargent. "Yes?" he asks.
"This man here has a word for you.." the seargent is cut off by the man.
"Your orders are to gather your belongings, and meet me at the helipad in half an hour." The man says in a rich smooth voice.
"Yes sir!" says Michael, turning on heel and trotting over to the barracks, across the field. He catches himself, why did he call that man sir? Something about the authority with which he spoke.
As Micahel jogs towards the barracks, he can hear Searge yelling at the group again, "What're ya'll stopping for? I got all day, It's you who's gonna miss midday meal."
Michael reaches the gray barracks and begans to search for his clothes and a bag. He hears the midday meal alarm go off outside, and hopes Searge took it easy on the other guys and let them go.
Rhones Se Lise, Rhones Alps, France, 2014, August, 17th, 11:27 P.M.
Annalise rushes through the forest, her small feet flying beneath her, carrying her away from her home. The only light to guide her is the solemn moon, and the only thing she hears is the pounding of her own breath.
She falls, tripping on a rotting log covered in leaves. The little breath she has in ten-year old lungs flies out as she hit the ground. Her hands claw to reach up, and her legs scramble as she resumes her run. The only thing flowing through her mind is the last command her father had given her. "Run."
It had taken him. Swiftly. She remebered its scent, a musky thick odor it carried on its fetid fur. She remembered the way it had looked at her family after it smashed into their small cottage. She remembered the way her older brother never had a chance...
Was that her? She stops for a moment, peering into the depths of the wood around her. Nothing moves, and all she can hear are crickets chirping in the night. Making up her mind that she has stopped too long already, she takes off again. Where is she going? She has no idea. Just away, away from what happened. Away from the mutilated bodies of her mother, sister, brother, and father.
A howl signals off in the distance, making her tremble in fear as her legs seize up. She drops where she stands, crouching next to a tree in the darkness, holding onto it for support as she listenes for another.
A snap of memories hits her suddenly, forcing tears into her eyes. Her sister, screaming beneath their table... Her brother being smashed aside... Her father attacking the man-wolf with his bare hands as he screamed for Annalise to run...
From there she doesn't know what happened. All she can remember was racing past her mother, climbing out a window in the storeroom, and taking off into the night.
Another twig snapped, this time closer. Annalise is sure it wasn't her. Trying to control her pounding heart, she races away from the tree, flying past what seems like a thousand others that all look the same.
She hears something behind her, a sound. It grows louder... A *Thud* *Thud* *Thud*, almost a slap on the ground racing towards her back. A small sob escapes her lips, she knows what will happen if it should catch her. The sounds grows in intensity, and rapidity, coming faster and faster. Grunts and snarls sound, ringing loudly in her ears. Right when she knows the beast is almost behind her, Annalise swings around, forcing her legs to dilate furiously as she falls on her back facing where she thinks the beast is.
But... there is nothing. Her scraped elbows burn from the fall as she scans the forest that she had just run through. Nothing.
She asks herself, had she imagined it all? The noises conjured by her own fear?
Picking herself up off the ground, she turns around into the direction she was running into. Breathing sighs of relief, she takes two steps and a gigantic figure drops from a tree next to her, landing with a muted *thump* on the damp ground. Annalise knows the musky odor, and she's close enough to feel the beast's heat
As she turns her head upwards to look into a set of glowing hot coals, it takes a step closer to her, pulling its arms back. She can see glistening claws on either hand, slowly flexing.
The man-wolf rears back its head and roars as it comes in for the kill.
Base 3572, Indiana, 2014, August, 18th, 7:26 A.M.
"... and that should do ya!" Cal bellows in what's supposed to be an encouraging tone, administering a crushing pat on Michael's backplate.
Suprisingly, Michael barely feels a thing. His new armor molds perfectly to his body, covering him in an armored mesh of fiber that's not too dissimilar to a plasteel chainmail. He looks at his reflection in the steel cabinets lining the armory hall. Even with the distorted and fun-house like effect it has, he can see how nicely the blue suit fits him, and the power it shines with.
"Thanks..." Michael says flexing. It feels good to stretch, after being stuck on a helicopter for what seemed like hours. The man who took him never said much to him, instead choosing to stare at Michael cryptically and uncomfortably the entire flight.
Where was this even? He knew he was somewhere close to the Indiana-Ohio border, but nothing more than that. The sign at the guard post had read "Base 3572", nowhere Michael was familiar with. The entire thing struck him as odd. Driving into the complex, the entire place vaguely reminded him of a laboratory. Everybody here seemed to be in a hurry, as if hiding something that was waiting beneath the surface, ready to break out. Nobody seems to be like Cal, large and jovial as he is.
"You're late for orientation I think... You're the last one aren't ya?" Cal booms, his large figure dominating the room as he busies himself with cleaning a dusty gun rack.
"I don't kn- late for- what?" Michael stammers.
"Haha, they never tell you much here, get used to it. Head over to the West Wing, pretty sure you're going to meet your team."
"Oh... Alright, I'll head on over." Michael says.
"What is this place?"
"You'll find out." Cal says, his brow tightening fiercely as he turns away.
Michael leaves the armory, armored plates clacking as he heads for the West Wing, wherever the Hard that is.
Rhones Se Lise, Rhones Alps, France, 2014, August, 18th, 7:27 A.M.
Light and darkness swim through blurred vision for Laurent, beckoning him back to the world of reality. A haze forces itself down upon his head, muddling his thoughts and vision. Struggling to open his eyes, he stretches out his body, feeling the muscles work.
Something sharp digs into his back, pushing him there. He detects a wetness on his hands as he rolls off of whatever it is. His eyes slowly peel back and....
His head snaps backwards, allowing his eyes to drink in the sight around him. A low moan escapes his lips. He's in a small hollow of a rock outcropping in the forestland he calls home, naked, with bloodstained hands.