One
“Go!”
Before the syllable even leaves his mouth, I and a thousand other fighters sprint at full speed. The wind quickly whips at my face and trunk, almost knocking me back.
The sounds of our heavy breathing and feet crunching the leaves fill the air as we all travel deeper into the forest, the sky-high trees are mere passing silhouettes.
I continue to run, refusing to acknowledge the dryness of my throat. Despite my rigorous training, I still fall behind these elite fighters. So, I push forward, determined.
Soon enough, everyone’s agility is tested when arrows are fired from all directions around us. The first few arrows fly above my head, but the next batch, as I hear them tearing through the air, are aimed at every part of my body.
I jump to the left as I hear the shooting of an arrow at my back, watching as it tears ahead, missing the target. Another arrow coming from my right has me ducking my head briefly as it flies just above my nape. The third arrow almost trips me as it comes flying from my right but at a level as low as my feet.
The sound of a distant grunt, indicating that someone got hit, makes me perk up. Soon enough, the sound of a gun going off marks the end for someone.
I gasp, pulling my shoulder away as an arrow comes flying at me from the front, narrowly missing my shoulder.
As soon as the rain of arrows stops, my foot makes contact with a metal object, realisation quickly kicks in, and I find myself doing a backflip before the animal trap clamps onto my ankle, grabbing air instead.
Wide-eyed and still breathless, I stare at the hungry jaws of the animal trap, with its sinister smile. I exhale sharply. It almost got me.
Now I’m forced to focus on my path, using my heightened vision to stare deep and beyond the camouflage of the grass and overlying leaves, and sure enough, the shine of the metal is unmistakable.
Once I’ve adapted my sight to spot all the animal traps, I pick up the pace, moving forward and deeper into the woods. The sound of someone screaming isn’t lost on me as another fighter falls, followed by at least five others.
As I take my next step, I notice I’m almost next because the second I want to lift my foot, I hear a click. I’ve stepped on a mine.
In a fraction of a second, I reach over my head for the tree bough, before securing myself and quickly pulling myself up, ignoring the bomb as it goes off. I climb further up the sky-high tree, before traveling between the boughs of tress, continuing to move forward.
What seems to be a dart strikes my side, and the burning quickly spreads up my body, making me hiss in pain as I snatch the dart from my body.
When I bring it out to inspect, I notice that it’s laden with wolfsbane. The stinging becomes merciless, and I close my eyes against the pain, willing myself to ignore it.
The next tree branch I swing myself onto, invites another dart, that narrowly misses my hand as I pull it away quickly. The next few miles pass by smoothly as I successfully avoid every dart, and I leave the landmine unscratched. At least, partly.
But the branched trees come to a stop and I’m forced to lower myself down onto clear ground. When I land on a bent knee, bracing myself on both my hands, I allow myself to survey my surrounding, which happens to be an eerily clear land, apart from the grass of course. I march slowly, but soon pick up a sprint when I hear the countdown.
"10.."
"9.."
"8.."
A silver spike comes flying by my right, almost nailing my shoulder. I know it is silver because the smell makes me sick.
"7.."
"6.."
I quicken my pace further, pushing myself to my metabolic limits.
"4.."
Something catches my ankle. When I realise it’s a tripwire, it’s already too late, because I’m not only falling onto my face, I land onto a bunch of leaves. The mattress of leaves grips my body, lifting me up and off the ground.
"2.."
As I’m staring through the net, I realise I’ve been caught by the good old net trap. I squirm and turn trying to free myself from the fibrous cage.
“Really?!” I growl.
The sirens go off, announcing the end of the games.
Distant laughter catches my ears, and I turn in time to see grandpa Laurence approaching me, applauding, “You did great, kiddo,”
I extent my claws and rip through the net, freeing myself, “I ALMOST won,”
“Yet you didn’t,” he sings, earning himself a glare.
I kick a nearby stone, “I was this close,” I bring my index and thumb together, “to the finish line,”
Grandpa puts his both hands inside his pockets, walking me back to his cottage, “There’s no such a thing as close. You can’t name the winner a second before he crosses the finish line completely,”
After fixing me what seems to be a royal supper, grandpa takes me back to our pack, a ride that’s a day or two away from the training grounds. My grandpa is the head of a rogue organisation, that he joined decades ago.
But because pack abandonment is strictly prohibited, he leads a double life as an ordinary pack member and a rogue. He’s been training me since youth, constantly repeating that he saw potential in me ever since I was born.
Talk about unadulterated faith.
My father, the Alpha of the Special Forces pack, knows nothing about this of course; not my grandpa’s clandestine province, and definitely not my involvement.
There’s a total of 6 major packs within the pack realm, each of which is responsible for maintaining not only harmony but also protection and sustenance between packs. Pack duties and beliefs are allocated by colours; that is, colour symbolisation determines pack categorisation.
Yellow, symbolising caution, is the colour of the Legislation Pack. The pack laying down pack doctrines and carrying out judicial matters. Every pack is under the law set by the Legislation Pack. Any pack member who violates or breaks the law is immediately shunned and sent to the Rehabilitation pack, with no promises of return.
White, symbolising purity and goodness, is the colour of the Rehabilitation Pack. Responsible for reinstating and -hopefully someday- reintegrating pack lawbreakers, the Rehabilitation Pack receives misbehaving wolves and locks them there. That pack is nothing but a huge prison. A shiver runs down my spine just thinking about it.
There are facilities for felons, delinquents and the mentally unstable wolves.
Blue, symbolising creativity and authentication, is the colour worn by the Innovation Pack, or what we, locals, like to refer to as the pack of geniuses. I’ve always admired this pack, as it uses technology, i.e. brains, and not power, i.e muscles, to lead. They developed most of the modern technology used by all the packs these days, and they continue to do so, diligently.
Red, symbolising strength and power, is the colour of the Construction Pack. The pack responsible for design, architecture and construction of every building, center and even open land within packs. If a pack needs to put up a building or even a home, consultation and aid is needed from this pack. Conveniently, the wolves in this pack are nothing short of Neanderthals; with all their tall statures and heavy built, one would easily mistake them for giants.
Green, symbolising growth, is the colour of the Valuation Pack. The pack of financers and bankers. Nothing but monetisation is exercised by this pack.
And finally, Black, symbolising formality and boldness, is our colour, the Special Forces pack. Unlike the rest of the packs, our job is the most challenging within the pack realm. We’re the guardians of the realm, against our eternal enemies, hunters.
When our species was close to extinction, the Pack Dogma, issued by the first council of Alphas, was established centuries ago.
The Pack Dogma instigated a movement that would allow wolves to not only survive but also fight back hunters, assigning each pack to an aspect of this mission.
The Legislation Pack lays down the rules and regulations on how to address hunters. The Innovation Pack is to utilize their boundless knowledge of technology to design and develop weapons that not only help us fight back, but also neutralize the enemy’s weapons. And finally, the pack of Special Forces, is to execute protection and counterattacks.
Every year, a considerable number of wolves is lost because of the hunters; yet, we remain steadfast in our retaliation. Where we regularly upgrade our efforts, the hunters seem to grow more conniving where wolves are concerned.
Where a wolf belongs, is annotated by eye colour, as each pack’s eyes sports the colour that symbolizes its pack. We, for instance, have pitch black eyes.
When we arrive at the pack the next day, I quickly head home, to find everyone awake and already having breakfast. My father is at the head of the breakfast table, with a map and a pencil in his hand. He and my brother are discussing land coverage for tonight’s watch.
Daily, members from our pack, are dispersed along the borders of the pack quarter, to guard the pack realm against hunters and rogues. I huff at the thought. If rogues had any intention of joining packs, they wouldn’t be rogues in the first place.
I shake my head at their ignorance; if only I could explain to them what rogues really are, and that they want nothing to do with pack members.
Every week, the plan is updated and land coverage is altered, in order to prevent the creation of a pattern.
When my grandpa enters the house, he’s reverently greeted by each member of the family. As he reaches my father’s side, he places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. But when he glimpses the plan, against both hunters and rogues, on my father’s table, he looks over at me, winking. I have to hide my smile into my cup. It’s our little secret.
In the afternoon, the list of names responsible for today’s watch is issued. My brother is not on the list, which means he would only be at the gates of our pack.
The list of surveyors and guardians holds names of wolves that are sent to all the other packs, to guard their borders. But since our pack is the one responsible for security and every member of this pack is trained that way, no heavy surveillance is needed as everyone here can not only fight back, but also catch hunters.
Besides, it has been almost 10 years since the last hunter attack, and I’m beginning to think hunters actually found real jobs. But still, ‘precaution is necessary’, as affirmed by the Legislation Pack.
That evening, when I take the short walk to our pack gate, I’m not surprised to find the three men, my father, my grandfather and my brother, lazily lying on recliners, stargazing and smoking cigars.
I shake my head at the rebellion, fighting a smile, as I hand each one of them a cup of coffee. They’re having a great time, laughing and joking, and I couldn’t help but join them, but I only stay for as long as my eyes allow. When a yawn forces me to yield, I leave them to their night, retreating to my bed.
After what feels like a few seconds of closing my eyes, I hear the sound of a bomb going off. But it’s not until the second bomb, which shakes the whole house, that I sit upright in alarm.
Then I hear the sound of screaming.
