#batch werewolves

A guffaw from Wrecker. “Ya should of said. We coulda done somethin’ to mark the occasion!”

From his perch on the top rack, Crosshair bit out a sardonic smile. “Don’t worry. Tech has done everything he can to sanitise the process.”

Tech sniffed, looking perturbed.

“Transference of the lycanthropic trait occurs when the bloodstream is contaminated with infected saliva,” he recited in a practiced cadence. “However, Echo does not need to be exposed to whatever other pathogens are lurking inside that filthy cavity you call a mouth.”

Wrecker bared his teeth in a grin, revealing canines that were just a little too long; a little too sharp.

“Woulda been more fun my way.”

 “It’s fine,” Echo assured them quickly, to avert an argument. “So, uh… how long ‘til it takes effect?”

Tech’s lips pursed in thought, pupils flickering as he ran calculations in his head.

“Hard to say,” he said at last. “The progress of the infection is typically dictated by the victim’s immune system, and not necessarily the virility of the donor.”

“I don’t like the way you said victim,” said Echo with a wry smile. He flexed his arm once more, before hooking the tip of his scomp into the crumpled sleeve around his bicep to pull it back down.

Tech shrugged.

“It would be incorrect to insinuate that this procedure is often undertaken consensually. Most people who undergo infection and transformation typically do so after being unwillingly bitten.”

“What about you four?” Echo asked, glancing around his new squad. “How did you all get…” He paused, searching for a word without negative connotations and coming up short. “How did you all end up like this?” he asked in the end.

He had seen their scars. Any one of them could have been the bite that infected each member of the Batch. Four werewolves, misunderstood and maligned, bonding to form their own fractious but inseparable pack.

Soon to be five.

He hadn’t expected the silence that met his question. Crosshair stared moodily from his bunk, sarcastic quips absent as his expression creased to something introspective. Tech was unusually silent, and even Wrecker’s enthusiastic glow dimmed a notch.

It was Hunter who spoke, lounged in a shadowed corner of his bunk, following every part of the exchange without looking.

“We were made this way,” he said, a short answer which didn’t invite expansion.

Echo pressed him anyway.

“What do you mean?”

He looked at each of them in turn, really looked. Taking in each of their different traits, from Crosshair’s rangy height to Wrecker’s bulk. Tech’s lightning-fast reflexes and Hunter’s preternatural awareness. With dawning realisation, he gestured at his elbow and the discarded syringe. “Made… like this?”

“After a fashion,” said Tech cryptically. “Individual strains of the lycanthropy genes were isolated. Although all share some common characteristics – enhanced strength, accelerated healing – they each carry unique mutations also. Hence, our differing characteristics and abilities.”

“So they injected you,” Echo clarified flatly. Another nod toward the syringe. “Like this.”

“No,” Crosshair drawled, the word placed with lazy nonchalance into the room. “We were treated in-vitro.”

For a moment Echo was stunned to silence, his worldview shifting to accommodate this new piece of information.

“In the tank,” Wrecker supplied helpfully, as though Echo’s delay in responding were due to an issue with comprehension.

“No, I… I get that,” he said faintly, glancing up at Wrecker’s broad, kind face. The big clone looked almost sympathetic, wearing a reassuring smile. “I didn’t know.”

“Awww.” Wrecker cuffed his shoulder affectionately, “we turned out alright! Least we didn’t have to go through a horrible first transformation like you will.”

At Echo’s alarmed expression, Tech swiftly stepped in.

“The first transformation is painful, yes,” he agreed carefully, holding Echo’s gaze as he talked. “But I have isolated an exceptionally pure strain of each of our saliva and combined them for an optimum outcome. Your body will be fighting neither extraneous additional infections, nor the typical trauma of a bite wound. I predict that the process will progress much more smoothly for you, than for standard documented cases of lycanthropic transformation following infection through the typical vector.”

“By ‘the typical vector’,” clarified Crosshair, “He means biting.” He also looked like he was enjoying this.

As if to demonstrate, Wrecker dived in and bit a heavy lovebite under Echo’s jaw, making him moan.

“See?” he said enthusiastically. “This is gonna be much more fun once we don’t have to worry ‘bout infectin’ you.”

“I concur,” said Tech with a small smile, glancing at Echo sidelong as he tried to hide his interest. “Once we no longer need to worry about any open wounds and accidental saliva-to-blood transmission–”

“Not to mention the swift healing of those wounds once we’ve made them,” added Crosshair with a devilish grin, showing his own canines.

“Agreed,” Tech concurred. “I for one look forward to welcoming you most fully into pack life.”

Their enthusiasm was sincere. Echo felt something warm and welcome tingle up his spine – something like coming home. Something like belonging.

“So, nothing to do now but wait?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but the thread of anticipation wound through his words nonetheless.

“Correct,” said Tech. “We shall monitor your vitals. I suggest you rest and remain hydrated. When your temperature starts to spike, we shall know the process has begun.”

Echo nodded.

“Cool,” was all he could think to say.

Crosshair vaulted down from his bunk in one fluid movement, throwing an inscrutable look at Echo as he stalked towards the door.

“C’mon, Wrecker,” he said, gesturing for the other to follow. “I’m hungry.”

“I too shall join you in the mess hall,” Tech announced, scooping up this discarded syringe and neatly packing it away. “I will oversee selection of some nutrient-dense foods to support Echo’s appetite and recovery during this demanding phase.”

Wordlessly, three sets of eyes turned to Hunter. He was still lost in the shadows of his bunk, wrapped in his usual mysterious air whilst his eyes glinted to show his attention.

“You go,” he said, his tone somewhere between permission and command. “I’ll keep an eye on Echo.”

As the other three traipsed off, the room settled to stifled silence, tension in the air so thick that Echo didn’t need a lycanthrope’s enhanced senses to detect it.

“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” he asked at last, resolutely watching the opposite wall. The weight of Hunter’s scrutiny would be too much to bear direct.

A low huff that might have been a laugh greeted him.

“I think it’s going to be hard,” came the uncompromising reply. “I think there’s going to be times you regret it.”

Echo stiffened, but before he could mistake the comment as criticism Hunter continued.

“I think you’re strong enough to make it.”

A breath Echo didn’t know he was holding was exhaled in relief.

Hunter’s low chuckle resonated through the space, before finally the squad leader rolled to sitting, leaning forward with interest.

“How’re you feeling?”

A shrug, and a wry laugh. “Underwhelmed,” Echo confessed.

For a moment there was nothing, only Hunter’s sharp brown gaze gleaming with unspoken intent.

Then, fast as thought, he lunged. A vice-like grip closed round Echo’s wrist, and before he could react his arm was yanked up, a familiar vibroknife flashing before his eyes. He barely had time to register the sting of the blade, dancing across the pad of his thumb, before a shallow cut welled blood and Hunter pressed the hand to his mouth in a demanding, devoted kiss.

Echo hadn’t yelled; simply froze in place, wide-eyed, hypnotised by Hunter’s dark, intense stare as he met Echo’s eyes and moved his mouth softly, deliberately, around the wound. He shuddered a little as the tip of a hot tongue tasted his blood, branding him.

The only point of contact between them was his hand in Hunter’s, and Hunter’s mouth on his skin. He might as well be frozen in carbonite. It was just as immovable, being pinned by the weight of Hunter’s gaze.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Hunter’s lips caressed his hand once in a hungry, sucking motion. Then he pulled back, cool air rushing in to the void where his heated mouth had been. He didn’t smile, but he looked undeniably satisfied.

With conscious effort, Echo remembered to breathe. Something in his core lit up alert, and if letting Tech inject him with their saliva hadn’t already shown his willing, this. This would have claimed him.

“Get some rest,” said Hunter, his rough gravel voice completely even, as though he hadn’t just had Echo at his mercy. “You’re going to need all your strength for this.”