#eptask02.

SOLID  COLOR  COATS  ARE  RARE.  it’s  what  he’s  been  told  since  a  young  age,  the  only  white  wolf  he’s  known  was  himself---  and  he’d  known  many  wolves,  from  his  pack  and  other  packs  a  like.  the  solid  colors  were  revered  wanted  in  every  aspect.  they  were  always  stronger,  faster...  the  alpha  flowing  through  them  in  glorious  amounts.

WHITE  DEATH,  the  plague  of  supernaturals.  a  legend  among  them.  ruthless,  in  his  nature... in  ITS’  nature.  but  weapons  are  not  born,  they  are  made.  they  are  carved..  forged  through  blood,  sweat  and  tears.  lacking  of  tears  for  this  weapon,  for  weapons  do  not  weep.

tick. tick. tick. tick. neck cranes, head strikes the concrete wall behind his head. “shut up!” the alpha snarls toward the clock just outside his cell. tick. tick. tick. tick. that’s all he could hear, the ticking analog clock; the drip within pipes; slight hum of the shock collar around his neck. the silence was always deafening, always. calloused hands move, digits thread through blonde locks repeatedly until they come to rest over his ears. knees bend and tuck into his chest. once they’ve reached position, body curls into itself. the chestnut jumpsuit does nothing to protect him from the cold concrete ground of his cell. ears perk up, but head makes no movement, as key cards are swiped multiple times, electronic beeps; more irritation. footsteps echo down the hall, six legs, three men. nose picks up the scent of expensive three piece suit, filthy pig; this means something new was going to happen or already set in motion, never good for him.

his cell door slides open upon another prompting of yet another keycard swipe. raphael remains in his almost curled up position on the floor of his concrete prison. the path of two of the men ends at the doorframe, both the third continues in. eyesight can only see the fossil colored space between his legs. charcoal dress shoes come to stand in exactly that space, still fixated gaze remains. “good evening, white death,” dubbed name chops through the air, nearly makes him shudder. “It’s time for a session.” raphael doesn’t budge, perhaps not the wisest decision in this moment but he was exhausted. this marks five sessions today. he knows what’s coming next, as remote button is pressed. It takes all but a couple seconds for collar to respond to remote access. Shock is given throughout his body, he grunts. “white death, up.” body unfolds only than after given a direct order. this treatment was not rare for him; directions explained to react only when given a direct order. he rises to his feet now, eyelids fluttering before peeling back to reveal malachite hues which in time rise as well meeting ryan’s eyes. ryan morgan, the man in charge of the whole operation---- signed the papers for this very occupying infrastructure to be built. bottom line, nothing happened in this facility that wasn’t approved or authorized by him.

it’s not often that ryan came down from his position on the top floor of the facility, this was definitely not the normal session. and of course this is broadcasted to him; he knew it. “now tonight, is  a  very  special  session, white death, so I want you on your best behavior. Is that clear and understood?” raphael swallows the bile down in his throat, he knows partially what this means. there is no finding serenity, something always triggered him. not getting a response in the time, deemed appropriate there was another click of the button. the alpha cries out in pain; this time shocks last a little longer and before there is a chance for knees to buckle current flow halts. gentle panting just before rough hand is shoving weakened body against concrete, “answer when spoken to subject colt.” venom laced words are spat, followed by feeble ones from pinned form, “yes sir, crystal clear, I understand.”

“that’s a good boy.”

ryan pulls back. there is a breath of relief from raphael as the higher up turns towards open door, “follow, white death.” it is only then that he decides to move, falling into step with just behind the suited male. the guards file out first allowing rorgan to exit followed by white death. electric batons extend and they slip in tow just behind Raphael. he’s lead through the dark interior of the facilities lowest floor. on other days, his mind, sight and body are wandering down each corridor; not today (tonight?). his concept of time always construed, some days he never sees daylight, only the harmful artificial florescent lights. with ryan’s lead, with ryan’s presence, raphael’s obedience knows no bounds. despite on his best behavior starting since he left the cell, malachite hues scan--- aiden is nowhere in sight, lester is nowhere in sight, in fact it was eerily desolate. when they finally reach the interrogation room door, the werewolf is antsy.

ryan snaps and the two guards accompanying them lower their batons. his hand swipes the keycard to activate the door, which slides open. “remember white death, best behavior,” tone of the voice yet again nearly runs a shiver up raphael’s spine. the two guards, take both biceps and maneuver the asset into the interrogation room. the room contains: a metallic table bolted to the concrete floor because of an incident before where table was flipped in one of raphael’s fits, back when they were newly learning about him; they’ve learned better, a metallic chair to match said table unbolted.

there was a chair for him, the usual chair for the room. the guards move him over to the chair before shoving him into it. it was unnecessary, he thinks, but he’s learned better than to open his mouth. eyes cast to ryan as he steps into the room, door closing behind him. his arms move to the rests, palm up and he watches as his arms are strapped down  ;  and to his ankles.  silver  plating  over  them---  he  was  never  going  anywhere  strapped  to  that  chair.  ryan  stalks forward, eyeing raphael as the guards begin to attach the pads to his  skin. he settles into the chair, no use in fighting against it.  his eyelids flutter shut, coping in full swing. he imagines summer lake  :  imagines jumping into the lake from the swing. the storms that strike the surface of the water. the noises and smells all around him, thinks of a better time.