#wolfswritingagain

At 17, a drunken Shay Patrick Cormac is dragged out of the gutter by his childhood friend, Liam O'Brien, and thrust into the fledgling Colonial Brotherhood to become an Assassin. At 19, on the heels of a mission failure that jeopardizes his place among the Assassins, Shay is nearly mauled to death by a wild animal in the woods. He falls into a coma, and wakes a month later to some- interesting developments. At 20, a year on the dot after the attack... Shay suffers a horrific transformation under the unforgiving light of a cold full moon. - Or, how would AC: Rogue change if Shay gets turned into a werewolf? Featuring: some romance, some angst, and a great helping of sass curtesy of one temperamental Templar Grandmaster.

“Hey man, what’s the hold up?? We been stuck here for 10 minutes or sumthin’-”

“Their truckie’s got a sentry up around that corner there, its been mowing us down before we can even take a shot at it–” Sniper wasn't looking at him, busy stuffing ammo in his pockets, but he sounded just as frustrated as Scout felt. At least he'd finally gotten some info he could work with, though! He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “I can deal with it–!" “No, wait, Scout!” Scout didn’t stick around to hear the end of what Snipes was shouting at him, he had a sentry to bust up and an Engie’s head to crack. He darted down the hall towards the last point, past Soldier rummaging through a health pack, under the arc of Demo’s stickies as he set up a trap– stirring up shouts and calls of alarm behind him. They could all take a breather if they needed it– he didn’t. He had a mission now, and he was gonna get rid of this one last stupid obstacle so they could all finally call it a day.

The rattling sounds of gunfire and explosive blasts got louder and louder, ringing in his ears to the pounding beat of his own measured breaths. Medic had followed Heavy and Pyro around to the other side to try and flank the BLUs, and Engie was up top in the rafters somewhere trying to get his own sentry up. He didn't care where Spy had gone- all that mattered was that the BLUs would be distracted. This was the perfect opportunity, and probably the only one they'd be getting. He paused only a second, long enough to flatten his back against the wall right at the edge of the hall and flick the barrels of his scattergun down to check the chamber. 

Fully loaded. Check.

He sucked in a breath and tried to keep his hands steady, the rush of adrenaline making it feel like his bones were jittering under his flesh. 

“Ya got this, ya absolute Legend. This’ll be a piece of cake.” No one was around to hear the promise, but that didn't matter.

Scout rounded the corner, and the whirr–beebeebeep of a sentry locking on pinged across his skull like spent cartridges from Heavy’s gun. He got a shot off, maybe- he thought he did– before a belt of bullets burned down his torso and sent him straight to Respawn. 

But that was okay. He had this. He knew where the stupid thing was now. He’d seen a flash of it there, lil lights blinking in the shadows behind a stairwell like a pair of evil beady eyes. Perfection had to be fine tuned, sometimes.

He ran around the corner again, dodging the hand Demo shot out to pull him back. He had this. Who cared how many times he got–

–Shot–

He’d just keep… Fuck.

–Burned–

Coming back… He was so close.

–Blown up– 

Again… He’d almost had it. Fuck, fuck!

–Shredded–

And Again… They’d moved the Sentry.

–Gunned down–

And Again… Fuck, it was fixed.

–Eviscerated–

And Again… Where was his team?

–Beheaded–

And Again…. He was doing this for them. So close, damn it!

–Gutted–

And Again… He’d get rid of that thing.

–Torn apart–

And Again… He’d show them. 

“Herr Scout, nothing leaves my office by my own accord. Your condition,” the Doc waved his pen in the vague direction of Scout’s neck dismissively, and he lifted a hand to palm at his throat, index and thumb brushing along the raised bumps that trailed down the sides of his neck. Like two train tracks, starting faintly right under the corner of each jaw and running about a third of the way down to his collar bones. Faded with time sure, but noticeable. Especially without his turtle neck. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and had to consciously bring his hand down, rubbing at his collar instead. “-Is safe. However many here have… Ah, how would you say it?”

Scout couldn’t provide an answer, so he let the Medic mumble to himself, pen tapping against his chin. “–A keen nose? Keen senses Perhaps? Doch, that will do. I do not foresee that you will have much success hiding from them for long, Junge.”

“...y’think so, huh?”

“Yes.” Scout winced at the man’s tone and flat expression, quickly looking away. As if the question was stupid, and the answer obvious- and Scout was just here wasting his time entirely. He kept his eyes down at the papery stuff that had been rolled over the examination chair, pinned at the head and feet. Absently he picked at it with a finger nail, a foot tapping rapidly in thin air as his legs hung off the side of the chair. Well…

“Nahhh.” He huffed, pulling his grin into something sharp as he met the Medic’s eye and held his gaze with his chin jutted out stubbornly. “I bet I’ll be able to keep ‘em guessing. I’ve been in dicier sitch’s than this Doc. I can run circles ‘round the best of ‘em.”

Medic snorted and laughed. The exact candace of it was a bit too maniacal for Scout, and he downright refused to wonder if he’d just made a horrible mistake. It put him on edge, especially as the man moved.

“Bets are pointless and a waste of time, Herr Scout.” Medic stood, towering over him and his perch on the exam chair in just a couple of steps. The stupid little round glasses perched precariously on his nose glinted in the harsh fluorescents overhead, and for a brief moment Scout was looking up at a looming shadow with creepy white eyes. It wasn’t hard to imagine the metaphorical jaws of a beartrap rising up around him and clamping down with a crisp snap, and he fought to swallow with a mouth gone suddenly dry. “But in this case, if I were a betting man, Junge, I would say that the odds are not in your favour.”

There was nothing quite as brutal as the first wicked crack of bone after a lengthy lapse in shifting. The soreness would linger, every joint stiffer, every breath aching. Shay would usually shake out his fur and stretch into a bow, waiting for the pain to ebb- but even then, it took a few hours of hunting before he was warmed up enough to feel truly settled again.

However, waking up in the midst of turning back was a close second on that list of unpleasantness. Getting dragged into consciousness as his ribs cracked and his spine straightened was disorienting enough - but never being able to tell where he was or who may be around to hear his strangled cries made it much worse. He was blind to his surroundings and trying to focus on his senses beyond the crunch of bone and the acrid copper of blood in his mouth was near-impossible. It was horrifying, as one so used to being hyper-aware, to be suddenly cut off from everything. Thankfully nothing had happened yet- but he’d had close calls. Waking too close to the farmer’s field, turning halfway through the forest as he tried to run back to the Morrigan- right by a supply camp. On one memorable occasion, having to wrangle his clothes back from a pack of raccoons after inadvertently picking a clearing too close to their den to stash his clothes the night before.

He dreaded the day he’d wake in a settlement, in a town- even New York itself, if he was truly cursed. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

And as some noise from the outside world started to trickle in past the sound of blood rushing through his temples - that cold dread washed over Shay all at once.

Someone was moving, too close, just out of sight. He thrashed and groaned, trying to call a warning- or maybe plea-

But then his hands tangled in fine sheets, and his shoulders snapped back into place with an almighty crack. His ears rang. Fingers worked in the fabric, a shadow of familiarity flashing across his mind. His chest worked slowly, wheezing every breath as he took in the comforting scent of parchment and pipesmoke.

It was disconcerting, he knew where he was and he definitely knew where he shouldn’t be. The discrepancy between the two boggled his mind and almost distracted him from the change until his knees popped. The white-hot flash of pain had him seeing stars, chest seized as he bit his tongue to try and strangle a sob.

It was only when a warm, calloused hand was placed over his forehead that he stilled, and forced out the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Haytham…” the whisper was unintentional, and he’d have room to be embarrassed at such an informal address later- but for now, he’d take whatever comfort he could.

He really shouldn’t be in the Grandmaster’s quarters and he had absolutely no idea how he’d even gotten there… but the hand on his forehead had moved to gently scratch at his scalp, and Shay was powerless to do anything but go limp under the touch.

“Shhh, dear one. It’s early yet. Sleep.”