Chapter Text
Ezra woke in fits and bursts rather than all at once when the wagon stopped around midday. Tristan was just waking, too, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.
The light coming in from the back of the wagon vanished as Saxon’s form appeared, expression hard to read. “Get the horses watered, then hook them back up. We’re only stopping so I can discuss some changes with the others, and then you’re driving the team until dark.” Tristan nodded, and Ezra rose so the soldier had enough room to move to the back of the wagon and hop out. Saxon eyed Ezra for a moment before jerking his head. “You know better than to run,” was all he said as Ezra jumped down with a grunt, shaking himself off.
There’s nowhere he’d be able to go, anyway.
After he relieved himself, he slipped back to where Saxon was standing with several other men in uniform by the side of one of the wagons. A few of the other wolves were nearby, too. Seven wasn’t there, but he still sat behind Saxon, keeping the sergeant in between him and them regardless. As much as the wolf part of him itched to interact, to form bonds with others like him….No. He didn’t want to upset the sergeant.
The reddish wolf he’d noticed that morning caught his eye, yawning widely. Ezra stiffened, unsure how to react. Red was clearly a halfbreed, just like Ezra, but so was Seven, and he’d still gotten in trouble if he didn’t react appropriately….
Saxon patted his leg. Ezra rose unsteadily, risking another glance back before following as the rest of the handlers dispersed with their wolves. Red watched him a moment longer before turning at a call.
Maybe he’d just been curious? Ezra hoped that was all it was, that it wasn’t a test just now that he’d failed. Hopefully, if he had failed, it wouldn’t be brought up by Seven or Saxon until they were done fighting. One thing at a time.
He gave up on that mentality when Saxon climbed up into the back of the wagon after him, a slight smirk forming as Ezra’s ears laced back. Tristan called to the team, and the wagon lurched forward seconds later.
Ezra kept his eyes trained on his handler, even as the man simply picked up the stack of papers Tristan had been reviewing earlier. He frowned at the one on the top before setting the others aside and smoothing it out. A flash of the sketch on it immediately told Ezra what it was.
“Tristan draw this of you?”
Ezra lowered his head, ears flattening even more.
“I asked you a question. Answer.”
Swallowing hard in an attempt to suppress the low whine threatening to bubble up his throat, Ezea nodded. Saxon smiled, reaching out to pet his head. It didn’t feel like the way Tristan had done it, nor how Seven had…but he couldn’t quite explain how it felt, beyond off.
“See, you weren’t hard run to answer that, hm?”
Ezra huffed, shifting so his head was just out of reach.
Saxon moved to the back of the wagon for a moment, drawing the cover at the rear end gate tighter before moving to put himself between Ezra and the jockey box at the front, blocking most of the light. “I have some questions that require a little more than yes or no, and we’ve got a good slipe to go still before dusk. Shift.” Ezra hesitated, only to catch Saxon’s gaze hardening. Swallowing, he gave in to the itching sensation beneath his skin.
After the unnerving crackling of reshaping bones subsided, Ezra was left unshucked and only a foot or so away from Saxon. Uneasy, he shifted, turning to the side slightly and pulling his knees to his chest.
“Amazing. You do heal quick as they say, then.” Ezra glanced up, only to see Saxon’s gaze mapping his side where the ugly bruise had been only the day before—and maybe beyond that. He didn’t want to consider that possibility.
“Have you ever been dirked before, Thirteen? By anything.”
“No, sir,” he answered, shaking his head quickly.
“A pity. They say the more you’ve been dirked by a bayonet before, the more you get used to it. Now, I can’t imagine that’s true, but I must admit that understanding what a pain feels like before you experience it often helps avoid failures on the battlefield.” He leaned forward, voice lower and gaze somehow darker as he grabbed Ezra’s knee, and said, “And I do not tolerate failures on the battlefield.”
He nodded in agreement after Saxon stared at him for a long moment. He just wanted this over. For once, he wanted to be permitted to shift back.
“How many other pureblooded werewolves are in the program, do you know?”
He blinked. “I don’t, sir.” Why was Saxon asking him this? He’d seemed to have an idea of what the halfbreeds’ training was like, and seemed to know more about what was going on than Ezra did, so why would he want to know about the pureblooded wolves?
The sergeant frowned, and Ezra moved back in anticipation of a blow. None came, however.
“Where does Isaac Jackson find the recruits for Operation Hunter? I know he’s not simply going around biting everyone himself.”
Ezra swallowed, gaze flicking between Saxon and the bed of the wagon. “I’m not sure, sir.”
“I think you are.” Saxon shifted forward, just enough to put Ezra’s senses on alert. “For example, where were you found?”
His mouth went dry. The deer, running along the ridge before turning, the way the rocks on the hillside had dug into his pelt….Teeth in his leg, a rope tightening around his neck, the smell of his own fear permeating the clearing until it was all he could smell.
A sharp pain. Ezra yelped, hand going up to hold the side of his jaw where Saxon’s backhand had hit home. He looked up at him warily, swallowing hard.
“I asked you a question, and you will answer me.”
“I– I’m not sure, I just know that I got lost…I was hunting, and I got lost, and they found me. Sir.”
The sergeant nodded, and Ezra shivered under the weight of his gaze. “Good boy. There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He didn’t answer, just listening for the next order.
“No more questions for now. You can shift back, if you’d like. I don’t particularly mind either way.” Saxon made a show of running his eyes along Ezra again, and he shuddered before shifting. Even still, Saxon continued to study him, and Ezra huffed softly before curling up tighter.
“You know, I had a pair of hunting dogs once as a boy. Not much older than Tristan is now. One was very clever. The other, he bit the ground after treeing a lion and then going up after it.” He smiled, nothing warm in the gesture. “And that clever one? Wouldn’t stop howling for two days, not till I went and put a lead plumb in his head.”
A chill settled over Ezra. He couldn’t stop the low whine creeping from the back of his throat.
“He became useless, and he was appropriately disposed of, regardless of how clever he’d been before. If a persuader’s broken beyond repair, there’s no point in keeping it around, is there?”
They weren’t discussing childhood pets anymore.
Saxon didn’t speak for a long while after, setting the papers aside before leaning back against one of the bows of the wagon and crossing his arms. He closed his eyes, but Ezra kept watching him, a nervous energy thrumming through him.
You could kill him now. He’s asleep, guard down. Then you and Tristan wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.
The thought shocked Ezra so much his head shot up, a shiver rippling through him. He eyed Saxon.
You could do it before he got his gun.
Maybe. Maybe not. But where would he and Tristan even go after that, assuming he succeeded?
All you’re good for is killing. That’s all you’ve been trained for. Take advantage of that, and do it. There’s no point in denying it anymore.
Ezra evaluated the distance from Saxon’s hand to his peacemaker, trying to figure out a vague sort of plan in case he did go through with it. Neither Kanan would want him back, nor Sabine, and especially not if he was a murderer. He’d just have to learn how to fend for himself like a real wolf, out in the wild, unless Tristan decided he wanted to make himself as conspicuous as possible by walking around with a pet wolf.
And that was assuming Tristan would even want anything to do with him if he did kill their commanding officer.
“I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through your head if need be.”
Ezra’s ears pricked up, senses on high alert as he looked at Saxon. The sergeant had one eye cracked open, staring at Ezra with a faint smile that was anything but comforting.
“This war gives you a purpose, halfbreed. Without Operation Hunter, you’d be begging on the streets—if you weren’t beaten all hollow by some hounds you looked at wrong. And that’s assuming someone didn’t shoot you for your pelt because they thought you were the one taking their sheep.”
Ezra let his gaze slide away, ears flattening. Saxon was right. He was useless. Except for the program.
Except for killing.