Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soap stared up at the old wood ceiling of his cabin, tapping his fingers on the bedsheet. He had been staring at the angled log ceiling since he woke up.

He took several deep breaths and counted slowly to ten for about the fifth time that hour. It didn’t help. His heart was still beating double-time, anxiety pooling in his stomach. The meeting wouldn’t be till late into the night, for fuck’s sake. Soap was dreading how long the day would take to slide by.

There was nothing for it, he thought, swinging his legs out of the bed with an explosive sigh.

He bustled around the small main room of the cabin, twitchy and restless. He paused at the window, toast hanging out of his mouth, before abandoning breakfast and deciding to check the temperature instead. He opened the door and leaned out onto the porch, careful to keep his bare feet on the plank floor and out of the snow. It was bloody freezing.

Early January in the Sierra Nevada might be considered mild for a mountain range, but the cold pine-scented air still flushed and bit at his cheeks before he could slam the door closed. Some snow got in the entryway, chasing behind him as he went to the bedroom, one of the two other rooms in the cabin.

He needed some warmer clothes, even if he was going to be shifted for most of the day. He could always feel the lack of layers, despite the insulated fur of his shifted form.

He changed quickly, stuffing food, rags, and gun oil to go into his beat-up old bag, plus some simple outdoor clothes he had liberated from the small charity shop in town. Supplies sorted for the perimeter check, he strapped a knife to his belt, then another one in his boot for good luck.

Habitually tapping the worn runes on the doorframe on the way out the cabin, Soap paused to push the rough wood door shut while breathing in the fresh air with a shiver. He dropped the bag onto the stoop before navigating the slippery steps. Once on the ground, snow crunching beneath his boots, Soap turned to face his crooked little wood cabin before stretching out.

The transformation swept through him with a familiar sweet ache, tendons twisting easily as Soap landed squarely on his paws. He stretched again with a yawn before shaking out his thick winter fur, skin prickling at the sensation.

He leaned carefully onto the porch with his tail swinging up behind him, grabbing the backpack carefully in his jaws. Soap then spun and trotted off into the underbrush, his cougar form well-adjusted to the terrain and ice.

Soap started east up the mountain, aiming to get the steepest part of the perimeter over by mid-morning. He let his mind wander while hopping up rock after rock, birdsong following the whole way.

He had tracks all over the territory, so well hidden in the thick underbrush or  rock that no human would easily be able to find or follow them. Soap followed the same old ledges and crags up the rough cliff face, now slippery with snow and ice. He would be surprised if even the most agile or trained human could follow; many of the paths required an animal dexterity and leap, especially when they were slick with snow.

The immense valley down was lined with snow-capped trees and ridges before evening out into a large uneven slope. The houses below looked like pinpricks in the snow, the town stretching out far below him.

After hours of hard climbing, breath steaming in the air around the bag, Soap finally cleared the rocky terrain. The pine forest was thick there, snow firm on the ground with clods of earth and rock peeking through. Small animals skittered away as he passed, mice diving underground and the occasional rabbit bolting.

He followed the switchbacks, legs burning, till the pine canopy finally eased into the cold blue sky of the open alpine meadows. Soap often thought forlornly of the summer, when the fields were thick with wildflowers, almost unbelievable compared to the current endless sheets of snow.

With a huff, Soap heaved himself up and shook off before setting into a canter east, running along the inside of the treeline.

Soap generally tried not to be too conspicuous, so though he was sick of dodging twisted pine roots, he resisted the temptation of rolling through the exposed clean snow. He was careful as a rule - even a human hunter had a slight chance of slipping through his security and wandering up here. They would jump at the chance to take down a cougar, especially one of his size. Soap did not want to be on the wrong end of that stick, and that was only considering hunters who didn't know what he truly was.

At that altitude, the river that swept down the edge of his territory was a small burbling stream. It only widened out further down, past where the collection of meadow streams turned into a charging tight river, scoring deep into the mountain.

By the time he reached the water, Soap’s throat was bone dry. He stuck his head in, numbing his nose in the freezing mountain runoff. He then sat back on his haunches and tried to shake the cold out of his snout, unsuccessfully.

The mountains had become Soaps home in recent years. The quiet solitude he found in the vast wild slopes had been everything he needed. It was only complicated by Graves, and his incessant demands. Soap knew exactly how to handle the man, but he didn’t find it any less exhausting. The thought of the meeting later that evening had been wearing on him for days.

It was around midday, the sun bright through the trees. He was near the eastern boundary; he could continue to climb up, but going further would take too long to return as the terrain became dangerously rough, taking some effort from Soap even in his cougar form. He tended to cut off any patrols at the meadows, as no one ever made it up there before he realised they were in his territory.

He kept supplies all over his territory, up trees or hidden in any crack, crevice, or strategic hole he could find. It was insurance, and though Soap felt like a paranoid bastard every time he ran the patrols to check the supplies, he knew he would thank himself for it when trouble eventually found him. If the way he had to leave Scotland taught him anything, it was that you’re never safe, even at home. Especially at home.

He had only managed to stay hidden for all those years because of his never-ending sense of creeping paranoia, and there was no way Soap was going to stop now. The place was too good for Soap to let any kind of rookie mistake force him along.

Soap shifted quickly, tendons snapping a little. The rapid changes left a slight taste of blood and burning at the back of his throat. Soap didn’t find it that strenuous to change so often, experiencing only mild side effects. It always made his muscles a bit crampy, like he needed a long massage to work out all the knots. Though all his muscles would be nicely tenderised later, he though with a uneasy but amused snort, blood quickening with anxiety.

The first cache was in the hollow of a tree. It contained a handgun and a clip of ammo, a pair of old boots, a few energy bars, a set of worn clothes and finally a small wad of cash in a baggie. Everything was stuffed into a bin-bag lined duffel. The gun and ammo had a slightly kinder treatment, stashed in a small waterproof case to stave off the worst of the elements.

He let muscle memory take over, finding the movements meditative as he started with the gun and checked over the ammo clip. After it was thoroughly cleaned, he put everything back and zipped the bag up, careful to avoid snagging the liner. It would be a pain if everything had a month to get damp before his next check.

Once it was secure in the tree hollow and successfully re-disguised with some creative snow placement, Soap shifted again.
He had several caches to check along the edge of his territory, and he wouldn’t have time to visit Dunk’s if he wasn’t fast. He needed a stiff drink to fortify himself before the main event.

It was with some relief that sun began streaking through the trees just as he was finishing up with the last cache, a small wooden chest lodged in the deep roots of an eroded tree. It was his favourite storage location, the small runes he had carved in the wood some of his best work. When Soap finally made it to his truck, the light had dropped into a deep winter twilight, the evening sun leaving with any warmth that might have been in the air.

The truck was hidden at the end of a small track that led a little way into his territory, originally made as a drive for a long-gone cabin. It worked well enough to bring supplies in and out of his workshop, which was set up a lot closer to the car than his main cabin.
He pulled the camo netting away with a flourish, unveiling his beat-up orange truck in the dim light. It had several dings and scrapes, with the paint peeling and rusting in places. A racoon jumped out of the truck bed while he was rounding the car, causing him to jump a foot in the air at the flash of movement.

His beloved truck looked rusty as all hell. Still, it was well cared for and the engine purred to life smoothly when he turned the key.

                                        =============================

Soap toyed with his glass, swirling amber liquid around.

The usually lively bar was uncharacteristically quiet. A jukebox played softly in the back, gracing Soap’s ears with a crackly, slightly distorted version of Billy Joel. A few other patrons milled around, clustered at the pool table, laughing quietly.
The full moon, Grave’s preferred choice for a meeting, had fallen on a Monday. The full moon didn’t even affect shifters. The guy was just a pretentious arsehole, and chronically melodramatic to boot.

Duncan had gone all out, lighting a fire in the small wood-stove opposite the bar that crackled merrily away. It was a comfortable place to stew in his thoughts. Warm and cozy after a day in the alpine snow, with the light smell of cider and beer permeating the softly lit floor.

The tables and stools were all handmade. The space shone with care, artful rugs strewn about the place. It was probably the best dive bar Soap had frequented, and bizarrely cheap to boot. As a result, ‘Duck’s’ was the town hotspot, if Altama was big enough to be called a town.

Duncan was behind the bar, messing around with the taps. On a first impression, he looked like he should be robbing the bar rather than running it. He was slightly withered with age but still towering, suggesting he had been fierce in his prime.
The man was ageless, somewhere between forty and a hundred, with a lined face and a halo of white hair. He was also covered in tattoos and had a leather jacket on, covered in silver spikes, with nothing underneath. The jacket was cropped. It was more of Duncan than Soap ever wanted to see in a lifetime, and left the man looking like he had robbed some fashion-forward kid before coming into work.

The man finally finished with the taps, throwing the towel he had been using to polish them over his shoulder. He headed cautiously in Soap’s direction.

“That time of the month again, son?” he asked, gentle.

The artsy clock on the wall ticked away, steel hands flicking over each driftwood stick on the face. Soap wasn’t sure if it should count as a clock, seeing as no one but Duncan could read it.
The soft sounds of the bar couldn’t distract Soap from the 'tick-tick-tick'. The seconds before the meeting were slowly draining away, cold dread creeping up through Soap’s stomach.
Thinking about it made Soap’s hands wobble with fine tremors. He gripped the glass more tightly.

“D’ye have tae make it sound so weird, auld man?”

Duncan took it as permission to come closer, stopping in front of soap and leaning onto the bar, grabbing a tumbler and using the rag on his shoulder to idly polish it as he seemingly collected his thoughts.

Soap continued to stare into his own glass, twisting it between his hands for a few seconds more. Duncan had been there for a life-time before Soap even arrived in Altama. He was a pillar of the bloody community, and saw it as his business to stick his nose into Soaps life. It was the only place in town to get a drink though, so Soap had no choice but to put up with it.

“Ya know…” Duncan responded slowly, ignoring Soap’s question entirely.

“Ya don’t gotta do this again. We could work somethin’ else out, maybe bring in someone- “

“Och, aye.” Soap interrupted, placing his glass down on the bar with a dull thunk.

He was loud enough that the patrons playing pool quieted, glancing over with concerned whispers. Soap took a breath, trying to tame the rising emotions. He clenched his jaw hard. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. The conversations in the back of the bar slowly started up again.

“An’ have them runnin’ around town? I cannae back oot o’ this, ye ken.”

Duncan stayed silent.

Soap could feel the judgement along with the slow squeaks of a glass being painstakingly sanded down by Duncan’s polishing.
He was possibly the biggest arse Soap had met. He also had the uncanny ability to make Soap’s defences crumble alarmingly quickly, and Soap couldn’t even meet the bastards’ eyes as he did it.
He cracked, letting his thoughts flow out.

"Ah dinnae want tae talk about it. There's nothin’ we can change, an’ there’s nae point in discussin’ it.”

The squeaking of the glass paused for a second before resuming.

“Okay, Soap.” Duncan said, sounding tired. “Okay.”

After a while of sitting in calm silence, Duncan began bustling around the bar. He started sliding progressively fuller glasses of scotch down the counter whenever Soap ran out. He was immensely grateful.

Soap’s tolerance was higher than the average human male, a perk of increased metabolism, but half a bottle of scotch was enough to give him more than a buzz. It would mostly be burnt off by the time he got to the clearing, but this was a routine that Soap couldn’t do without.

It helped calm him, and without it he didn’t think he’d be able to muster enough strength to see Grave’s smug face every month.

“Y’know kid, I can hardly make heads or tails of what you’re sayin’ when yer emotions’re all riled up." Duncan eventually noted with some amusement, a new glass sliding to a stop in front of Soap.

"Hah!" Soap barked out a strangled laugh, caught off guard for a moment. He raised his glass pointedly, knowing Duncan was full of shite. The man could understand him perfectly.
"Haud yer wheesht, ye auld man. " He announced, downing the drink in one. The smile soon faded from his face as he caught sight of the clock on the wall.

"Shite, ah need tae go, Duncan." Soap said, goodwill leaving him.

He had been delaying long enough. The tension reignited in his shoulders, head dropping slightly. Duncan staying silent across the bar.
Soap stood, chair clattering back, taking a final sharp breath before throwing some notes on the bar and stalking for the door.

"Ya know ya drink for free, ‘specially tonight, Soap." Duncan called quietly, voice spilling across the space. Soap paused half out the entrance, tense and quiet.

He let the door swing shut behind him.

                                      =========================

Soap drove over the low mountain pass in silence, wheels eating up the tarmac. Soon the lush mountain turned rapidly to scrubby desert, illuminated orange-white in his headlights.
The mountain face to the west collected the rain and weather systems from the Pacific to create a lush alpine ecosystem. This side was a different story; the mountains blocked the clouds from passing over, leaving a rain shadow at the eastern base that was dusty and bleak. Nothing really grew there, and anything that did didn’t survive for long.
This was where Graves’ pack made its home.

Their town was dwarfed by the mountains, collecting little sunlight and generally acting as an unmemorable shit-hole just off the highway route.
The shadow wolves ran it quietly, the odd pack member in the tiny police department or coroner’s office keeping them above the law and free to do as they pleased. Fear motivated the rest of the town to keep their mouths shut and heads down.

After leaving the highway to drive through town, Soap continued past the dilapidated buildings into the desert proper. Eventually, he pulled the truck up a little way off the track, concealing it in a sharp bend between two small sandy mounds.

He took out a light desert camo from under the passenger seat, throwing it out over his truck in a familiar motion before starting the walk to the meeting site. Soap used the light of the stars to avoid stubbing a toe. They were spectacular, shining so brightly he could make out nearly every stone and pebble in the muted blue-black light.

When Soap arrived at the clearing, he hesitated at the edge. Here the small knolls and hillocks evened out, the sparse and blackened trees thinning to nothing in a large open area. It had little in it, save for two burnt out oil drums and a low makeshift bench made of planks and cinderblocks. The area was covered in cigarette butts and muddied litter, a small pile of twisted twigs and logs by one of the drums.

A coyote sat at the edge of the clearing on the other side, watching him with sharp gleaming eyes. They had something in their expression; not quite the hunger of starvation, but some eery echo. It gave Soap the heebie-jeebies.

A few other coyotes and some raggedy wolves kicked up the dust with skittering steps, some fighting amongst themselves and one wolf with a lolling red tongue boldly running close, lunging at his face before pulling away with a yipping cackle when Soap brought his arms up in reflex.

They were all male with surprisingly muscular physiques, though they lacked any healthy fat. It left them lean and gaunt. Their animal forms, like many shifters, were far larger than any of their true equivalents. The canids were double, some triple the size of natural wolves or coyotes.

They were getting riled up, more turning to leer at Soap and scent the air like sharks on a hunt. The very few in human form began whispering among themselves, pushing and shoving while baring flat yellow teeth.

Soap gritted his own, head down and not making eye contact, edging into the shadows. He just needed to get the job done and get out without attracting unnecessary attention.
It would be easier if the man himself was there. For someone who demanded punctuality, Graves sure seemed to like making late dramatic entrances.

Graves was a man who appreciated timeliness.

It was a lesson Soap learnt the hard way, like all the others. Graves appreciated a put together appearance. Graves appreciated effort in a meeting. Graves expected his best performance. Soap expected he would bury his fist in the man’s face if he could get away with it, but unfortunately logic always won out. It wasn’t himself the repercussions would fall on.

Soap could see his bloodstains on the ground. They hadn’t bothered cleaning it up from last time. Anyone who wandered out far out enough to see them without an invite would never made it back.

The other shifters mostly left him alone till Graves showed, despite the tension in the air. A few loped close to him before veering off, more and more yips and wails filling the freezing dark sky as time went on. It couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes, but it left Soap tense and wound tight as he stood near the brush, twitching at shadows.

Graves didn’t even look his way when he turned up. He sat on the planks with the other men he arrived with, talking amongst themselves.
One high ranking lackey with tattoos up his neck left the bench to pull a bloody slap of dark meat from a plastic bag. He threw it to the ground, uncaring of the filth on the floor. The circling dogs covering it in seconds, tearing out bloody chunks, snapping and scratching at each other for a portion. There wasn’t nearly enough.

Soap watched, feeling vaguely ill. Graves himself had also turned away, still talking with his top shifters. From experience, Soap knew it would be a long wait.

Graves smoked a cigarette, the stars above him blurring as he blew out smoke, the end bright cherry red in the dark. Once he finished it, Graves lit another as he talked. Then another.

It was the only light in the clearing, the small orange speck throwing Soaps night vision till dark crowded the edge of his sight, suggestions of shadows dodging through the brush around him.

When the fourth cigarette had burned to his fingers, ash falling onto his hand, Graves threw it to the ground without stamping it out. He turned to face Soap for the first time that night.
Soap could feel Grave’s intense stare as he resolutely watched the ground, the scuffling around the clearing slowly dying down to silence.

“Well, Soap? Get over here. We haven’t got all night” Graves called out, a wave of taunting yips ringing through the clearing.

Soap began walking. He didn’t look up, watching his shoes scuff the ground.

“Too slow.” Graves drawled out lowly.

Dogs rushed Soap from behind, headbutting and shoving him till he overbalanced and landed on his ass. They snapped at his face, his hands, as he tried to stand. A coyote bit down on his shirt and used it to drag him, the gnashing teeth leaving fine cuts on the skin of his belly and forearm as he scrabbled at the dirt.

He was ungracefully deposited in front of Graves, who looked down on him from his seated position on the bench with assessing eyes.

“Hey Phil. Like what ye’ve done with the place.” Soap said sarcastically.

Snarls erupted from behind him as a dinner-plate sized paw slammed into the side of his head, smashing Soap into the ground. He sat up after a dazed second, using his hands to push off the ground, brushing off clumps of dirt stuck to the bloody grazes on his cheek.

“Aw, kitten. I though we had finally trained those bad manners out of you.”

Graves grabs his hair, tearing Soaps head back as the man looks over his bruising face.

“Nae a chance o’ that.” Soap snipes back, teeth flashing.

Graves just smirked at him, before letting go. Soap dropped backwards, unbalanced as the dogs around him lurch to action.

“Hold him down!”

“Get his legs-“

“Just bite him.”

The voices rose, the sound sharp and wild as it spilled from the wolves’ mouths. At least the coyotes had manners; they didn’t speak in their animal forms, just watching as they growled and jostled. Soap went limp as he was pinned down, shifters in their human form at his arms, the teeth of a wolf tight around one of his ankles. If he thrashed too much, it would shred muscle and tendon to the bone.

Shifters generally had good healing, varying from individual to individual. However, it wasn’t a magical cure all. Most injury was unlikely be permanent, but extensive damage to delicate parts would still take agonizing time to heal. If that coyote bit down, Soap likely wouldn’t walk properly again for months.
As he’s thinking it, the shifter shook his ankle a little for emphasis as Graves stood, gracefully stalking towards him while throwing out an offhand order for one of the men to light the fire. The night had begun.

Graves started without a word, placing his foot onto Soap’s ribs, heel over his sternum. He lets it sit for a second before incrementally increasing the pressure, till the rubber sole was grinding into Soap with what felt like Grave’s full bodyweight. His breath went high and wheezy, whistling in his lungs till he didn’t have the strength to draw in any more air.

Graves suddenly stepped off, waiting till Soap filled his lungs with a ragged sucking breath before grinding down harshly again. He repeated the cycle over and over, pressure on and off, on and off, till soap’s vision sparked and blurred and it felt like Graves had ground the meat clean off his ribs with the heel of his boot.

Graves stepped back and kicked him with a sudden jolt before stalking around to Soap’s other side, the bright pain temporarily making Soap white out. It felt like the bastard had cracked a rib. Soap blinked through the pain, head lolling through ragged coughs as he tried to follow Grave’s movement.

He never left permanent damage, as per their agreement, just enough that that Soap still had some bruising by the time the next month rolled around. Still, even low-damage torture could be brutal. Graves had perfected the art, spending hours slowly drawing Soap out till he couldn’t think past the pain, and then some. Turns out the man had a creative streak.

Graves pulled a knife out of his boot.

“Now, now. Be a good felid and don’t struggle.”

Soap stopped squirming, lying tense and still as Graves traced the knife down his chest. He toyed the sharp point against the edge of Soap’s shirt, before cutting up his belly in a smooth motion so that the cloth fell open on either side of his chest.

He continued to run the knife up and down Soaps’ torso, trailing tiny red scores onto his skin as the knife bumped over old scars.

It didn’t hurt, just a light buzzing sting that was barely noticeable. The night was so cold that he was almost numb to the sensation. Graves continued, cutting tiny straight lines moving methodically up his belly and then the lines of his ribs. The stinging intensified with every small scrape added, Graves cutting slightly deeper until the skin split enough for fine droplets of blood to seep through on each swipe. The cuts would heal in a day, not even close to hitting fat or muscle, the effect the same as a light graze.

Graves didn’t let up, adding more and more lines. The fizzing stings grew into an unbearable throb, the growing intensity of the open wound leaving soap panting.
Graves began crisscrossing, precise as a surgeon. Soap lost himself in the sensation, finally snapping into dissociation when he glanced down to see his belly, a cold slick mess of blood gleaming in the firelight.

The meetings were a clash of wills, Graves doing everything in his power to break Soap down.

It had started when Soap moved into town. He had been a mess, barely half a man and still grieving, but Graves hadn’t seen it that way. Soap was strong, a fierce fighter in both forms and ex-military to boot. Graves knew Soap couldn’t take down the shadow pack alone, but he would be able to tear a decent chunk in them before he was put down. Soap also had the backing of Altama, whose total firearm collection left Soap with a bit of a headache. Bloody Americans.

He had struck a deal with Soap – the shadow wolves would steer clear of the humans in Altama, and in return Soap wouldn’t claim any shadow pack lives, so long as both parties respected the territory borders. Soap knew they would turn Altama into a slaughterhouse if he tried anything. Even with the towns’ firepower, in an outright fight there was no scenario where everyone walked away.

He had tried to skip town to keep the people safe once he realised the wolves intentions, but Graves had already hooked onto him with a wicked fascination. If he left, Graves had told him, the wolves would just have to take out their natural instincts on some other prey. After all, they couldn’t control their bloodlust.

It had left Soap stuck through with guilt - he knew for a fact the shadow wolves hadn’t even thought of approaching Altama till Soap turned up.

The result was a nonviolence pact, so long as Soap offered himself up for a single night every month for Graves and his pack to have their fun. They walked a fine line, with Graves pushing him as far as he could within the terms of their agreement until either dawn broke or Soap fought viciously back.

Soap knew it wouldn’t protect the humans in the shadow pack’s own town, but he had already stretched the bargain as far as it would go. He hoped he could at least dull the edge of their bloodlust, though he didn’t really believe it.

“So strong, for a feline. If only you had been born a true shifter, you would be a perfect addition to my pack. You would have made an exceptional wolf.”

Soap managed to roll his eyes between his ragged heaving breaths, eliciting an angry hiss and a sharp line of pain across his belly. It was a psychological bid for control; Graves would have been halfway to gutting him if he had sliced with serious intent. Soap snarled up at him suddenly, watching Graves flinch.

He responded by squarely punching Soap in the face, fist landing on his cheekbone.

It didn’t stop. Graves kept up a barrage of punches, barely pulling them at the last second to reduce the impact. He aimed for sensitive spots, around the throat and on the bruises and mess of his belly. Soap grunted with each blow, gasping into the cold air.

Eventually Graves pulled away, panting.

By the time Soap mustered the strength to lift his head, the predawn light had cleared the shadows from the clearing. The pack was gone.

Graves sat back on the plank bench, knuckles and hands coated with blood. He smeared some onto his boot as he put the knife away. With some satisfaction, Soap realized it would probably stain the impeccable cream-stitched leather.

“You did well tonight, kitty.” Graves spat through a manic smile.

Soap wobbled to his feet, the ground lurching below him. He flipped Graves off before turning without a word, disappearing into the underbrush.

Every step was agony.

Chapter Text

The walk back to his truck was painful and slow. Cold sweat beaded his brow, a static whine piercing his ears as he struggled to get the cover off. Extending his arms too far tugged at the mess of his stomach.

He sat in the driver’s seat collecting himself, head bowed onto his hands at the wheel, letting the cool, dark cabin comfort him.
Graves was getting worse. Each visit seemed to stretch Soap further than the last, the dread building up earlier and stronger, and wounds taking longer to fade.
He still had bruises from the last month, light and nearly gone, but still there. It spoke to Graves’ dedication, overcoming a shifter’s advanced healing.

The rattle of the truck made him jolt and hiss as he started it up, each bump on the road sending waves of pain throughout his body.
By the time he pulled up haphazardly at Duck’s, he couldn’t say how long he had been driving. He had pulled over a few times when his vision started periodically swimming.

The lights were dark, though Soap knew the backdoor would be open. It always was.

Stumbling from the truck, he left the door hanging open behind him as he staggered forward to hit the bar wall. Soap used it to steady himself as he walked, the hardwood standing strong against his shaking frame.

He got to the back door, slamming his fist against it twice. It left a smear of blood, illuminated by the weak orange light coming from the transom window.

He tumbled forward when Duncan opened it, legs finally giving out. Duncan caught him in strong arms, swearing as he heaved Soap up.
Soap heard him muttering thunderously, distantly yelling for someone as he pulled Soap through the hall, walls opening up around the bright tiled back room.

The light hurt his eyes and he tried to shy away, though weakened as he was, Soap didn’t stand a chance as he was hauled onto a sofa shoved in the corner, already waiting with a familiar plastic covering.

At least he wouldn’t feel bad about adding more bloodstains in the morning. Duncan was shouting again. Soap’s arm flopped over his face, trying to block out the sounds and the light, as the swearing intensified.

When his arm was pulled away, a wizened old face greeted him.

“Hello Ada.” Soap mumbled, greeting almost lost through his rasping voice.

He didn’t think Ada heard him anyway, bulldozing over him with the litany of profanities leaving her mouth. So that was where it had been coming from.
She was sat on a three-legged wooden stool, a briefcase-sized first aid box perched on another next to her.

She uncapped the bottle of rubbing alcohol with a snap, the sharp scent flaring into the air, beady eyes glaring with anger as her face smeared in Soap’s fuzzy vision. She promptly poured it onto Soap’s stomach.

Soap passed out before he could let out an outraged scream.

=====================

When Soap woke in the morning, everything hurt. He sat for a moment, soaking in the pain and the cool refreshing chill from the ice pack resting on his forehead. The clear plastic cover over the faded floral sofa crinkled as he looked around.

Weak light was filtering into the room from the window above his head. Duck’s was laid out strangely; a corridor ran from the bar to the other end of the building, opening into the small room Soap was in at the middle.

The bedroom and storeroom branched off there. The back rooms served as Duncan’s living and work space; the brown tiled room a combined kitchen, mudroom and living room.
The space had an industrial sized ceramic sink on one wall, crowded with shelves and cupboards overflowing with pots. Hung underneath each was a veritable bush of strung-up herbs and veg.

A small coffee table sat in the middle of the room, watery pre-dawn light flooding in through tall, frosted windows behind Soap.
By all means, it should be ramshackle and disorganised. Duncan had somehow managed to turn it into a homely, endearing space instead.

It reminded Soap fondly of his own tight cabin. Well-loved and dutifully cared for with a messy but organised optimism.

A pot of herb-infused porridge steamed gently on the stove, still warm. The sweet smell filled the room and almost covered up the sharp lingering medical scents.
Despite her cold demeanour, Ada had a propensity for quiet mother-henning.

Soap had a habit of sneaking off in the early hours after being patched up. Ada and Duncan had stopped arguing with him about it, and apparently had decided to work around him instead.
It left him vaguely miffed; the whole point was that he wanted to be out of their hair as soon as possible, already chafing at having to intrude monthly for treatment.

Soap thought of Ada; the ancient old lady always seemed to get her way. She was a respected elder in town, with a personal agenda of keeping Soap alive.
She had been a skilled nurse at some point in her long life, and saw it appropriate to use her skills to terrorise Soap.

They seemed to think they owed Soap, as prominent members of the community, due to his deal with Graves that literally kept the wolves at bay. Before Soap, the Graves pack had caused endless trouble for all the townsfolk. Altama was far outside their territory, but they still seemed to get their kicks terrorising the folk that lived there.

Resentment towards shifters had been at an all-time high. Like Soap always said, it was self-preservation that led him to Graves territory each month.
He couldn’t live in peace if the grocers barred him from the local shops due to the shadow packs reputation. To the humans, a shifter was a shifter. They didn’t have a good grasp on the minute details of shifter politics.

There was a glass of water on the coffee table, next to a blister pack of pills. Soap sat up carefully with a groan, swinging his feet to the chilly tiles and bundling up the blanket that had been thrown over him.

Stripped down to his boxers, he had been bandaged and stitched up his legs and torso. There were dried bloodstains on the hem of the material.

He gulped down the water gratefully, chasing down a few pills, before tottering to the stove with the blanket like a cape around him. He ate the cooling porridge straight out the pan with starving efficiency, before moving to dump it in the sink.
He dropped the pan, hissing, as his arm seized. The tendon must have bruised. Soap grabbed at the sink edge with a trembling breath.

“Just leave it, Soap. You should be resting.”

Soap whirled around with a jump, turning to see Duncan in the doorway with a frown on his face. It was hard to take Duncan’s chiding seriously when he was dressed in bright pink plaid pyjamas with a worn orange printed top, cropped scandalously high.

He looked tired, Soap thought with some guilt.

“Sorry, ah dinnae mean to wake ye,” Soap said quietly.
His accent always got thicker when he was in pain, though for once Duncan didn’t take the piss out of him for it.

“Shut it and sit down. I’ll sort the damn pot.”

Soap shuffled back to the sofa, sitting gingerly and his stomach twinged with the movement. Duncan took up at the sink, back to Soap and scrubbing the pot viciously.

“Soap, you’ve gotta be more careful.” Duncan’s voice lowered. “This is goin’ too far.”

He had been trying to avoid thinking about the damage from the previous night. Most of his injuries were hidden beneath the bandages - his stomach, arms, and legs wrapped tight over every bite, bruise, and cut.

He was right, but Soap wasn’t in a position to bargain. They both knew it.

Pain was starting to crowd Soap again, fogging the edges of his mind worse than the pills. The second day was always worse; he knew he looked like hell, bruises swollen and red with barely an untouched patch of skin.

“Ah ken, Dunk.” Soap sighed. “Next time I’ll put up more of a fight. Or somethin’.”
Soap stared down at the table. The wood was worn and pockmarked, watering stains on the varnish.

“Soap-, “ Duncan started, back still turned to him. He seemed to decide on something, shoulders setting as he turned.

“If we’re talking about this, there’s somethin’ else you should know.”

Duncan had the general air of someone with bad news, and he was struck with the sinking feeling that his day was about to get worse.

“A few days back, some guys came in. They seemed polite enough, but they looked dangerous an’ big, like. Me n’ some of the guys were talkin’, said they looked like shifters, had the bearing of them-“

Soap gripped the blanket tightly where it was pooling in his lap.

Some hid it better than others, but generally a lot of shifters had an unusual grace that was easy to spot once you knew what to look for.
The wilder ones especially seemed to forget the little things that made humans human, faces a tad too sharp and occasionally speaking like they had to curl the words around their mouths.

“Didn’t cause trouble or nothin’. Said they were gettin’ to know the town.” He paused.

“They’re movin’ into the Adelaide place soon.”

Duncan’s voice got quieter as he spoke, though no less tense. He contemplated Soap, looking him over.

That was bad news.

The property’s land bordered Soaps territory, though thankfully the two were split by the river Brazos that flowed down from the mountains.

The Adelaide property hadn’t been occupied for years, after the owners relocated permanently to New York. Larger and more modern than Soap’s rustic cabin, it was a modern sprawl of room after room and sat on significant acreage.

“I was thinkin’-” The moment Duncan hesitated, Soap knew what was going to come next. The argument was familiar and worn thin.

“If they’re movin’ in…” He paused. “Maybe they’d help with Graves’ lot.”

“Nae, Duncan.” Soap interrupted, before he could get any further.

“Ah am a pack o’ one, accordin’ tae our laws. Graves has a deal wi’ me, an me only. No shifter pack would want to get in the middle of that, ‘specially with Graves reputation.” Soap explained.

He started to worry at the fabric of the blanket as he spoke. It looked hand-woven, thick fibres dyed a light green.

“They might tolerate a Cat shifter if ah am keeping Graves away. Past that, I’ll be lucky if they don’t try to form a similar bargain.” Sharp frustration made his voice rise.

Territories could range in power and size, with some simply being a family home to others spanning huge parts of the countryside. The packs settled disputes and qualms among themselves, while ensuring that all packless shifters on their land lived to the law and didn’t attract human attention.

Like any position of power, the packs were easily corruptible. Doubly so for shifters. In general, they had a much more holistic and leaderless approach to law making, with many packs taking to different political stances and levels of enforcement in each region.

Their laws were more of a flexible code of honour than anything. Though, there were a few exceptions; rules that were too taboo to break.
A shifters true word was their bond; he had Graves swear that neither he nor his pack would step foot in Altama if Soap kept to his side of the bargain, and even that prick hadn’t dared to break it.

“Why the hell would they do that, Soap? They seemed like nice enough lads, nothin’ like Graves lot. Surely not every wolf wants a piece of you -, “ Duncan’s voice had an undercurrent of anger.
He was leaned back against the sink, knuckles white where they gripped the edge. Soap knew it wasn’t directed at him, but it was still jarringly uncomfortable.

Cities were a mess of wards, tight pack laws keeping the shifter populations secret and safe from the humans, controlled in a messy balance. Things were a bit laxer in the wild open country, the shifters less tame and a general knowledge of their kind passed down through the human generations.

“Nearly every wolf wants the glory of beatin’ up a felid!” Soap didn’t shout, but his voice was strained. “We’re not that common, as you well know. All the traditional wolves, which is most of ‘em, would jump at the chance!”

Duncan started at him for a second, before the tension bled out of his frame. He rubbed a hand on his face, letting out a tense laugh.

“You get along like cats an’ dogs then?” he sounded bewildered and tired.

Soap took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. Duncan was only trying to help.

“That’s one way to put it.” Soap said, scratching at the bandage on his arm as he failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

============================

After a day or so, Soap was starting to go stir crazy at the attention - he had barely moved from Duncan’s couch, Ada visiting periodically to scold him. She seemed to know exactly when he was thinking of moving around, threatening to beat him with a broom if he didn’t stay still.

They didn’t talk about the other potential shifters again. Soap had convinced them to leave it till it was confirmed they were a pack, and not an unusual collection of humans.
It had seemed to mollify them a bit, though Soap knew it wouldn’t be forgotten.

Numerous but not deep, his wounds healed fast. By the second day, many of the smaller cuts were gone or firmly scabbed over, bruises lightening till only the bone deep ones remained.
They were still black and blue, tender, and looking gruesome. He was right about his arm; some of the tendons were deeply bruised, a stray bite nipping the deeper tissue and causing painful swelling.
At the worst of it, his fingers were stiff with red swelling and barely moveable before his body got over the worst of the infection.
He had spent several hours muttering darkly over the state of the dog’s dental hygiene. Their mouth must have had enough bacteria to kill an elephant.

After a half day of hovering, Soap managed to sneak off. Duncan had a business to run after all, and Ada was out, about town.

He crept out after leaving a thank you note and a small stack of bills to cover the food and first-aid supplies.

The bloodstains from his fist on the door had been scrubbed from the wood. The truck door had been shut carefully, and after he made it into the seat, he found the keys tucked away into the sun visor.
There was another surge of gratitude at that.

The drive back was calm. The sun was out, and though it did nothing to warm the cold air, it made the mountain brighter and more open, the air fresh and sweet on a nipping breeze.
After getting in and finally showering, with the bulk of his bandages gone, Soap soon began to feel cramped again.

He was well enough that a walk wouldn’t hurt, he thought, before grabbing his sketchbook and heading out the door.

It was a familiar routine to Soap. Come rain or shine, he would go to a meandering bend in
the river where the water piled up into a sluggish bend.

After setting up his fishing gear, Soap picked a spot on the flat stretched pebbled shore. A ring of burnt-out stones, old ash coating them, sat nearby.
In the summer, he would shuffle through the undergrowth to find dried or fallen branches but the snow and ice made finding good firewood impossible. Instead, he brought some from his stores with a few twiggy bits to get it started.

After setting up the fishing rod and fire, Soap relaxed. The mountains were beautiful, each season bringing a fresh change to the same spot. In winter, the pebbles were glossy with treacherous ice.
Snow bordered the embankments, muffling the murmuring rush of the river and leaving the area quiet and insulated.

This was a special place for Soap, for when he was stressed, or had something to think deeply about.

This time, he had brought his sketchbook. The paper was thick and well cared for, clean and crisp when he opened to a new page. He took his pencil out of his pocket, sharpened to a point using his pocket knife, and started drawing.

The pages were filled with mountains vistas and life - deer, bounding rabbits, and startled birds in flight. It acted as a diary of sorts, helping Soap to remember each day.

In the mountains, time could stretch strangely. Days passed with a blur, or hours took years to go by. When he first arrived, he kept missing dates and meetings. After Graves, it became essential to keep time well - It was just his own way of doing it.

It helped to structure his mind. He kept Graves, and his past, out of the sketchbook. He had one tucked away in a draw, ink stained and dark, where he recorded the nights with Graves. It helped to make them seem less real after a nightmare, just lines on paper.

After a while, the fishing line stretched taut from its anchor. Before it flew into the water Soap grabbed it, struggling with the reel until finally a fish flopped onto the rocks.

It was a decently sized trout. Soap took his knife and hit it hard on the head with the blunt hilt, stunning it, then nicking an artery. He left it half in the water as he prepared the fire, blood swirling away into the darkening river.

Gutted and deboned, the trout sizzled on a thin rock on the fire, stuffed with a herbal vegetable paste. The burned-down fire held back the creeping dusk, hot embers radiating heat and popping out at sparks.

It was nice.

Peace settled over him for the first time in days, the tension of visiting Graves finally dropping from his shoulders. Suddenly it all seemed a million miles away, with only the fire in front of him and the delicious, fresh trout melting in his mouth.

The smoke rose hazily into the sky, flickering over the stars set in the deep blue night. The sky was an endless stretch from horizon to horizon.

Eventually, Soap packed up, pausing by the black water to peer into the opposite bank.

For a second, he thought he saw the flash of a shadow move. He stilled, watching intently, but only the darkened trees swayed in the wind.

He dispelled it with a shake of his head, turning to disappear into the night.

=======================

Soap raced through the forest, snow bursting beneath his paws. He leapt from rock to rock, claws scraping stone, lungs pulling in crisp, freezing air. Behind him, his breath streamed in misty trails that faded into the air.

It was the first time in days he’d felt well enough to patrol, and he had a lot of built-up energy to expel. In the days before, he had barely managed to stay still, holding off until the cuts were healed enough that they wouldn’t split open as he ran.

The forest was alive, sun-dappled forest floor flying beneath him with the crunch of snow as birdsong rang out through the chill air. The repetitive motion of his paws through snow was relaxing; deep, huffing breaths as regular as a drumbeat. To his left was a rushing stream that carved deep into the snowy rocks, shallower near its source. It was filled with burbling, icy clear water.

Running helped to settle Soap; any thoughts that bothered him were pushed to the back of his mind by the sharp biting air and difficult terrain, his mind silenced as he focused on the path ahead.
The bank was broken in places. Fallen trees and huge clusters of boulders rested in the shallow water, creating short steep slopes framed by thick tree roots. It left Soap swiftly veering from the comfortable doe-path to continue on his patrol route at the water’s edge.

A scream shattered his concentration.

Soap scrabbled on the rock, head snapping up as his paws skidded out from under him.

Another shriek pierced the air, jolting him again as he slid to a halt on the snowy ground. It continued through the forest, shrill yelping echoing through the trees. Birds flocked to the air from the west in a panicked flight, passing Soap directly overhead. A strange hush fell, the scream echoing through the forest.

Soap flattened himself to the ground, ears unconsciously swivelling. His fur was on edge, teeth aching with the sudden tension. The noise seemed to be coming from the edge of his territory, though he couldn’t be sure if it was within his land or south over the river border.

Soap watched the treeline as he deliberated, eyes wide.

He couldn’t just ignore it; a large part of his goodwill with the town came from protecting the human folk in the area, and there was always the possibility it was a stray hiker.

He couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his gut.

==========================

Soap edged through his territory, low to the ground and quickly slipping through the brush. He crept downwind from the source of the screams, paws pulled forwards to pad soundlessly on snow-padded rock.

The screaming had trailed off, though a few biting yelps still pierced the forest sporadically. The river Brazos was slow and swollen beside Soap, its rippling surface sluggish with thick, icy water.

On the other side of the river was a man.

He looked dangerous - tall and broad with a quiet military bearing, an unsettling skull mask hiding his face. He moved smoothly; even gesturing he seemed to have fine control over his limbs.

He was close enough that Soap could smell his aftershave, and see the stray threads at the fabric of his mask. The white skull on a black balaclava was ominous, sending a shiver down his spine all the way to his flicking tail.

Soap felt cold fear twist his gut.

It had been a long time since Soap was truly afraid. Though he had left the army after a meagre fifteen months, he had excelled in basic training and had been on the path to brilliance before being forced out. His training had saved his life many times, and over the years Soap had accumulated a wealth of hard-earned fighting and tactical experience.

The man lacked the gaunt demeanour of one of Graves’ shadows, with a strong, broad-shouldered frame. He looked dangerous, more than anyone Soap had fought before.

Paws frozen, he watched as the man berated his companion.

“Will you shut it, Roach! Screaming won’t get you warmer any faster.”

His voice was very deep, and accented English. It cut across the stretch of water with a commanding, low rumble.
The brownish raccoon the man was chastising didn’t seem to be affected; he visibly inflated with air before starting up a horrific, seemingly never-ending scream, ploughing through the snow in circles around the man’s feet. Up close, it felt like it was piercing Soap’s skull.

The man began to grow more irritated, shoulders hunching and a muscle in his hand twitching as he clenched his fist. A tattoo peeked from beneath the man's sleeve.

The man started making an admirable effort to shout louder than the raccoon, apparently dubbed Roach, was screaming. The combined din filled the forest, Soap’s eyes darting between them as he took it all in. He didn’t seem to jump straight to violence, though. It gave Soap a small flicker of hope.

Roach was still screaming. Like all shifters, he was slightly larger than the average raccoon, and he was making the extra lung volume count.

Traditionally large packs were made of predatory animals, often some family lines of more common shifters such as wolves stretching back with generations of unbroken prestige.
Those with old blood often had deep-set opinions to go with it, and detested the more unusual shifters with no family history. Graves was one such traditionalist; though not all the members of his pack had a grand history, they were all canids, with only wolves breaking through to the upper ranks.

The new neighbours may not be such bad news.

Still, he couldn’t make assumptions. Cat shifters had their own reputation in most areas, and even a group containing more unusual members like raccoon shifters might get violent.
Soap also didn’t know the size of the group or the abilities of each member.

He needed to get out of there.

He could return for surveillance, but if he stayed to watch sooner or later one of the other shifters would pick up on his presence. Soap was a natural born predator; moving silently back through the brush came to him easier than breathing.

It’s why, when he stepped back straight onto a dry twig, Soap felt personally betrayed.

The crack was small, though indisputably out of place. Immediately the raccoon stopped yapping, the burbling of the river undercut with a thundering silence that rang in Soaps ears.
The man was staring directly at him; his head having swivelled around with animalistic grace the moment Soap’s paw had landed.

For a second his eyes skated over Soap, his greyish pelt blending him into the bush, spindly branches obscuring his shape. Then the man’s eyes focused, expression widening slightly behind the mask as he clocked Soap.

His gaze was liquid cold, glacier blue and freezing Soap to the spot. The raccoon, Roach, seemed to follow his eyes to Soap moments later. Neither of them moved.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears, wondering distantly if it had given him away before remembering that not even a shifters hearing was that good.

He bolted.

Soap could hear the frantic scrabbling of the raccoon as he sprinted away, followed by muffled shouting in that distinct thundering voice. Seconds later the thud of heavy paws reached his ears.

Soap poured everything into his sprint. If the man chasing him was a wolf - and judging by those thundering pawprints, he was a huge one - he didn’t stand a chance on open ground. But these were his woods, and he wouldn’t be caught so easily.

Immediately he headed for the high ground, where the rough boulders stacked and towered into harsh near-vertical mountainous terrain. It was a few minutes away, with Soap sprinting flat out through the forest, the other shifter hot on his trail.

The size of the other shifter gave him the advantage on the sprint; he was closing the distance slowly but surely.

Harsh pants rang out, dredging the coppery taste of blood from Soap’s burning lungs. He didn’t dare slow down.

The forest had fallen silent. The other creatures could sense a predator on the hunt; only the crunching of paws in the snow and rasping pants were audible, getting louder and louder behind Soap.

When they cleared the treeline, the cliffs looming over, the other shifter let out a thunderous growl. It jolted Soap forward, heart beating triple-time. The game was up.

He gave a final leap, scrambling up the rockface with a spray of scattered snow. The ledges were tiny, some barely an inch wide, but Soap sprinted from perch to perch till he was well above the treeline.

His sides heaved as he balanced precariously to peer down at the shifter below, trying to catch his breath.

It was a good thing he had climbed so high; the wolf below him was large, enough that he could have leaped to grab Soap off the rockface. Letting out a startled chitter of laughter, mostly anxious relief, Soap grinned down at the wolf before he could stop himself.
It was one thing to escape, and another to laugh in the man’s face. In his human skin, the blood would have drained out of his face when he realised what he had done.

The wolf paused at the sound, and seemed to glare harder at Soap. He stood in silence, blue eyes piercing, with a flash of white teeth as he heaved. With some satisfaction, Soap realised the wolf shifter had been pushing himself too.

His pelt was pure white, with striking blue eyes, like ice chips in the snow. He would have blended right into the landscape if not for those captivating eyes.

Soap met his glare, wondering for a second what the wolf was thinking. He promptly decided he didn’t care, shaking his fur out with a huff before turning to bound up the ledges of the cliff. When he reached the top, he turned one last time to peer down at the giant wolf.

He hadn’t moved, tracking Soap’s movements with silent intent. Soap gave another huff, and turned away, pettily causing a cascade of small pebbles as he went.

==========================

Soap only relaxed when he got into the bounds of his inner territory, the basic protection markers he had made, carved nearly-invisible into the branches of the familiar trees.

The markers were something Soap had spent a lot of time on, lifted from books on runes and protection. They would confuse the tracking of any shifter or hunter, dispersing Soap’s scent and creating subtle suggestions in any tracker’s mind to turn away.

His territory was known by the townsfolk, and he didn’t doubt that the new neighbours would soon find the bounds of his land. Still, the exact locations of his cabin and workshop was unknown. It was a flimsy reassurance.

He would have to look at reinforcing the markers, maybe even setting some actual wards. It would be difficult for him as everything he knew about runes was self-taught, but the payoff would be worth it.

He trudged up the path, close to home and a hot shower. He wouldn’t sleep that night, but at least he could wash off the fear-scented sweat that clung to his underfur.
Now the adrenaline was draining out of his system, Soap felt exhausted. His bruises and scabbed cuts ached and pulled.

He couldn’t get the blue-eyed wolf out of his mind. Every lengthening shadow or dropped snow drift, from birds fluttering around the laden branches, made Soap jump.

When he got to the cabin, he stood for a moment on the porch, tail drooping with sudden defeat. He already had Graves to deal with – this would be a whole new layer of complicated. He might have to cut his losses and run.

The thought made him ache, sharp and familiar. The idea of leaving yet another home behind pitted his stomach with despair. He shook himself, trying to dislodge the feeling before straightening upright.

Shifting to stand on two legs instead of four, he ran a hand down his face with a sigh, pushing into the cabin to escape the cold.
He felt it acutely in his human form, the change from his pelt to human skin emphasising the chill air.

The mountains were his home now, the place he had felt most at ease in years.

He had spent a long time carving out his sanctuary there. Being in the cabin helped calm him a little. Familiar scents and throw blankets comforted him as he flopped onto the sofa.

A whole pack moving right next door set off a wave of alarm in Soap. They hadn’t contacted him; either they didn’t know he existed, or didn’t care about establishing a treaty with him. Either way it wasn’t good news.

Soap knew that he had no choice but to fight for his place. He didn’t think he had the strength to start over again.