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Fang drifted in uncomfortable darkness, vague images and impressions filling his mind, none of them pleasant. First he seemed to see the mountainous landscape spread out below him, bare stone shrouded in snow, and he was plummeting towards it, faster and faster, like a thunderbolt heading earthward. Frantically, he reached for the ripcord for his chute, but he couldn't seem to find it, the vest bare, only knife handles under his hands. Just as the ground came up to meet him, the images changed, and suddenly he was standing, his feet planted in the cold white. The snow around him was stained bloody red, a haze seeming to cover the world, bodies lying here and there in various grotesque poses of death around him; some were dressed as the terrorists had been, but others were in camouflage like the instructors, and still others looked like they were nothing more than civilians, or perhaps technicians from the facility. But all bore marks he recognized, their wounds as familiar as his own face in the mirror. As he looked around, seeing the trail of destruction he knew he had left behind him, he felt bloody drops falling from his jaws, his grey paws drenched in crimson. He could even feel his fur becoming sticky as it began to congeal on the hairs in the cool air.

And as he stood, panting in the cold air, the bitter tang of blood on his tongue, he saw Sneer, and Archer and other faces, faces he knew belonged to those he had harmed, or that had harmed him, floating in the air around him. And amongst the terrible faces and memories, he could hear the sounds of the violence he was capable of; the distinct, meaty snap of a neck breaking, the crackle of shattering bone, the heavy thump of his fists and feet impacting a target, the quiet, almost subtle slick of a knife edge as it bit flesh, the peculiarly rhythmic sound of a thrown blade as it cut through the air. Desperately, Fang wanted it to end, lashing out at the faces but they always seemed to dance just out of reach, mocking him. Turning, he tried to run, to escape from the mocking faces, the parade of dark images and sensations all the more terrifying to him because they were not imagined, they were memory, sights and sounds he had grown all too accustomed to. And even as he ran, the faces following, the sounds only growing louder, he could sense the other presence in his mind, the Killer that lived within him, the terrible side of himself that enjoyed the violence, delighted in the death; it stalked in the background, waiting for the chance to spring to the fore once more, and snuff another life out of existence.

Fang ran until his lungs burned, but there, in the nightmare darkness, there was nowhere to go, nowhere far enough to run to escape it all, only more darkness, more dead at his feet. No way out...or was there? Distantly, he could see a light, a warmth beyond the chill dark, just on the very edge of his memory. It was somewhere far beyond the Killer and the program that had created it, beyond even the wolf, the instincts that shielded him and guided him in the wild. Beyond all, there was something else. It seemed a warm, welcoming place in his memories, and he might almost have said a safe place, if such a thing existed in nightmares. Using all the will he possessed, Fang ran towards it, reached for the distance memory, trying to grab hold of it as he forced his body beyond endurance, but his grasp always seemed to fall short, as if it was just out of his reach, merely there to taunt him with false hope, a light in the dark, but ever insubstantial. Desperate, Fang strained to reach it, just to touch it, even for a moment, but, just when it seemed to draw closer, just when he could almost see what the memory held, a bolt of searing hot pain lanced through the darkness, and the wolf jerked suddenly upright, his eyes springing open, cringing away from the unexpected sensation.

The first thing he perceived was a hand, holding a bloody edged parang, the huge, slightly curved blade emerging from a shallow slice it had cut in the grey fur near his shoulder. His breath was filled with the scent of his own blood, and the smells of men, three of them, two unwashed and sweating, the third smelling vaguely like soap and some sort of flower, as if he had bathed recently. Looking around wildly in surprise, not remembering what had happened to bring him here, Fang could see that the two foul-smelling men were closest to him, the one with the slightly curved, long blade, and the other crouching a few paces away, an automatic shotgun in his grasp. The third man, the one who smelled of soap, was seated at a table across the room, drinking from an unlabeled bottle of what smelled not unlike the project's infirmary; chemical, definitively antiseptic. On the table beside the bottle, Fang could see the mottled grey cloth of his vest, the shine of throwing blades still sticking out from it. The seated man seemed familiar somehow, like when you saw a face of an acquaintance in a crowd. He and the one who was now stepping back from the wolf had oriental features, unlike the other, the shotgunner, who had a European look, blond and blue eyed, though his usually white face was red from the cold and the wind.

"Well, we know it feels pain." The seated man began, his words translating instantly into English in Fang's head, the translator working swiftly. The man got up and sauntered over towards the wolf, the bottle in hand. "That is something at least." The man stopped, then knelt down so he and Fang were eye to eye, looking at him searchingly. Then, he spoke, this time in English, barely accented, "Do you understand me?" Fang didn't even open his mouth, much less reply, but the man narrowed his eyes a little, looking at the teenager's eyes. "I think you do. Good. It makes things easier." Leaning forward slightly, the man raised the bottle, then slowly poured some of the clear liquid inside it onto Fang's wounded shoulder, the liquid turning red as it washed into the fresh cut.

Drawing a breath in through clenched teeth as the liquid burned its way across the wound, Fang's limbs tried to reach out on instinct, intending to wrap his paws around the man's throat and squeeze until he stopped breathing, but all the wolf succeeded in doing was jerking his arms a little, the sudden stop to his motion hurting his wound even more. It was only then that he realized he was bound to a metal chair, his arms tied behind him at the wrists with rope, just about at the level of his tail. And, when he moved his hands around, testing the knot, he encountered only fur beneath his fingers; he was completely naked. Unable to lash out, Fang contented himself for the moment with growling fiercely at the man. But, even as he growled, the wolf tried to get his still groggy brain to work properly, trying to think.

"Now then," the man said, taking a drink from the bottle and wiping his mouth off with the back of his other hand. "I will ask you again, can you understand me?"

"Go to Hell!" The wolf spat, remembering the phrase from one of his matches with the trainers, when he asked one he had pinned to give up. But the venomous phrase didn't have the impact the wolf boy intended. Instead of getting angry, the man just cocked his head.

"Interesting." he remarked, reaching back with his free hand. After a moment, the first man handed him the bloodied parang hilt first, and the interrogator laid the topmost inch of the cutting edge against the wolf's chest, on the other side from the first cut. "You certainly sound human. But, you clearly aren't. So tell me, what are you?"

Fang didn't reply, his head rocking back, the question catching him off guard. Really, that was a good question. In all honestly, the wolf boy didn't have an answer. But the man didn't seem to really want an answer, pressing his knife hand forward, digging in with the point, the sharp edge biting into Fang's flesh, pulling it almost lazily through his skin, carving a long curve down towards his belly. But this time, the wolf was ready for the hot surge of pain and simply tightened his jaw, clenching his fists behind his back, enduring the burn of the slow slice as he had endured so much torment over years of his training, merely trembling slightly as it built within him. The man with the bottle took his time, slowly drawing the blade along, the sound of the slice identical to Fang's nightmare, but all the time, Fang glared defiantly at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out, or showing the growing pain. Finally, when the edge had left a six inch cut in his chest, the man pulled it back.

"Perhaps I have not made myself very clear." He finally said, slapping the flat of the blade against Fang's muzzle, leaving a red patch in his fur, snapping his head to the side. "If I ask a question, you will give me an answer. You don't answer, I start cutting. You don't keep a civil tongue when you talk to me, I start taking pieces. You try to get free, I don't stop cutting until your skin is hanging on the wall. Got it?" Fang didn't answer, he didn't even react. Instead, he just glared daggers at the man, breathing deeply, his gaze unwavering, utterly unimpressed. What did this guy think? None of this was any worse than what Fang had faced a hundred times before at the hands of Archer and the instructors. Threats and pain, nothing he hadn't faced as far back as he could remember. This man and his big knife couldn't scare him. Finally, faced with the unwavering, implacable stare of the wolf, the man sat back on his heels once more, his expression changing slightly, a glimmer of grudging respect. "You aren't even afraid, are you?"

"Leave him to me." The man who had initially had the knife snarled in English, and Fang looked him over carefully. He had shoulder length black hair that looked very greasy, and a broad scar along the side of his face, as if someone had scraped a knife under his skin for about an inch, then just left it alone. He was looking at the wolf with absolute contempt and disgust and Fang replied in kind, which seemed to make him even angrier. "By the time I am done, he'll be begging to answer you."

"No, I don't think he will." The man with the knife said, shaking his head and standing up. "I've seen that look before. He can feel pain alright, but he is so used to it, it doesn't scare him at all. Cut him to ribbons, salt the wounds and he still won't be afraid of you. And if he isn't afraid of that, threats obviously aren't going to do anything either." With that, he walked back to the table, laying the blade on its surface, the greasy-haired man stepping up close.

Fang could tell by his stance that he was going to hit him, long before the man even made a fist, his legs braced for a heavy handed blow. But he wasn't going to just take it, like he had when Archer or the instructors had hit him. He had had enough of contempt to last a life time. And there was nothing to stop him from punishing this man for it. Whatever happened couldn't be worse than what they already had planned for him. The man's blow came quick, no cocking back to aim, no prep, the man obviously intending it to surprise him. And, to any human prisoner, even if they saw it coming, there was nothing they could do. But Fang wasn't human. As the man's fist came at him, the wolf opened his jaws wide, head darting forward, his sharp fangs sinking deep into the man's wrist.

It took the insurgent a good half second to register what had happened, but when he did, his confident expression became one of agony, his eyes bulging out in surprise and he let out a scream. For a few moments, the man flailed frantically with his other hand at the wolf's jaws, but instinct just made him clench harder. Then, the greasy haired man punched him, hard, but still, the wolf just let it come, the blow catching him under his eye, but that only made him twist his head, the scream becoming shrill as teeth ground on bone. Finally, after a few more seconds, having made sure he had made his point, Fang opened his jaws, the man clutching his ruined wrist to his chest with his other hand, going down to his knees, biting back the pain. Fang knew that what he had done was probably going to cost him, but it had been worth it. But, the wolf was surprised a moment later when he heard not anger, but laughter. The injured terrorist glared at the man with the shotgun, the blonde's weapon nowhere near to being in line. In fact, the man didn't even have hold of it, the powerful gun hanging loose from its sling.

"What are you laughing for?!!!" The terrorist demanded, blood dripping from his arm. "Shoot it!!!"

"Why?" The shotgunner asked, still laughing, clapping his hands, his words accented with tones Fang associated with German or perhaps Slavic origins. "It serves you right, you moron. Anyone would know better than to get close to his teeth like that, especially after what he did to the rest of our men."

"Go and get that patched up." The man at the table ordered, a slight grin creasing his lips as the greasy haired man started to move towards the shotgunner, almost snarling through his pain. "And send the doctor in. If pain doesn't work, we are going to have to try something else to make him compliant." Fuming, the injured man moved to the door and slammed it wide open, almost breaking its hinges as he stormed out, revealing that it led to a short hallway that ended in a set of stairs, leading up. "And you, surely you have something better to do."

"Yes sir, I believe I do." The shotgunner replied, walking out, his laughter going with him. When the pair were gone, the last man plucked one of the throwing knives from its sheath on the vest and tested its edge, balancing it on an outstretched finger to measure the center of balance.

"Fine make." He commented, admiring the blade as one might admire a painting or a sculpture, "Not the sort of thing you can pick up just anywhere, and yet, no maker's marks, and I don't recognize the style. Very curious. Someone made these just for you, didn't they?" As he said this, Fang realized that here was one who shared a kinship with the Killer, a professional who delighted in dealing death and violence; someone who was everything Archer wanted the wolf to be. "I really should punish you for that little trick. But he has needed being taken down a peg for a while, and you just saved me the trouble. I was tempted to do it myself. Still, I really will let him have at you if you don't start cooperating." As the man toyed with the knife, Fang suddenly felt his eyes widen a little. It had finally occurred to him why the man seemed familiar. At once, almost unbidden, the visual overlay of the neural lace blinked back into life, a distracting crackle almost like static running through it, popping up the picture that had been in his briefing packet. This man was the leader of the whole terrorist organization, which meant that the briefing had been dead wrong about the timing of his meeting with his underlings. This was very bad, because if he didn't find a way to get out of here, even more terrorists would be arriving soon. He was going to have a hell of a time getting out of here as it was. The leader shrugged and flicked his wrist downward, the knife thunking into the table top, almost perfectly straight up. Taking another swig of the alcohol, the man continued. "Oh well. You will talk eventually. Everyone always does. I suggest you spend your time resting, I do hate interrogating the weak. Its so much less of a challenge."

As the man walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him, Fang searched his mind for the terrorist leader's file, trying to divine what the man was likely to do. And then, as he looked at the picture of the face hanging in his vision, his eyes suddenly went wide, the wolf cursing himself for being an idiot. Most of the neural lace was still turned off!! Reaching for it with his mind, the wolf commanded it to come back online, his vision filling with diagnostic screens as the system brought itself back into working order, the view gradually clearing as each piece of the system checked out. And then, Fang's spirit's plummeted. One of the diagnostics, perhaps the most important one at this moment in time, the one that had to do with the uplink back to the project, came up yellow, indicating that it was damaged. Mentally accessing the diagnostic program for more information, Fang frowned. The uplink, which was still searching for a connection, could still relay his biological data, but location and remote command functions were offline, the circuit pathways damaged by the electrical overload of the TASER. Taking a breath, Fang pushed the screen away, along with the sense of, if not panic, then urgency, that was steadily rising in his head. Worrying about that detail right now wasn't going to help him. At once, he fell back on his training, calming his racing thoughts. This was no different than solving the puzzles he had been presented with when the scientists were testing him, before his life began to revolve around violence.

Figure out what problems you have, and how immediately they need to be solved, Fang told himself. The problem with the uplink was pretty far down the list at the moment. For that to be a problem, he had to first be alive when the storm cleared enough to connect. And normally, to get to that point, he would have had two options. He could either wait around and endure whatever they dished out until they either made a mistake or the spec ops made their assault, a far from attractive option. Assuming he even survived the experience, he had been explicitly ordered to avoid contact with the 'friendly' forces. The other option was not even close to being easy, but he could escape right now, and complete his task, despite the added challenge and the extraordinary danger he would face. And then, a snarl came to his lips as a strange thought occurred to him.

What if Archer had known? What if he knew that the terrorist leader would be there, and this was just one more of his cruelties, to heap more pain on Fang? What if all of this was just another test of his abilities? And there was no way in hell he was going to let Archer win. He was not only going to escape on his own, when the odds were against him, he was going to finish the mission that he had been given. But, the first thing that had to happen before any of that could take place, was that he first had to get free of the chair. Twisting his paws behind him, Fang strained, stretching his fingers upward, feeling the material that held him. It was made from braided strands, a rope or cord, and from its feel, it wasn't even plastic. That made things a little easier. Most natural fibers had a lower tensile strength than artificial ones, and broke much easier. By far the easiest thing to do would be to get a hold of a blade, but, when he experimentally moved his legs, he found that they had been bound just as tightly to the chair legs as his hands were. Further complicating the issue, judging from how little the chair had moved when he had jerked his arms earlier, it was probably bolted to the floor, which made getting to a knife impossible at the moment. As strong as he was, he might be able to break the rope with the sheer power of his arms, but that was not an easy proposition. Even natural fibers were awfully strong.

Ok, Fang thought. Not stupid then. But also not used to dealing with me. Smiling grimly, Fang felt for the rope once more with the tip of his pointer finger, hooking one of his claws over the top of the rope, an angle that hurt his hand, but at least he could reach it. His claws were not precisely sharp, certainly not sharp enough to be weapons, but they were not exactly dull either, and they did hook just right... Feeling the rope catch on the edge of his pointer claw, Fang tugged with his finger, sawing at the fibers. Ignoring the definitely uncomfortable feeling of the fibers tugging upward at his claw, Fang continued the sawing motion, ignoring the extraordinarily unhelpful thoughts that kept springing up to his mind. This is ridiculous; your claws are not nearly sharp enough to cut through a rope; this isn't working; and so on and so forth. Focusing instead on the sounds outside the room, Fang kept at it, agonizing seconds ticking by slowly, merging into long minutes as he sawed industriously. And then, just when his hand was getting tired, his wrists chafed raw by the rope, he felt a few strands part, worn through by his motion. Grinning ferally, he redoubled his effort, sawing harder, though it made his hands and wrists feel like they were going to dislocate.

A good half hour later, he had made definite progress on the rope, more strands parting, though he could smell the coppery scent of his own blood, his wrists bleeding from the constant rubbing of the rough rope on his skin. Gritting his teeth against the growing pain, Fang started to pull down harder, increasing the pressure on both his wrists and the rope strands, then he froze, a sound coming to his ears. A moment later, he eased his hands back down slowly, unhooking his claw, letting the aching muscles relax. Footsteps, four pairs this time, coming down the stairs outside. A moment later, the door opened, the first person into the chamber was the shotgunner from earlier, the barrel leveled at Fang. Following behind was the other henchman from earlier, his mangled wrist wrapped in thick bandages, the arm in a sling, looking at Fang with utter hatred, something that pleased the wolf, though he noticed a rather large sidearm in a thigh holster that his fingers kept creeping towards. The leader was next, stepping to the side as he entered, and looking at the bound teenager with the same curious expression on his face, crossing his arms. The last man in was new, wearing the same sort of clothes as the rest of the terrorists he had seen, but he carried a hard sided case, and was wearing wireframe spectacles. His manner and stride were not that of a soldier, nor of any sort of fighter, which, more than anything else, made him a likely candidate for the doctor they were talking about earlier. When he saw the wolf though, he stopped short, looking shocked, the leader swinging the door shut behind him. Then, after a moment, he seemed to recover his composure, moving to the table and setting his case down, flipping the latches up.

"You could have warned me." he said, speaking the same language the leader had used when he had assumed Fang couldn't understand.

"What difference would it have made?" The leader inquired, while the man opened the case, revealing rows of vials containing various liquids strapped into the lid. "Its not as if a description would do this...thing, justice."

"I might have brought more drugs." The man replied, "I have no idea what is going to be effective, or how much to give. If his body structure is any indication, it doesn't look full grown just yet. I could give too much and kill him...it...before you get anything useful from it."

"I seriously doubt that it is that fragile." The leader replied, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. "Give him small doses then, until we find something that works."

"I'll try the broad spectrum first." the bespectacled man said, taking vials out of the case and setting them one by one on the table. Taking up a syringe, the man poked the needle into the first vial, "A very small dose of propofol, some pure ethanol and a little diluted ketamine, something to make it last, assuming it works at all of course."

"And that will work?" the shotgunner asked as the doctor drew from the other two bottles.

"That mix of depressants and sedatives has cracked every soldier and operative we have captured. Trust me, this mix in the right dosage is frightfully difficult to resist." The doctor replied, examining the syringe. "The trick, of course, is finding the right dose. And if we can't, we might have to move on to the poisons. Small doses can make an amazing bit of difference." Fang barely managed to refrain from allowing his ears to perk up at the mention of the sedatives. Ever since Dr. Klien had noticed his growing resistance to them, he had started giving him information to memorize about the most common drugs of that sort. Small doses like the ones the doctor was preparing didn't worry him. It would take a hell of a lot more than that little syringe to have any major effect on him.

"Fine doc." the leader said, shaking his head, "You have until tomorrow morning. The rest of the Ninth Arc's Asia cell leaders is due here tomorrow morning, and I want this thing talking before they get here. I have to know who knew we were going to be here."

"That doesn't exactly give me much time." The man replied, flicking the syringe and then pushing the plunger until a drop collected at the tip. "But I suppose I can make it work."

Fang's mind raced as the leader nodded his ascent. The wolf had even less time than he thought. Would the special ops team be in place before that? Regardless, he didn't have a choice. He had to make his move now, he couldn't afford to delay. Was the rope weak enough to break if he tried? He didn't know. Fortunately, he did have one ace in the whole. The diagnostic of the adrenal supplement augment had shown that it was at full capacity and undamaged. He had been told by Dr. Klein to be careful, and not to use more than one dose at a time. An overdose could actually kill him, making his heart beat so fast it would stop, but would a single dose be enough to overwhelm whatever the doctor gave him, as well as break the rope? Probably not. But, if he surged the unit, took more than one hit at once, it might be enough... The doctor was stepping forward, positioning the needle at the crook of the wolf's arm, taking a moment to locate the antecubital vein. Fang obligingly held still under the watchful gaze of the shotgunner, but inside his mind, he was tensed to move.

He felt the sharp pinch, the needle finding the vein, the familiar chill of the sedatives flooding into his blood a moment later. He shuddered, the doctor pulling the needle back out and stepping away, looking at him closely. For a few minutes, he felt nothing, then an otherworldly rush of the injection starting to affect his mind, the world going a little blurry and he shook his head, allowing his eyelids to flutter, a characteristic effect of propofol. He hadn't thought the basic toxicology information Klein had given him to be much more than useless busy-work, but now he understood why the scientist had insisted he learn it. At the very least, now, it was letting him play act, mimicking the signs of them taking effect. The doctor smiled, setting the needle aside, apparently satisfied. Playing his part, Fang allowed his face to relax, his eyelids fluttering, his head drooping down towards his chest, his breathing deepening, growing slower, but inside, he felt the heat of his body resisting it, the conflict in his head as he instinctually fought against it. The blurriness was already fading, instead of getting more pronounced as it had before when he had been drugged, but he carefully modulated his breathing, allowing it to become deep and slow.

"Well, that was a good guess for a dose doctor," The leader said with satisfaction, coming forward and taking hold of Fang's chin, lifting his head off his chest to face him once more. Knowing his act had to be perfect, Fang let his eyes unfocus, acting drowsy but clearly still awake. The man seemed to believe him for now, which was all he needed; a few moments to put them off their guard. Speaking in English, the leader asked his first question. "Now then, What are you?"

Fang mumbled indistinctly, beginning to tense his arm muscles, pulling his hands down at the small of his back, pulling the weakened rope tight against the back of the chair. The man sighed and rolled his eyes at Fang's apparent incoherence, then slapped Fang across the muzzle, the stinging pain triggering a little adrenaline, already taking the edge off the drug, forcing him to restrain the feral grin he felt. He had to do this now, before the ketamine kicked in and made him start to hallucinate. That was one complication he really didn't need. Reaching for the augment in his head, he tapped the device, dumping a dose into his blood, then another in rapid succession. The surge of that much epinephrine entering his blood stream all at once actually burned, like someone had set his blood on fire and Fang blinked, his eyes focusing. As the leader watched him closely, the wolf noticed the hilt of the parang in his belt, so very close to the supposedly secure prisoner. "I said, 'What are you?'" the man repeated and Fang knew the chance had come.

Drawing a breath as if to reply, Fang made his move. Time was slowing as his mind accelerated, pupils suddenly dilating as his heart beat became a rushing roar like river rapids, his muscles tensing up as the blood rushed harder through his body with every heartbeat. Knowing he had to be perfect, Fang jerked his arms suddenly to the side, the leader's face just starting to show concern, sensing that something was dreadfully wrong, but it was far too late. The wolf's arms, conditioned over years of hard fighting, augmented with cybernetics, fueled with more adrenaline than anyone could naturally produce, were strong enough in that moment to have snapped a solid steel cord, much less the weakened rope. The moment his arms were free, Fang reached forward quickly, grabbing the hilt of the knife with one hand, drawing it from the belt, the other grabbing the leader's neck with an iron hard grip with the other, pulling him closer so he shielded the wolf from view. Keeping him from crying out with a vise-like squeeze around his throat, the wolf freed his legs with one smooth motion of the large knife, surging upright the moment he could move. Pushing the leader back in a hard, one handed shove to give himself some room, the wolf turned first to the shotgunner, the world seeming to be moving by at a snail's pace to his perceptions.

The blonde man had allowed his aim to drift when Fang had made a show of being sedated, and it was nowhere close to being in line with his body. Bringing the parang around in a chop, using his entire arm to add strength to the blow, the wolf made sure the powerful weapon would stay out of line permanently. Most of the blade wasn't sharp, it being designed to be used much like a machete, rather than for precision, but, swung with the augmented, adrenaline fueled strength of the wolf, the weapon did precisely what he wanted, a spray of blood splattering the wall. Fang didn't even wait to see the damage he did, whirling next towards the injured man who was already drawing the sidearm he wore on his thigh, the weapon clear of its holster. Without thinking, the heavy blade left Fang's hand and he turned his attention to the doctor. The man wasn't even looking at him, seeming to be preparing another syringe.

Lightning swift, the wolf kicked out hard, connecting with the back of his legs, sending him forward, colliding with the table even as the wounded man's sidearm went off, a single shot that ricocheted off the ground before lodging in the wall. Ignoring the bullet and the fragments coming off the wall, the wolf moved past the falling doctor, his right hand closing on the hilt of one of his combat knives, drawing it from its sheath on the table. Turning quickly, unable to hear anything other than the roar of his blood, the wolf looked at the leader, who was trying to crawl towards the door on his knees, one hand clutching at his bruised neck. In one stride, Fang had caught him, hauling him up by the neck with one hand and standing him on his feet, against the wall, facing the wolf. Fang knew he had a few moments of freedom to do this, even though the gunshot would probably bring the rest down on him before long.

"What am I?" Fang finally replied, hearing his own voice only dimly in his ears. It sounded wild, fierce and menacing to his ears, perfect for what he needed. "What do you think I am?"

With that, he squeezed the hand that encircled the man's throat. The leader's eyes went wide and he instinctually tried to break the wolf's grip, but the teen's hand might as well have been a mechanical press for all the good it did him. A few moments after he began, the wolf felt something pop in the man's neck and he immediately went limp in his grasp. Dropping him to the ground, Fang drew in a shuddering breath, finally looking around, taking stock of the room. His fingers were tingling, his fur standing on end, every muscle trembling, though whether that was from the drugs or the adrenaline, he couldn't tell. He couldn't seem to calm his breathing, panting hard, but he felt the strange, unearthly sensation of being alive once more, meaning the adrenaline had overwhelmed the sedatives for the moment. No one in the room was a threat anymore; the shotgunner was a bloody mess, the wolf's heavy stroke nearly severing his head, it had bitten so deep into his neck; likewise the other man, the parang pinning his head to the wall with the force of the throw. Shuddering at the horrific image, the wolf kicked the doctor's body over, prepared to finish him off, but there was no need. Froth foamed at his blue lips and he was jerking spastically, his eyes rolling, the syringe he had been prepping jammed right into his chest, point first, its plunger all the way down. From the point it had stuck him, it had injected its contents directly into his heart, spreading it throughout his body in a matter of moments. Morbidly curious, the wolf picked up the vial he had been drawing it from, reading the label. Clear as day, it said 'Aqueous Potassium Cyanide' and the wolf put it back on the table, snorting. The man's means of demise had a certain poetic quality to it; supremely confident in his ability to chemically persuade prisoners, he had obviously been preparing the syringe that he would have used to kill Fang when the interrogation was over.

Shaking the thought out of his head, the wolf turned back to the table, setting the knife he held in his shaking hand down for a moment, clenching his fists to still his limbs. But, he didn't dare push the cold, calculating presence out of control in his mind. He could feel the heavy sensation of the horror at what he had just done hovering in the back of his mind, but now was not the time. If he paused to think about, he would lose it, lose the ability to do what he would have to do to get out. Better to let the cold presence stay than that. Quickly dressing himself with fingers that kept jumping around while he was trying to use them, Fang thought back to what he had seen just before the TASER round had brought him down, trying to work it through in his head. Though he had only scattered images left over from the frantic fight, he figured he had taken out about half the terrorists that had been aiming at him. And that left what? Fifteen? No, probably better count on twenty, with the snow cat drivers, maybe as many as twenty five, since even he couldn't be sure he had killed all of them. This wasn't going to be easy, but at least he wouldn't face them all at once. Stuffing his rations and survival gear back into the pack from where they had been tossed, obviously having been rifled through while he was unconscious, the wolf tried to figure out where he was in the compound.

Most of the buildings were too small to have a basement, and he had checked the entirety of the main building. Which left only a couple of possibilities, neither of which was conducive to a quick escape. Pausing and shaking his head, Fang took another deep breath, flexing his hands once more before tying the pack closed. The adrenaline was making his head spin, making it hard to focus on the task at hand, to say nothing of the lingering sedatives. His thoughts kept zipping around at top speed, landing on one thing after another like an indecisive bee in a field of blossoms, and none of them particularly helpful. Fortunately, more footsteps on the stairs outside made every sense suddenly focus on the same thing for once. It sounded like there were only two out there, and Fang hurried to clip the pack onto the back of his vest, facing the door. In the span of a moment, while the footsteps paused outside, a dozen plans raced through the wolf's head, and his paws drifted to the hilts of his combat knives. But then, when one of the visitors pounded on the door, calling out for the leader, Fang knew what he was going to do. It was a simple thing really. They could be armed with anything out there, and be ready to shoot the first thing that came out the door. So he wouldn't come out exactly... Backing up almost to the far wall away from the door, the wolvish teen went down into a runner's stance, as if he were about to begin a race. Fang could see the handle start to turn, and he waited. Then, just when the handle stopped moving, the door starting to swing open, the wolf pushed off as hard as he could, lowering his left shoulder and bracing himself.

With the adrenaline high still at its peak, anesthetics warring against his body's defenses to numb his body, Fang didn't even register the impact with the door, instead, he saw the immensely satisfying sight of the startled face of one of the terrorists as he was thrown through the air, back onto the steps. Keeping the momentum going, Fang dove onto him, delivering a hard, flat punch to his throat on the way down. Picking himself back up as he came to rest, the wolf looked at the fallen man with satisfaction, knowing he was as good as dead. Strangely, he couldn't see the other man that had to be there, and for a moment, he wondered if he had somehow anticipated the move and headed back up the stairs. But, a groan from behind him made the wolf whirl, finding the man slumped in a heap behind the now shattered pieces of the door. Walking over and pushing the wreckage that had been a barrier off of him, he winced involuntarily.

The man was pretty well dead already, being sandwiched between the wall of the short hallway and the door having left him with a dozen broken bones at least, his chest crushed in. Shaking his head at his own luck, the teen turned and crept up the stairs, leading with his right side, ready to draw a knife at a moment's notice. A moment later, he peaked above the top step, finding the room above empty. It looked like it had originally been a small, one room house with glass windows and a pretty sturdy door, but the terrorists had apparently repurposed it as an interrogation building, numerous tools of the trade scattered around the room, from a car battery connected to naked leads to a set of blades covered in dried blood. Taking a moment to breathe in air that wasn't suffused with the scent with blood, he ticked six targets off in his head, moving to one of the windows to look around. It appeared that he was in the building on the corner farthest from the broken wall where he had entered, and judging from the growing light, it was day, and the storm was passing, though the flakes were still drifting down lazily outside.

Ducking back down out of sight, Fang shook his head once more, the high starting to fade a little, the sedatives starting to come back. Trying to shake off the sensations, he forced his mind to focus on the task at hand, his fingers flexing nervously. He had counted twelve targets out there, including one who was manning the watch tower, and from the smoke coming from the central building's chimney, there were more inside. Fragments of plans raced through his head, colliding and overwriting one another so quick he couldn't seem to form one whole idea. But, even as he tried to focus on the task, he felt it, the thing he feared even more than Archer, rising within him once more. The Killer had returned, pressing him to let it out, the sedatives and adrenaline having worn away his resistance. Shaking his head, he tried to ignore it, thinking through the coming engagement. But the scent of blood that followed him, a remnant of his breaking out, was entirely too present to edge it out completely. Every breath was giving it strength. Then, suddenly, as his mind raced, sifting through dwindling possibilities, a deep, cold chill crept over him. He couldn't do it. The way the terrorists were grouped, the way they were spread out...he couldn't get them all. He couldn't even plan out a way to escape. The moment he engaged one group, the others would shoot him dead, and he couldn't think of a way around it, not with his brain being pulled in two directions by adrenaline and sedatives.

The chill sensation that settled into his heart like a heavy stone accompanied a nightmarish truth, a truth he didn't want to acknowledge. For the first time in his life, he needed his other side, he needed the unthinking, unreasoning brutality. The side that delighted in pain and death, the side that didn't care about odds. The side that was animal, ruthless and merciless. Now, for the first time, he needed the Killer, needed to be what it was. He couldn't think through it, so if there was a way out, the only way to do it was through instinct. Fang, the disciplined fighter, had been trained to think quickly, quicker than anyone, planning out what needed to be done to defeat any number of opponents. But that wasn't enough here. As he understood the truth, understood what he needed, the Killer pressed against his defenses, straining to be let out. And, though it terrified him beyond reason to do it, made a cold, sick feeling form a rock in his stomach, knowing it went against every thought and instinct of his mind, Fang drew a breath, loosening his hold.

Closing his eyes, Fang consciously stepped back, allowing the dark part of himself to come forth. As he let it out, though his blood burned with the adrenaline, though heat flooded his body, a cold, almost silky sensation crawled over him, as if he had suddenly been dipped into cool oil. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and it took every ounce of control he could muster to stop himself from resisting it. Opening his eyes as it took over, he marveled at how different the world looked now. Outside, in the compound, he didn't see people, didn't see problems, or weapons or even targets. Out there, scattered around the courtyard and the buildings, there were only prey to be hunted. Momentarily horrified, Fang too another breath and pushed the horror away, submerging himself beneath the Killer completely. Finally, he ceased to be, only the deadly thing remaining. Escape? Why? No, it was time to hunt, not to escape.

Pushing open the heavy door, Fang slipped out into the cold, shivering as it caressed his fresh wounds, reveling in the frigid air. Looking around, he found that none of the men were looking in his direction, or even paying attention to the building he had been in. Grinning evilly, he sucked in a deep breath and tossed his head back, looking up into the storm. Time to change that. He thought, then loosed a long, low, deep throated howl into the quiet of the mountain valley. It was a sound calculated to chill the blood of anyone hearing it, to send a thrill of fear into their hearts. Fear is good, it makes them weak. For a moment, as the long howl ended, the courtyard was silent, all eyes looking towards him in horror, then he moved, racing towards the nearest cluster of three terrorists, who had been gathered around a disassembled snowmobile, tools in their hands. As he was moving, the Killer tapped the adrenal augment one more time, flooding his veins with fire, driving away the sedatives once more.

Drawing a knife from its sheath in mid stride, Fang threw, taking down the only member of the three who was reacting, his hand on his side arm. Before the others could move, Fang was among them. Lashing out at the first man, he landed three rapid punches to his solar plexes, the first breaking the cartilage, the second and third seeking the organs protected beneath it. The other man finally snapped out of his shock, trying to go for his gun, but Fang caught his wrist as it got near his holster, twisting it brutally upside down before hitting the man's nose with his palm, driving it up and back, into his brain. Three more off the list... Another cluster of five men were over by a snow cat beneath the guard tower, the tracked vehicle carrying another mobile radar set in a tracked trailer, which they seemed to be in the middle of setting up in a hurry. Pulling two knives from his vest in rapid succession, Fang's arm flicked out in a blur, flinging them sidearm while he ran, his muscles stretching and straining with every stride, pushing him faster than he had ever run before, the roaring in his ears covering the men's surprised shouts. One of the three still standing after his throwing knives hit already had a rifle in hand, but he was the closest to the wolf, who drew his combat knives in one motion as his front foot slipped on a patch of ice, going down in a crouch with the happy mistake, maintaining his balance as he slid forward.

Coming back up to his feet right in front of the rifleman, the wolf stabbed his left thigh near the knee, dragging the blade upward right along the bone, severing several important ligaments and arteries in a heartbeat. Shoving the stricken man over before he could even scream, the wolf faced the next, a man who had drawn another parang and was bringing it down in an overhead chop that might have been useful for breaking a log, but was hardly effective in a battle. Catching the blade with the hand guard of one knife, Fang's other hand darted out three times in rapid succession, stabbing once in the man's shoulder, the next near his heart and finally in his gut. Moving to the last man standing, the wolf kicked the knee of his front foot hard, then spun on the ball of his foot, catching the man's forehead with a powerful reverse sidekick. As he fell, the wolf continued the motion, bringing one hand down into his chest, leaving the knife stuck there. Finally, completing the last spin, he threw the other combat knife upward, nailing the man in the tower even as he drew a bead on the wolf, his burst going wide, off target. That lightning performance was apparently too much for the other two men in the courtyard, who had been standing guard at hole in the wall. Both turned and ran, but it was much too late for them. Drawing a throwing knife in each hand, Fang ran after them, reaching the hole in the wall before they had taken ten steps out from it. Cocking back his arm, Fang threw one knife and then the other, sending both men sprawling into the snow. Turning back towards the central building, the wolf found four more men emerging from it, carrying weapons, but the moment they saw him, they turned around and started running for the building, probably intending to shut him out, all but one of them that is.

Either terrified into standing his ground, or braver by far than the others, one man was taking aim on the wolf with his rifle. It was a long distance for his small throwing knives, but the Killer side didn't care. Drawing a knife and throwing all in one motion, the wolf moved into a dead sprint, chasing the throwing blade as it sped towards its target. All of the practice in the training room seemed to have made the difference, because the brave one staggered, looking down at the blade that now protruded from the side of his chest, between his ribs, with something akin to disbelief. Even as he was falling, Fang was past him into the building, a sharp knife in hand. The first of the three who had run fell there, having slipped on the melting snow in the threshold. Fang delivered a stab with a throwing knife without even breaking stride, leaving the weapon behind as he passed. The second made it almost into the eating room before another of Fang's knives sent him sprawling into the table, scattering game tiles all over the place. The last man must have been a runner in civilian life, because he was fast enough to make it all the way up to the armory before the wolf caught up with him.

Fang emerged from the stairwell in a crouch, which probably saved his life, a bullet from the insurgent's assault rifle almost clipping his ear as he topped the last stair. Rolling forward on his shoulder from the top of the stairs, Fang avoided another burst, coming up behind a stack of ammunition boxes. The roaring in his ears was already fading, the adrenaline dying down within him, and he could hear the man's panic in his panting. He could almost smell the terrorist's fear, a scent that kindled a deep, primal satisfaction in Fang's heart. Looking to his left, he saw the obvious route to get to his target, moving from one stack of boxes to another, and, naturally, he distrusted it. Instead, he turned right, dodging suddenly around the corner and throwing a knife that appeared in his hand as if by magic even as he dove behind a rack of guns. A metallic clang signaled that the weapon had down what he intended. Moving quickly now, the wolf ran around the rack, headed for the terrified soldier, who was clutching his trigger hand, the knife having sheered through the trigger guard, severing his finger in the process. Before he could react, Fang was on him, not even bothering with a knife. The man's fear had kindled the predatory urges in the wolf's heart, urges that had but one cure. Clamping his jaws hard on the man's neck, he sank his fangs deep. But this time, he didn't rip and tear. Instead, he held his jaws tightly closed until he felt the pulse of his blood cease, the terrorist twitching and jerking in his grasp. Finally, when he became still, Fang withdrew his namesake from his prey, the taste of blood satisfying the instinct. But he couldn't savor the kill, this time he had learned his lesson.

Moving back down the building, collecting his knives as he went, Fang checked every room, and every corner to make sure he hadn't missed anyone. Then, he made swift rounds around the compound, checking everything with a hunter's instinct, the adrenaline still burning within him. Then, finally, standing on the threshold of the compound, he took a moment to clean his weapons in the snow, the killer fading back into the background of his mind, the cold, detached and calculating presence taking over once more, running down the checklist in his mind. Every building now held only corpses, he had recollected every one of his knives, and every set of tread marks in the show, inside the compound and out, ended at a parked vehicle. No one was surprising him this time. He had even taken the time to wreck the second radar system just as he had the first. He had done it, done what the rational part of his mind said couldn't be done. Sheathing his last knife, he paused to take a breath and suddenly sagged against the wall, wincing.

His left arm, all the way from his shoulder to his fingertips suddenly started to ache, and his leg felt like he had over-extended every ligament in it by slipping on the ice. Worse, as he rubbed his left arm with his right hand, a searing hot pain lanced across it and he found a bloody hole in the fur of his bicep, something that was clearly a bullet wound, a through and through, missing the bone only because the tough muscle had deflected it slightly. When did that happen? Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, he looked at himself, finally examining his body. Small cuts stood out everywhere in his fur, either shrapnel or splinters from the broken door, not to mention the long slices and the raw patches on his wrists from being bound to the chair and tortured.

A sudden wave of drowsiness that felt only partly artificial suddenly made him aware of just how drained he felt. The adrenaline high was gone, and though he was through the worst of the sedatives now, they still lingered, now exacerbated by exhaustion. He had never felt quite this tired before. It was all he could do not to slump down where he was. And, with the storm clearing, coupled with his thick, warm fur, like a constant fuzzy blanket, it wouldn't be uncomfortable to just curl up here and sleep, now that he was all alone...

Frowning, Fang mulled that thought over in his head for a moment. Part of that was important, and for more than just the reason of him being tired. But why? Then, suddenly, his tired ears perked up and he looked at the clearing sky. Too quiet for anyone else to hear, he had caught a sound he recognized, a sound that sent a chill down his spine. Not engines this time, but rotors. The Special Ops team was moving in. Don't just stand there, you idiot!!! He told himself; he was supposed to be long gone before now. What direction would they come from? Could he get far enough away in time? Panic started to set in and Fang started off along the cliff top, jogging as fast as he could move in his exhaustion, running in the direction he had first come. But there was no way he could get out of sight of aircraft fast enough, not moving this slow. The sound of the choppers was already getting louder. Out of options, Fang reached for the adrenal boost one last time, quickly checking the display, hoping it was still of use. It was only at minimum capacity, at most enough for a single dose, probably a lot less.

He knew exactly what was going to happen after the last dose wore off, what he was risking out here. Klein had warned him about that too, telling him that if he used all of it in rapid succession like he had just done, it would almost certainly trigger adrenal fatigue, and the resulting crash could well put him in a coma. But if he got caught by the Special Ops group, he would probably be shot, if not then, then when he was finally retrieved. He had no choice.

As the heat of adrenaline hit him again, Fang picked up his pace, running down the valley recklessly fast, hoping from one cluster of boulders to another. But the heat felt different this time, merely warm, rather than ferociously hot as it had before. That was not a good sign, and he knew it. He body, inured to the presence of much more adrenaline than that, was already growing weaker. Worse, the pain from his injuries seemed almost doubled in its presence, but, reaching a flat patch between boulder fields, he lowered his head and forced his tired legs on.

A few minutes later, the compound was just out of sight behind him when he felt his legs suddenly turn to jelly and he fell painfully to his knees, putting his hands out to catch himself. The sudden jolt of pain sent a wave of nausea through him and he gagged, acid burning his throat, though nothing came up. That unpleasant experience was probably the most lucky timing he had ever had, because, while he was on all fours coughing, trying to resist the sudden urge to hurl all over the mountain side, the shadow of a helicopter passed right over him, and he froze on instinct. If he hadn't been down like that, they would certainly have spotted him. As the shadow disappeared around the bend, an odd thought occurred to him. Going as fast as they were, even if they had spotted him among the grey stones and white snow, they would probably assume he really was a wolf, a four legged one, and think nothing more of the sighting. Panting, his breath ragged, Fang tried to force himself back up to his feet to go on, just a little bit further, but his muscles wouldn't cooperate with him, merely trembling instead. Alright, you win._He said to his body. _No more running for a while. Looking around, he spied a ledge under a cliff face nearby, an overhang that created a nice alcove under it, a sheltered space where it might be safe enough to rest for a while until he got his strength back.

It was only about fifty feet away, but it took him almost ten minutes of agony, forcing exhausted and throbbing muscles to move, scraping his skin and fur on rocks, to cross the distance and finally slump down under the cliff face. Letting out a groan, he finally settled into a sitting position against the face, but that, he knew, was it for a while, no more moving. He shivered, feeling a little chilled, the heat of the adrenaline leaving him at last, and he lay back, closing his eyes, a thunderous yawn nearly splitting his head in half. Lying still even for a few moments felt pleasant, his muscles going limp. He had never felt this weak... It seemed like a tremendous effort just to open his eyes and look up at the sky, and asking his body to get back up felt tantamount to asking it to climb to the moon. Finally, after a few minutes, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder when he had eaten last. According to the mission clock in the corner of his display, he had been in the field a couple of days now, which made it two and half days since he had last had some food, since he hadn't eaten on the plane. No wonder he was tired. But even eating seemed like a task beyond his capabilities. He was simply too tired.

Suddenly, Fang felt unbelievably exhausted, so much so that only a rough edge in the rock against his spine kept him from dropping off immediately. Was he far enough away from the compound for the Special Ops group to miss him? Could he risk sleeping and still make it to rendezvous? Really,_Fang reflected as he summoned all his will to tilt over onto the smooth stone, curling up as tight as he could on instinct to preserve the warmth of his fur, _its all academic. He had to sleep. There was no going on without it. Closing his eyes, the wolf found the most comfortable bit of stone to put his head on and began to drift off. But even as his awareness faded, he suddenly wondered if the drugs had cleared fully or not. He could almost swear that he heard voices...

***

"Still no sign?" Klein inquired, watching as the infrared satellite display centered on the compound, brilliant trails tracing bullets as it was assaulted from all directions at once. From the look of things, the Special Ops soldiers had caught the insurgents completely unprepared, the firefight over very quickly.

"None." Archer replied, his eyes glued to the display as the forces marked with IR strobes moved in, breaching the walls at three different points. "1275's transponder is still offline, I take it?"

"Yes, but the bio sensor is still transmitting," Klein said, his frustration clear in his voice. "From its data, it looks like he is alive, but injured, and unconscious, maybe even asleep, but that is about all I can tell. For all I know, he might even be a prisoner in the compound."

"No, the comm traffic says different." The Director replied, shaking his head. "From the transmissions we intercepted yesterday, it sounds like he followed his orders, despite the mis-timing."

"You know, Wickam," Dr. Klein began, giving the director a reproachful glare. "I can think of far better targets for Fang's first field test than a terrorist compound with reinforcements on the way. We send large teams of operatives on such missions for a damn good reason."

"Oh shut up, Connor." The director snapped, clearly annoyed. "You know as well as I do how disappointed the board has been with this whole business. This was the first opportunity to come along with proper conditions for 'Fang' to test his skills on. If we hadn't sent him, then the board would have wanted to know why and I still can't think of a reason that would satisfy them. This is why the program exists."

"I know that," The scientist snarled in answer. "I'm just worried. He should have been at the rendezvous point yesterday at the latest. If he isn't at the compound, and he isn't at the LZ, then where did he go?"

"I understand that Doctor." Archer admonished. "But if he disobeyed orders and ran off, what do you expect me to do? Fang has always been defiant."

"The extraction units are still in the area. Send them to look for him." Klein suggested. "Even as tough as Fang is, he could only have gotten so far."

"Are you nuts? With Special Ops crawling all over the valley? Doctor, need I remind you that even to our own side, we do not exist?" Archer said, holding up a hand to forestall the scientist's arguments. "I don't want to lose a prototype on its first deployment either. But we can't let the Spec ops command know that our program was responsible. That would lead to questions that might just shut us down for good. I'll send out a search, but not until they are gone. They aren't going to stay very long anyway. Protocol is to hang around just long enough to confirm that they got their targets."

"Fine Director, have it your way." Klein said, rolling his eyes and heading out of the room, his pace angry. "I have work to do, Director. Do please let me know if you find him."