The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Vengeance

Sampson Midas' sneaker splashed through a muddy puddle of rain as he sprinted around the perimeter of the pack house. He was a loner, more than enjoying being alone, he thrived on it. For this reason Sampson would always wake up before the rest of the pack and begin training early. While the other wolves slept in their beds, he was already out forcing his way across uneven terrain and pushing the muscles in his toned legs to the limits.

The sun had yet to rise above the tips of the trees and the forest floor remained completely decimated in darkness. Sampson, a wolf, was able to see a little better than humans, but only being an omega meant even he occasionally lost his footing. The sky was tinged with red and orange warning that the rest of the wolves would be awakening within the next hour. The moon, which had been full the night prior, was still bright and visible on the horizon.

To Sampson it was a symbol of hope but also held a foreboding sense. When the next full moon rose he'd know his own fate.

Werewolves had very strict workout regimens and loved to stay in shape. It was necessary for protection of pack lands, but competition among wolves also built camaraderie in the pack. Issac, Sampson's closest ally wolf, often likened the average wolf to a typical gym bro: obsessed with gains, competitive, and a little sloppy. Sampson wasn't sure if he totally agreed with that assessment, but he would admit that wolves loved to keep in peak physical form, perhaps more than anything else.

Being a Sunday, they were meant to train as humans. Had Sampson been able to be in his wolf form he could have shaved minutes off his time, but his human form needed work too. Working out alone and early wasn't anything new to Sampson. The man was always the first to train and always stayed the latest. He would run and run until he couldn't any longer, blowing past every other wolf in the pack. Later, when the rest of the wolves woke up, they ran sprints on the track and Sampson would push past them easily. He was the fastest man in the pack, by a long shot. He could race the fastest wolves in the province without even breaking a sweat.

He wasn't the strongest in the pack, though, and no matter how hard he trained there was a certain someone he couldn't surpass.

Despite his athletic prowess, Sampson was sweating. He was pushing even harder than normal, and his face darkened to a glare as he whizzed under a low hanging tree branch and popped back up with even more vigor. It wasn't a glare of anger, rather one of raw determination. His whole body burned and ached, and yet he'd never felt more alive in his whole life.

Something about running softened his soul, made him feel more alive, more human. He loved running-- more so as a wolf-- but really in any form. Had his mind not been so heavy with the burdens of the time he might have allowed himself an easy breezy smile. While running, he was independent, he was speedy, but most of all he was liberated. Nobody could tell him what to do, no instincts could force him to comply. All that could touch Sampson were his own physical limits, and he would spend his whole life trying to irradiate those. Sampson never felt more free than when he was running, that's why he ran so often.

His glare deepened to a scowl as he dodged a tree swiftly with finesse and sped up his pace quicker, pumping his fists and propelling himself forward. He was untouchable. He was unbeatable. When Sampson was alone in the woods, nothing could bother him. Nothing could reach him. If only it could always be like that.

Sampson wanted to smile. He wanted to be happy. In fact, the few days prior had probably been the best of his whole life. It was like every problem had simply handled itself and disappeared. This fueled Sampson's final lap around the stone walls of the fort-turned-packhouse.

The packhouse was a former military fort built just a few miles from the city of buffalo during the War of 1812. When British forces burned the city to the ground, For Madison survived and was captured, only to be returned by the army at the end of the war. Seeing as how war never broke out again between the two nations, the fort fell into disrepair and was purchased by the wolves.