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.
The large old stone building was perfect to suit their needs. It had many bedrooms, stables, kitchens, and other things required for a large number of people to be living all at one place. That, and it was surrounded by a tall stone wall for defense which doubled as blocking the view of wolves from nosy passersby.
The wolves had all heard the stories the locals liked to tell about the building. The most common theory was that the building was haunted by an old disemboweled general, angry that his fort was given over to the British. Other people claimed the site was like Area 51 and was some kind of center for government experiments or the covering up of aliens. The old man whose farm touched the edge of the fort even went as far as to claim that he saw wolves in the forest, picking off his chickens and leaving prints on his land. He said the fort was certainly not abandoned, and that it was jam packed with shifters--- half humans.
The wolves pondered taking care of him, but his stories weren't plausible enough to make it very far and he wasn't seen as a threat.
As far as the wolves were concerned, their neighbors never needed to know how close they were to discovering the truth. The gates remained locked up tight, and the other world housed within the high stone walls remained obscure. Inside the walls nature and humanity coexisted, they overlapped. It was a world where nothing was simply just one thing, a world where things shifted and changed all the time. It was also the home base and pack house of the Gibbous Moon pack, one of the largest packs across the Northeastern Quadrant of the United States.
They ran several "distilleries'' as footholds within their territory-- all the way from Buffalo to Albany. That made them the second largest wolf pack in New York, and the general northern area. They had a fierce bitter rivalry with the downstate wolves from New York City, and each pack had to be careful to keep suspicious information out of the other pack's hands.
With the death of Jonathan Midas, Sampson's father, things were even more on edge between the wolf groups as many suspected their rival wolves as taking out their alpha to leave them vulnerable. It worked.
They were extremely vulnerable.
Sampson let his adrenaline pump through his veins and moved his legs like a well oiled machine.
The wind whizzed, the sounds schussed, the pain fizzled. He could focus on nothing else but victory. He tore through the large open gates of the pack house and kept running. Once he'd gotten several yards inside he dropped down onto the grass next to the path and let his head fall back with a sigh.
His barreled chest rose and fell harshly as he struggled to catch his breath. Being winded was an uncommon experience for Sampson, but he craved it because it meant he'd pushed himself. The faster he got, the harder it was to push himself.
"Nice run, mate?" A voice called from above Sampson's head. The man pulled his hand to cover his sweat soaked brow and block the meager rays of sunrise that were suddenly blinding to him.
"Issac?" Sampson asked with slight confusion, his chest still shifting rapidly. "How'd you know I'd be out here?"
"You're always out here, bro." Issac shrugged. As Sampson's eyes adjusted his friend came into view. Issac was a few years older than Sampson, somewhere between twenty eight and thirty, and one of Sampson's few friends. The man had curly blondish hair that matched his light brown wolf, and a slight bit of stubble across his chin. He himself stood in a shadow cast by the high walls of the fort, so the hints of sun only affected Sampson. In the darkness, Issac's eyes glowed a friendly amber.
"I want to shave a couple seconds off my time." Sampson grunted.
"Here." Issac said, and tossed Sampson a water. The man took it graciously and downed half in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. When he pulled the water from his lips he poured some onto his head and shook it, the drips flying off the tips of his dark brown hair. "Here I was figuring you'd finally take a day off."
"No days off." Sampson wheezed, patting his chest as he choked on the water. "I don't have time for days off."
"Not usually, but given the peculiar situation of the last few days I figured you'd want to revel in things a bit more."
Sampson shook his head gruffly. He didn't have time to revel, not with the precarious situation he was in. He had to train.
Issac was right though, he supposed, at least in asserting that the last few days had been nothing short of miraculous for Sampson. Elijah, his brother, had left the pack and it was like a giant weight had been lifted off Sampson's shoulders. No more was there a constant comparison to look at. No more was there a constant reminder that Sampson hadn't been born as an Alpha, but an Omega. Nothing was there but peace and tranquility. Elijah never left the pack house, but Sampson was hit with the sudden urge to spend the rest of his life away from the boy.
Still, peace couldn't last. Elijah hadn't left on some useless joyride, but to look for a mate. Once Elijah returned with his mate it was all over. Everything Sampson had spent his life working towards would go down the drain and he'd be left with nothing.
"You see my mom last night?" Sampson asked after a moment.
"Yeah... she was struggling," Issac admitted. Bianca Midas had been tasked with giving a speech to address the current situation to the restless pack. She carried no authority and had no strong voice to speak of. The entire affair was an absolute mess.
"That'd be me if I tried to make any type of speech." Sampson shook his head angrily. "I'd stutter over my words and shit. Nobody would listen to me. Maybe my dad was right all along."
"Dude, your mom is grieving.... besides, just because you're both omegas doesn't mean that you can't be any better at speaking than she is."
Sampson shook his head, and poured the rest of the water bottle over his dark brown hair. That was precisely what it meant. Any time Sampson ever had to speak in public he tripped over his words and ran off in a fit of embarrassment. Omegas were not meant to be leaders, and his dad had never let him forget it.
In the aftermath of his father's death it was Elijah who made the speeches, Elijah who conversed with the other packs, and Elijah who led. Despite their mother's protests, it was Elijah who ran the pack in their father's absence, and it was only Elijah who was capable of doing so. Sampson didn't care enough to speak at his father's funeral, even to try. It was Elijah and his mother's grief. He felt no grief.
"I don't have time to be happy." Sampson spat bitterly. "When Elijah comes back he can toss me from the pack and not even face repercussions. I have to be better by the time he gets back. Make a showing for myself."
"You're faster than him already."
"But he's stronger than me. Running away from him won't get me anywhere. Not anywhere I haven't been before."
"Well I won't let him throw you out," Issac asserted with his arms crossed. "How's about that?"
"You're just a delta wolf. He won't listen to you." Sampson argued. Delta wolves were third in command in packs, but Elijah wasn't one to take counsel, and he'd never liked Issac.
"You and I both know this pack ought to be yours."
Sampson said nothing. He did think that, of course. To take over the pack when the father died ought to be the birthright of a firstborn and his nature had stolen that from him. He wasn't born to lead, and therefore all he could ever do was disappoint his father. All Sampson's life he was the failure of a first shot before his father finally got the precious Alpha he'd always wanted.
"Doesn't matter. Elijah's coming back with a mate, so why bother."
"You think your brother can find somebody to put up with him? Besides, a mate is just a setback anyway. One day you'll be the leader of this pack. You've got more strength in you than you know." Issac prodded. "Come on, sourpuss. Let's get some breakfast for you."
Issac reached out his hand, and Sampson clasped his own and roughly hoisted himself up, the muscles in his arms flexing as he did so.
He was athletic, and his body showed his might. Sampson's arms were large and muscular, flexing and taught as he moved. The sleeves of his green tee shirt were barely able to contain his arms and his thighs spilled out beneath his gray running shorts. Exercise in human form was paying off for him, but Alpha's were naturally stronger so it would never be enough to take on Elijah.
Sampson didn't ask to be an omega, it wasn't like he wanted to be one. It was something out of his control, and yet their father had always resented him for it. Sampson's father could never let him forget that he was the largest failure of the man's life. And after everything it was hard for Sampson to admit, but he was glad his father was dead.
He did mourn at the funeral, but not the loving father he had, but for the man his father could have and should have been. He mourned not for his father, but for the father he never got to have.
All his life he'd been jealous of his brother, he'd been disrespected by the pack, and humiliated by a father who constantly used Elijah as an excuse to push him down. For now Sampson was free and able to express himself. He wasn't stifled anymore.
But it was temporary, he reminded himself. Soon Elijah will return, bringing with him a mate, and ascend to leadership in the pack.
Sampson could hardly stand it. He didn't want to leave, he would never trust Elijah with his mother and the rest of his pack mates, but it was going to get ten times more difficult once Elijah was Alpha. He'd hoped and tried to convince himself that this day would never come, but it did. That was the one true sadness he had for the death of his father.
Issac led Sampson through the courtyard of the pack house, past the ivy covered stone artillery buildings, and into what had once been the soldiers main dining hall that was located to the left of the center building. The structure was tall and imposing with slits for windows and spots for guns of defense on the roof. Sampson liked that the soldiers dining hall was still the wolves dining hall, it was like the hall remained for a different kind of soldier.
The inside of the building had simple stone walls and floors and was generally uninsulated. Wolves were naturally warm and required less heating than humans, so the drafty halls of an army fort were more than comfortable to them.
The room retained its old fashioned charm with a large wooden chandelier in the center and several wooden tables. They had white table cloths on them, but underneath most of the tabletops were just slabs of wood. Omega wolves, excepting Sampson, did many of the chores in the pack. Everything worked together like a well oiled machine.
Omega's were the backbone of the pack. They carried out much of the day to day necessities that were done. Alphas, betas, and deltas led and instructed them, as well as handling outside crises as they arose. But nothing would get done without the workers. Sure, alphas, betas, and deltas hunted, trained, and fought as well, but they had no man power. The leadership worked on the consent of the governed, and omegas were perfectly suited for obedience.
Nobody in the pack worked for a wage— perhaps that was how it was done elsewhere, but not in the Gibbous pack. The wolves lived in a community. They shared all the food and resources. They all ate and were full, and nobody went without. When a wolf was ill the others worked to pick up the slack, each knowing it might one day be them.
The alpha was the top of the food chain. He approved the clothing that was distributed, the food that was made, and the deals that were passed. It was he who worked with the other packs to pick up what was missing. It was he who facilitated relations within and outside of the pack.
Most packs had some kind of industry they specialized in. There were packs that manufactured clothing, packs that built cars, and packs that crafted furniture among other things. What the wolves couldn't get from other packs, they got from trading with the government or regular human manufacturers. The Gibbous Moon Pack, perhaps uselessly distilled whiskey as their business. Whiskey was therefore part of the culture of the pack and ingrained into their way of life. Elijah and Sampson had learned the inner working of the park at their father's knee. The alpha functioned much like a CEO. The pack operated something like a mafia in that way.
Jonathan Midas was a meticulous and beloved Alpha. He turned his role into a science, an art form, and he mastered it. Within the eyes of the pack he was a steadfast leader and loving father. He was only the latter to one of his sons. While Elijah sat on his father's lap and learned the tricks of the trade, Sampson waited outside the door and listened on in secret.
Only once his father had seen him, but he said nothing. Jonathan Midas didn't object, he didn't invite his son in to watch, he just said nothing.
The sun streamed through the slits in the stone wall casting beams of light across the stone floor of the dining room, and Elijah watched as attendant wolves rushed around getting the day's food ready. One of them, a wolf he'd known since childhood, paused to nod her head to him as she passed. Most of the others avoided eye contact with him.
A few more wolves filtered in after Sampson and Issac chatted quietly amongst themselves. Breakfast wasn't typically as organized of a meal as lunch or dinner, but mainly a grab and go venture. At the back of the room a long table had been set up bearing fruit, a platter of eggs, yogurt, oatmeal, cereal, and other foods for the wolves. Those who had arrived early in the morning got the first choice of what was set out.
"You should eat," Issac suggested.
"I'll eat after training," Sampson explained grumpily.
"Go eat." Issac commanded this time with more authority. Sampson looked up from his seat at the table and eyed him with subtle resentment. Issac's tone was that of a delta, and as an omega it was instinct for Sampson to obey him.
"Fine." Sampson angrily obliged, standing to grab a banana. Omegas were easy to order around because they naturally craved the appreciation that came with obedience and longed to follow orders. To Sampson it was yet another reminder that he wasn't an alpha; a reminder that encroached on his free will. Every bone in his body screamed against him as his mind insisted he follow the delta's orders.
When Sampson returned, Issac had already gone to the other cart and gotten himself a cup of coffee. He sipped it with anticipation as Sampson angrily ate his pathetic banana, taking care with the fact that eating so soon after and before a run made him feel like he was going to throw up.
"They think you're a pushover." Issac said after a third wolf avoided eye contact as he passed over the table. Those who knew Sampson would show him respect, but those who didn't saw him as a scheming weak pushover trying to steal the Alpha-ship from Elijah. Issac too was implicated in their so-called treason by this logic. "If... and I do mean if you want to lead, then you need to prove them wrong."
"How do you suppose I do that?" Sampson asked, as he choked down the last of the banana.
"You find out if Elijah really has a mate."
"And if he doesn't?" Sampson raised an eyebrow.
"Let's pray he does," Issac crossed his arms. "If he doesn't, we attack him while he's on the move and at his weakest."
"And if he does?"
"That's easy," Issac shrugged. "We kill his mate."