bite the hand that feeds you

Ishmael spent most of his life as a human. Grew up an orphan, collected PhDs like comic books, built and invented and perfected. Machines are the future, his creations will outlive them all, and he had an inkling of plans for world domination. After all, shouldn’t the smartest be in charge? Shouldn’t that be the natural order of things?

He gets recruited for the government, agrees because the contract comes with a fancy lab and funding and all the building materials he could want. He regrets that now. Maybe he would still be human, still be in control of his life if he accepted job offers from universities.

He just turned fifty when he goes on a mission to test his robotic creations against a monster, a rogue werewolf hiding in Yellowstone Park. Werewolves are hunted down and killed in America like all monsters are. No trial, no rights, just a silver bullet through the head. He puts his tracking training to the test and sends out his drones to look for signs of the beast as he stays safe in his mobile lab.

The werewolf found him first.

It tore through the reinforced door like it was paper. Ishmael had a gun with silver bullets and fired. Missed because he’s a terrible shot. The werewolf tackled him to the ground and bit into his shoulder. Bone crunched, muscle tore, he screamed and screamed. His other hand found the dropped gun and shot the monster at point blank range. Ishmael didn’t miss that time.

He didn’t die. He Changed. A monster was inside of him now, howling to be unleashed. His intellect, his genius, it’s snuffed out in the inferno of madness and rage.

The government captures him alive and decides to keep him. Their pet scientist turned into a pet monster. He’s confined to his lab and quarters on a blacksite and told to keep himself useful or be executed. Hilariously, they still pay him a salary, still expect him to go to meetings, to act human instead of a monster.

He transforms, kills, and eats three government agents, one general, and two assistants before Commander Robins intervenes.

Ishmael is digging through the insides of a malfunctioning drone when the lab doors open. He sniffs the air. Robins and a new scent. His lips twitch up into a snarl when he realizes: a werewolf.

He turns to see a man standing next to Robins. He’s wearing an all black suit and looks to be in his mid-thirties, has a well trimmed beard and short black hair.

“Good morning, Ishmael-”

“What is this, Robins,” Ishmael cuts him off with a scoff, “Some sort of puppy play date?” He gestures with his wrench at the other man, who gives him a small smile. Eugh.

“This is Agent Samir. He’s a recently turned werewolf, and I’m assigning him to you. He’ll be your assistant. Unlike you, he has free reign of the base.”

“And why is that?” Ishmael asks sourly. “He’s been a good boy? Gets a longer leash than the big, bad wolf?”

Robins sighs. “He hasn’t killed anyone, no. Should he do so, that will change.”

Ishmael flaps a gloved hand. “Whatever. You got me an assistant that’s harder to kill, congratulations. We’ll see if he lasts the week.”

Commander Robins sighs and walks away. The lab door hisses shut and locks behind him.

Samir hasn’t moved, his eyes scanning the lab, arms behind his back. Ishmael stands and marches up to him, gets in his face. He knows he’s giving off an aggressive, challenging scent, putting everything into ‘don’t fuck with me.’

Samir stands straighter- he’s shorter than Ishmael, but not by much- and tilts his head up, staring at him calmly with big brown eyes. The man has a weaker scent, conveying ‘back off,’ but it was so soft and subtle Ishmael could barely tell it’s there.

“Who’s in charge here?” He demands. The man blinks and opens his mouth to respond. Quick as a whip, Ishmael slams his hand over that impudent mouth.

“Me. That’s who. I don’t give a fuck that you’re also a werewolf- disobey me, try to push me around, and I’ll rip you to shreds. I’m Doctor Ishmael, the smartest man in the world, and I don’t have time for idiots who shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe in my presence, and I definitely don’t have time to teach a werewolf manners,” he says fiercely, and takes his hand off Samir’s mouth, wipes it on the man’s suit.

They stare at each other. Anger bubbles up in Ishmael at the silence. “Well, mutt? Anything to say for yourself?”

Samir blinks again and smiles faintly. “You’ll find I come well trained, sir,” and then- bares his neck submissively. For Ishmael. It makes his brain crash to a halt, staring down at the expanse of neck. That’s not fair! He shouldn’t be able to- to do something like that!

Ishmael growls and turns away, stomping back over to his desk. “Go get me some coffee!” He orders, and sits back down in his chair, glaring at the broken drone.

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Samir is an unusual man- an even more unusual werewolf. Ishmael constantly poked and prodded, trying to get a rise out of him, but he never bit. He set to the tasks Ishmael assigned him diligently and happily, going as far as to compliment him on his genius.

The one time Ishmael used his super strength on him- Samir suggested he gets some rest after accidentally miswiring a project at 2am- he grabbed him by the lapels of his suit and slammed him up against the wall, pinning him in place.

Before he could snarl at Samir for babying him, the man started growling loudly, low in the back of his throat. The noise, admittedly, rattled him, and Ishmael dropped him immediately and stepped back.

The growling stopped and Samir brushed himself off, giving Ishmael a nervous look. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean it. You just startled me.”

Ishmael huffs. “It’s- it’s fine. I’ll just tell you to do it yourself next time.”

“What?” Samir seemed genuinely confused, and he rolled his eyes.

“Back against the wall,” Ishmael commanded, his scent sharpening to ‘that’s an order.’

Samir drops back on his heels. He bares his neck, eyes looking down, scent soft and calming. Better. Ishmael slams his hands on either side of Samir’s head.

“Don’t you ever tell me what to do again. Don’t you ever think for a second you know better than me, you are nothing compared to my genius. You’re lucky I don’t put you down like a dog, order my bots to put a silver bullet in your skull, no one would miss you and no one would mourn you, you fucking mongrel. So shut up, do your fucking job, and get me another coffee.” He slammed a fist next to Samir’s head and the man just looked up at him with those annoyingly huge brown eyes.

Ishmael whirled away, Samir left, and he’s haunted by the feeling in his chest when the man growled at him.

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It’s three weeks into Samir working as his assistant when Ishmael is ordered to be at a meeting between Robins and several of the generals. It’s over his new tank, designed to be werewolf proof.

Ishmael gives the presentation, standing in the front of the room and answering the generals' annoying and idiotic questions. His temper is rising and rising. How do we cut costs? You don’t unless you want werewolves to cut it to ribbons. Can you modify this, modify that, redesign the look, how does this work, blah blah blah so fucking boring he wants to rip his hair out.

“Why should we even trust Ishmael with this project anyways? He’s a monster himself,” says one of the generals, and Ishmael’s scent is turning sour, into ‘kill kill kill.’

“Commander Robins, if we could take a break-” Samir starts, only for that same general to cut him off with a sharp,

“Agent Samir, sit.”

Samir folds like he’s been slapped, dropping down to his knees and baring his neck. For the general. For the fucking general.

Red fills Ishmael’s vision and he finally snaps. He Turns.

Outside of the full moon, a werewolf’s change is excruciating. He can feel his flesh ripping apart, his bones breaking, extending, growing, his muscles shifting with them as his clothes are torn to pieces. Claws burst through his fingertips, his gloves destroyed as his hands morph into paws. Fur breaks through his skin everywhere, painful prickling of itchy pain. His skull creaks terrifyingly loud as his face elongates, sharpened teeth bursting forth from his gums. He falls to his knees as his legs begin to morph and twist, clawed feet destroying his shoes.

It’s unnatural, it’s monstrous, it’s terrifying even as it’s happening. His scream of pain turns into a deep howl. His hearing is so much more sensitive now and rings with the sounds of men screaming. His heart pounds and pounds, he’s growing, he’s shifting, he’s dying- no, he’s alive, alive, alive…

Then he’s not Ishmael anymore. He’s the Wolf, and he has a general to kill.

He doesn’t remember anything when he’s the Wolf, only the pulses of rage and kill and tear. Sometimes when he dreams he sees flashes. For the first time, there is confusion and protect and pack?

When he wakes, everything hurts. And he’s not cold and covered with blood and worse. Strange. He’s warm, and his head is on something soft, and a hand is running through his hair. Ishmael lets out a groan, lifts a shaky hand to his face and wipes away the tears there.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” Samir’s calm voice is right above him. He opens his eyes and sees a naked Samir looking at him with concern. Did he transform too?

He looks down. He’s… wearing Samir’s suit. It’s small on him, the shirt and jacket are unbuttoned and the pants stopping a few inches above his ankle. He even has black socks on.

“What… happened.” His voice is hoarse, and he coughs.

“You transformed and went after the general, but I was able to herd you away. After about an hour, you transformed back and were unconscious. I didn’t think you’d appreciate waking up naked, so I put my clothes on you. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous, sir.”

What? “You… herded me.” He looks up at Samir, whose mouth twitches like he’s trying to fight off a smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“Doctor,” he absentmindedly corrects. “And I didn’t kill anyone?”

“No, Doctor.”

“That’s a first.” He pushes himself up with a groan. His bones ache. His muscles throb. He’s tender, everywhere. Samir helps him off the ground. The man is only wearing black boxers, and it leaves little to the imagination. Ishmael’s eyes trail down lean muscle, scars from bullets and surgery, hairy arms and chest. Handsome… he finds himself thinking.

“Samir…” he says hesitantly.

“Yes, Doctor?” Samir’s eyes are shining with… something.

“Good job,” he grumbles. “Let’s get back to the lab.”

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It's been three months since Samir became his assistant when the government had the bright idea to take him away for a mission.

“No,” Ishmael says firmly, stepping to stand in front of Samir. Robins raises an eyebrow at him. “I need him. He’s my assistant.”

“Don’t be a petulant child, Ishmael,” Robins sounds disappointed, which, fuck him, “He’s the government’s agent, not yours. And our only werewolf on staff other than you. We need him on this mission.”

“At least let me come in the mobile lab. I’ll back him up with my robots,” Ishmael tries to bargain, and wants to scream when Robins just shakes his head.

“This mission requires… subtlety.”

“What’s subtle about a fucking werewolf?!” He needs to throw something. He should throw his screwdriver at Robins’ big fat head.

“I’m not going to argue with you about this. Come along, Agent Samir.” Robins orders. Samir takes a hesitant step next to Ishmael, scent acrid and thick. Nervous. Ishmael instinctively reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing tight.

Robins sighs. “Samir. Heel.” Samir’s face goes blank. He tugs his hand free and walks over to Robins’ side. They leave the lab, the door closing and locking as Ishmael shouts and hurls the screwdriver at it.

Samir being away is terrible. The lab smells wrong without him. Too much Ishmael, too angry and frazzled and worried. He throws himself into his projects. It doesn’t help. He can’t do anything about it, is cut off from the government’s system so he can’t even hack his way into Samir’s mission details. The Wolf gets louder and louder as the days pass, his skin not settling right.

He refuses to eat. Throws the meals back in the agents faces- the agents who aren’t Samir, who should be glad he isn’t ripping them to shreds. His drone bots float around the lab on high alert, bumping into him when he stares at the door for too long.

And then, eleven days later, Samir returns. Ishmael hears the door open while ripping apart an old prototype. He picks up a sledgehammer, prepared to throw, only to drop it when he smells that familiar, gentle scent.

“Samir?” “Doctor?”

He leaps up and bounds out of the back of the lab to see Samir carrying a meal tray. He’s wearing his usual black suit, but his hair is much longer, going down past his ears, his beard thicker. Samir gives him a tired smile.

“I came as soon as I could- they said you aren’t eating?” Worried, missed you scents begin mixing in the air, Ishmael’s overpowering Samir’s as usual. He breathes it in as he walks forward, relief coursing through him.

He takes the tray from Samir and slides it onto the desk. He turns back and grabs Samir’s arms. “You’re okay?”

Samir nods, smiling and looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Ishmael wants to kiss him, to hold him tight and never let him go. Samir sniffs the air and blushes.

“Doctor, I…” Samir sighs, scent becoming cloying and sweet, and bares his neck. He knows what to do this time. He leans down, nuzzling the skin there. Samir whines, high in his throat, and it’s enough to make him bite down hard. Mine, both him and his scent are one, mine, mine, mine.

“Yours,” Samir gasps, and Ishmael breaks the skin, tastes blood. Samir whimpers and he licks at the wound, wondering if it’ll scar. He hopes it does. He wants, no he needs everyone to know.

Ishmael draws back, stares into Samir’s eyes. The other man is blushing and breathing heavily, eyes dazed. He licks his lips, and suddenly Ishmael can’t look away from that mouth. Their scents start to sizzle and grow hotter and- no. He can’t do this.

He jerks away, stumbling over to his desk. He begins to tear into the chicken sandwich, trying to ignore how Samir’s faint scent turns bitter, sad.

“You should go to bed, Samir,” he says once he’s done, looking down at the empty tray. “You look tired.”

“... yes, Doctor.”

Good. Everything can go back to normal.

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It’s been half a year since Samir’s become his assistant. Ishmael has put his hand in the man’s mouth, transformed in front of him and subsequently seen him in boxers four times, bit his neck twice, yelled at him too many times to count, and has done everything but kiss him.

He’s not going to fall in love with someone who can be taken away from him- and is taken from him, twice for a mission and once for a week-long stint in medical that Samir refuses to talk about. He’ll kiss Samir once they’re free and not a moment before then. Not that he’s told Samir that. Ishmael keeps his plans to escape close to his chest.

It’s a regular day in the lab when they’re kidnapped. Several men in black body armor burst in. Before Ishmael can use his gloves to activate his lab defenses, he’s hit with a tranquilizer dart. Everything gets fuzzy, he feels himself fall to his knees, hears Samir shouting, smells fear and danger in the air. Before he can summon the rage to shift, blackness overtakes him.

He wakes up in a cage, head pounding. He groans, pushing himself up. He smells blood in the air and looks around. Beyond silver lined bars he can see he’s in a lab of some kind. Lying near a table with beakers on it is the body of a guard, his throat ripped out and eyes looking lifelessly up at the ceiling.

“Samir?” He calls out. The lab door wooshes open and he looks down to see a dark brown Pomeranian dog, fluffy fur covered in dried blood. It’s carrying a keycard in its mouth and comes trotting over. He sniffs the air. The dog smells like… Samir?

“Samir?” He asks incredulously. Familiar brown eyes look up at him. The dog squeezes through the cage bars and drops the keycard in front of him. Ishmael begins laughing, louder and louder as he picks up the keycard and unlocks the cage. Samir yips along as they walk out. Ishmael finds his control gloves and his creations in the room next over. He turns them on and watches them fly off in attack mode. He picks up Samir and holds him close as zapping noises and men's screams begin to fill the complex.

Later, Samir will feel safe enough to transform back, the process long and agonizing. Later, Samir will explain how he’s a government experiment gone wrong, kept alive only because he’s nonthreatening enough and can sneak through vents. Later, they make their escape in a car filled with drones and start their life on the run. Later, Ishmael kisses Samir in a hotel room at last.

For now, they sit back and listen to the sweet music of carnage.