A/N: hello hello. this fic is co-written by keep-swinging, go check her stuff out cause she's awesomeee and this fic would not exist without her. otherwise, enjoy, and please don't forget to leave a review!

xxx

They don't have time to run.

One second they're staring at a stretch of highway that seems to lead to nowhere, Willa rolling her eyes when Wyatt says he wants to see the gas station and snag a couple of snacks to surprise the pups with, and the next they're surrounded by men far quieter than any ordinary humans.

She's on the ground before she can react, a heavy boot pressing into her back, pinning her there. Pain arcs through her spine, and she can't even take a breath before Wyatt is slammed into the ground too, right in front of her.

Her gut tells her something's wrong when the first thing the group of men does is something they shouldn't.

A younger hunter, with blue eyes and a blonde beard, crouches in front of Wyatt and rips his moonstone from his neck, smiling wickedly before returning to his full height and passing the necklace off to someone beside him. Willa tries to move her head to see the others, to turn or tilt it, but the man jabs the steel toe of his shoe into the space between her shoulder blades, and she winces and turns back to her brother.

Wyatt's eyes are panicked, locked to hers. She holds her gaze steady, trying her best to remind him that they're okay, they'll be all right. She wants to tell him they're going to fight - because they always fight, right to the end - but there's some muttering from above them and in the next second, he's gone from her sight. Her stomach twists, and she almost calls for him, but swallows the words before they can erupt from her mouth. Show no fear, show no fear, show no—

"Up," a voice behind her snaps, and then she's hoisted to her feet and turned towards the group surrounding them.

Her stomach drops.

There are six of them, some with pistols strapped to their hips, others with rifles on their backs. Around their necks, they all wear a necklace, a silver arrowhead that hangs from a thin chain, signifying that they are hunters (in another world, it could be compared to the moonstone necklace of a wolf, but not in this world, not to her).

She doesn't know which group or faction they come from, or why they are hunting werewolves out here on a quiet stretch of highway. What she does know is that they're already towing Wyatt towards a white van parked on the side of the highway, the door wide open and waiting and two other men waiting inside.

She knows she could howl, knows that Wilder or Wylie could be there in less than five minutes - but five minutes is too long and her duty is to protect her pack, not bring them to their deaths. Instead, she stays silent and keeps her eye on Wyatt as the three remaining men look her up and down, whispering to each other under their breath. The man behind her holds her arms far too tightly, the muzzle of his gun shoving uncomfortably in between her ribs, but she doesn't protest or panic or squirm in his grip.

She waits for the two in front of her to turn and mutter something to each other, and then she moves. She pushes backward suddenly, with enough force for the man to fall, tumbling over the guardrail separating the forest from the highway, and then she goes for the other two, her claws raised. To her right, she can hear Wyatt doing the same, ripping free of the hunter's grip on her cue and jumping into the fight as she knocks one man down and attacks the other, aiming for his face.

She's able to rake her claws across his cheek, a growl ripping from her throat, and then Wyatt's shouting wildly, drawing her attention his way. They have him on the ground again, helpless without his moonstone; strong but not strong enough as hands shove and silver pistols press against his skin.

She goes to open her mouth and call for him but before she can, there's a sharp prick in her shoulder.

She whips around, and sees the other man she had tackled taking a few steps back, his face wavering in her waning vision. The man she's on top of shoves her off him, and she falls to the ground, her limbs feeling like rubber, her hands shaking.

Wyatt yells for her, yells for her until she can't hear him anymore, and that's when everything fades into darkness.

X

She wakes with a gasp that echoes in the space around her, her head pounding and her limbs heavy even as she scrambles to her feet and blinking the drowsiness she still feels out of her eyes.

She finds herself in a place that is not the forest that she usually runs through, nor the den she calls home. The room she's in is cold and damp with a stench that reminds her of a dead animal left to rot in the summer heat of the forest and no bigger than the main room of the den. The floor she's standing on is packed dirt, and metal bars stand all around her, trapping her in a cage where she has barely enough room to move. A set of chains are hooked to thick cuffs over both her wrists, enough give for her to stand and sit and shuffle around the cage, but not to do much else. The chains are hooked onto the bars of the cage behind her, pressed against one of the concrete walls that enclose the rest of the room.

She's in the far left corner, the last cage in a row of five. Across from her is another row, with five more cages, and then a walkway in the middle big enough for two people to stand side by side. Most of the cages are empty, except for the three directly across from her. The wolves inside are without their moonstones, just like her, sleeping fitfully where they're curled up in the corners of their cages.

She tries to inch closer to the front of her cage to see them better, but finds she can't, the chains stopping her before she can even reach halfway. She gives them a few good tugs, testing their strength, weighing her chances, but before she can do much, she hears cheering and hollering echoing from somewhere outside the room, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

She listens, and tries to calm her heartbeat as she thinks of Wyatt, as she thinks of how he's not in this room with her, as she hopes he's in a cage somewhere else, somewhere she can get to him - and then she hears what sounds like a growl echo from the open doorway.

She watches through the bars, unable to see, but able to hear. She might not have her werewolf-hearing without her moonstone, but she still knows the sounds of a fight between wolves. Her stomach churns when she thinks she hears a victory a few moments later, over faster than it had started. There's more cheering, and then everything lulls to an eerie silence once again.

Willa doesn't take a seat but she does take a step back to stand in the middle of the cage, exhaling shakily.

What the hell was this place?

She reaches up a hand to clutch at her moonstone, a habit she'd gained over the years, twirling and tugging and tracing the stone whenever her mind was working a mile a minute, but she already knows it's gone, can already feel the last of the power that usually rumbled quietly under her skin wasting itself trying to heal minor bruises and aches. She's strong without it, stronger than any other wolf in her pack no matter what, but it scares her none-the-less; it terrifies her, deep down, if she thinks about it hard enough - to be without the very thing that gave her power. Without the very thing that could be her only chance out of this place, given the opportunity.

Bringing herself back from things she can't prevent, or fix, she takes in her surroundings again. The bars caging her are silver, she doesn't have to be able to smell them to see the swirl entwined in the metal, though the chains clamped down on either of her wrists are not. She could scoff at that fact, but she doesn't; better not to tempt fate. The ceiling is low, and the few hanging lights are dim, lighting the room in a yellowish glow that reminds her of the lamp Wyatt had once found on one of his human explorations.

I don't need a night light, she had told him after he had excitedly shown it to her later that night. I'm a wolf.

The lamp had been a simple thing, small and square, with a black handle to hold it from the top and tiny shapes going down all four sides of it, black silhouettes that turned yellow as soon as the switch on the bottom was turned on. Wyatt had looked at her like she was crazy, and then he had smirked.

Are you sure? he had asked her, teasing, and before she could respond he had directed his attention back to the lamp. It's for Wanda, he'd told her, playing with the switch, flicking the lamp on and off. I just thought she'd like it.

Wanda doesn't need a night light either, Wyatt. She's seven.

He'd ignored her, passing the light over to his left hand before tucking that hand behind his back. It doesn't matter how old she is, he'd said, his eyes meeting hers before he had turned in the direction of the pack's chambers.

Everyone's scared of something.

There's a loud bang from Willa's right, and then another, and another. She flinches at first, not expecting such a loud noise, and then turns her head and finds a man standing outside her cage, a bar of metal raised in his hand and a devious smile splitting the lines of his face.

She straightens, and pays no mind to the chill that runs down her spine. She doesn't like the look of this man, doesn't like his smile, or his eyes, or the metal rod he taps against the bars of her cage, like he's threatening something worse.

"Well, well, well!" the man says, his voice loud. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the other wolves push themselves away, towards the wall farthest from the man, ducking their heads and whimpering softly. Her stomach twists. There's something not right about a werewolf, about her kind, who she is, cowering - submitting - to a human. It doesn't sit right with her, none of it does; from the man's smiling face, to the wolves sitting caged around her, to the stained walls that hold her in.

This isn't a place for wolves. This isn't a den, isn't a forest, isn't a pack. This a place of no return, a place of horrors that she can't even begin to decipher...and she and her brother had been thrown in with the rest.

"Welcome to the doghouse," the man says with mirth, his voice loud in the stillness of the room. He's an older human, with wrinkles creasing his face, one eye glass and the other grey. He has a white goatee, short and unkempt, and he's wearing all black, from his leather jacket to his pants. "We've never caught an Alpha before," he says, his eyes flickering to the proud marking on her cheek. "I guess there's a first time for everything."

"Who are you?" she asks, interrupting his monologue, and she shows her fangs and takes a step toward the bars caging her in. "What is this place?" The man doesn't react when she moves closer - far too confident in the silver bars, she thinks; his first mistake. She advances further, the chains wrapped around her wrists the only things holding her back.

The smile slowly fades from the man's face, replaced by something dark and ill-tempered. She goes to say something else, to taunt or tease him, knowing an easy target when she sees one, but he slams the metal pipe against the cage again, and the rattling of the bars is enough to momentarily silence her. He reaches into the cage, and she goes to step backwards out of his reach; but he is faster, his sweaty hand wrapping around her shoulder.

His fingernails bite into her skin, stinging, and he grips her shoulder tight enough that it hurts, but she doesn't back down. "All of you fucking mutts think you're so smart—" he snarls.

Willa doesn't let him finish. The chains dig into the skin of her wrists, ripping them open raw, as she uses all of her weight to throw his hand into the bars, and when she hears him cry out, shocked and in pain, she can't help but smirk.

"Fucking bitch!" he roars, the other wolves in the room flinching back at his tone, and the pipe clatters to the floor. She keeps her weight on his hand, trapping it there, angled so that the bars aren't near her skin, and she's so focused on avoiding the silver and holding the man's hand there that she doesn't even see his other weapon until it's too late.

The feeling of fire ripples up her shoulder, her skin blistering and burning, and she gasps, flinching away on instinct. The fire follows her as she retreats toward the back of her cage (not yielding, she tells herself firmly, never yielding), and when she looks up she's staring down the silver barrel of a gun.

Her heart stops as she watches his finger curl around the trigger.

He fires and Willa expects everything she's ever known to fade away, for her to bleed out right there, her brother lost to this place, her body another number in a pile. But then the man speaks...and she's still breathing, her heart is still pounding.

"Feisty, aren't we?" the man sneers, lowering the magnum. Willa looks to her right and sees the bullet, sees where it has entered and stuck to the cement of the wall, where it has buried itself in the chipping plaster and not her skin. It's barely a relief, to see it stuck there instead of inside her; the man is still here, the gun is still in his hand, and she knows now, without a doubt, that this place is not safe.

"That's enough of that now, mutt," he says, his eyes full of hatred, and tucks the magnum back into the waistband of his jeans. He bends down and picks the pipe up, before glancing down at his hand, discolored and swollen. "Goddamn. Guess this is why we've never bagged an Alpha before, huh?"

He meets her eyes then, smirking, taunting, enjoying every minute of this. Willa feels her blood boil, feels the anger bubbling and the despair screaming. She doesn't belong here, Wyatt doesn't belong here. None of these wolves belong here, playthings for a man who saw this all as one twisted game.

"My name is Monroe," he tells her, the pipe spinning casually between his fingers. "If you try anything like that again, then we're going to have more than one problem." He lifts the pipe in a threat and it takes all of Willa's self control not to roll her eyes. If he wanted to beat her with the pipe, he'd have to come in and get her. Smacking it against the bars was nothing but a cowardly man's threat.

In her opinion, Monroe was a coward in more ways than one.

"Where's the wolf I was with?" she asks, spitting the words at the bars between them.

Something like vague recognition washes across Monroe's face at the mention of Wyatt. "What, the Beta?" he finally answers, and just hearing Wyatt's title spat with such animosity and disgust reminds her that this is not a place in which they wish to stay. "He'll be put to work with all the others. A Beta isn't anything special - not like you, Alpha…"

He trails off, and Willa's heart twists and twists and twists at the words he had spoken, he'll be put to work bouncing around her head over and over again. What did it mean? Was he going to be shipped off? Forced to work? Something worse?

She stops the thoughts before her mind can unravel all the stories, all the ways humans have found 'uses' for werewolves. She doesn't want to think of her brother like that, beaten or dead or sent so far away she could never hope to find him.

The confusion, the concern, must show on her face because Monroe laughs at her, loud and taunting and with a smile that shows all his shining white teeth.

"You'll learn soon enough that everyone has a purpose here," he continues, when he's satisfied with his threats. "This is a business, after all."

"What purpose are these wolves serving?" she asks, not afraid even as his eyes flare. "What do you want with us?"

"You don't need to worry about the others," he tells her, glancing over his shoulder at the wolves in the other cages. "You only need to worry about yourself."

"Why?"

He grins, and taps his fingers gently against the bars. "Because you, Alpha, are going to tell me where your pack is. Wolves are getting harder to find, and money's a little...tight right now, you see." He smiles. It's all teeth. "A whole pack would get us through these tough times just nicely." There's a knowing look in his eyes that she doesn't like. She bites her tongue and glares at him.

"So then," he says, pulling the magnum from his waistband and checking the chamber. "Let's talk about your pack."

X

Wyatt sits in a cage for several days before they come for him.

He can't tell how much time passes. There's no windows in this strange, cold den full of hunters, no clocks or noticeable routine to mark the time. He can't see anything but the room full of cages he is in, and the wolves huddled against the ground around him; dead or just sleeping, he doesn't know.

Mostly, he tries not to look at them, instead watching the silver in the metal bars glimmering under the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. He feels like he can smell the horrid stuff even without his moonstone, feels like he can taste the sting of its scent on his tongue and feel it burning at his skin even though he hasn't touched it.

There's chips in the bars too, around the silver, tiny holes and larger claw marks, and he can't help but wonder how many wolves have tried to escape, and how many have failed or died trying. He wonders if any had succeeded with their minds intact, or if it was just an endless game of cat and mouse, of hide and seek.

But I don't like hide and seek, Wyatt, seven year old Wanda had whined once, for the umpteeth time on that bright summer's day, even as he had lifted her by the scruff of her jacket and carried her, kicking and grumbling, outside to where Willa was already waiting for them.

But I don't care, he had told her with a knowing smile before dropping her on the closest slab of rock, his youngest sister crossing her arms and frowning, the spitting image of her older sister.

Do you know why wolves play hide and seek? Willa had ventured, dropping from a rock nearby to stand next to Wyatt. Wanda had looked between them, to Wyatt for an answer he wouldn't give, to Willa for a hint she didn't provide.

Why do we play hide and seek? I hate it.

This is how you learn to hunt, pup. Willa had glanced over at her brother then, and he'd nodded his head, urging her to continue. It teaches you how to hide, where you won't be caught. And if something bad happens-

Wanda had looked at both of her siblings like they were crazy then, like Willa was saying the most asburb thing she had ever heard. But we're wolves. Why would we need to hide?

There are still things out there that can hunt and hurt us, Willa had told her, before Wyatt could stop her. The pack won't always be around to protect you.

Willa, Wyatt had said, appalled, but too late.

Why wouldn't the pack be here? Wanda had asked them, her eyes shifting between her siblings. Why wouldn't you guys be there?

The twins had shared a look, and Wyatt had stepped back and forced Willa to answer, to fix the problem that she had created. It's nothing for you to worry about, she'd said and smiled, before pulling the pup into a hug, wrapping her arms around her tight. We'd never leave you.

Do you promise? Wanda had asked, her voice muffled by Willa's shirt. Wyatt remembers smiling, remembers watching his sisters and joining in on the hug.

I promise we'll be here as long as you need us.

"Welcome to your new home," a voice says, and he looks up into the face of a man with one fake eye and a smile that shows too many teeth.

"Name's Monroe," he continues, when he sees he has Wyatt's attention. "I'm the owner of this whole joint. I come down to tell you the rules once, and you never forget." He laughs. Wyatt's eyes flick between the silver key he twists in his hands, glittering and deadly, and his face, untrustworthy at best.

"Rule number one, if you try to escape, you will be shot." He lifts up the corner of his shirt to show the fifty-seven magnum haphazardly tucked in his waistband. "Don't misjudge whose carrying and who's not either. That'll cost you your life."

He sighs, the silver key going back and forth, back and forth as he passes it between his hands. "Please don't make me shoot you. Every dog shot is money down the drain, and I'm trying to run a business here, you know?" He says it casually, like a request between friends rather than a threat. Wyatt doesn't respond, busy watching his every move.

"Rule number two, you will do as we say. No exceptions." Something dark passes through his eyes as he says the words, and Wyatt almost wants to shuffle back into the corner, to get as far away from this man as possible. Don't show fear, Willa snaps in his mind, and he stands his ground instead.

"Finally, rule number three, you will fight, even if you don't think you will." His lips slip into a smirk as he takes a step back from Wyatt's cell, silver key still clutched in between his fingers. "Now if you ask nicely, I'll let you out to play."

"Where's—"

"Your Alpha?" Monroe finishes for him. Wyatt feels his heart squeeze painfully at Willa's title, a title gained far too young, and kept far too ruthlessly. "She's serving her purpose. Just like you, Beta-" He laughs, a cruel, twisted sound that bounces off the walls, "-are going to serve yours."

He whistles, and someone pops their head in from the doorway. "Where's this one's shirt? He needs it back, he's going into the ring."

The man in the doorway disappears from sight. Wyatt barely has time to feel fearful about Monroe's words because in the next second he's unlocking the door to his cage. He stands in the doorway, smiling.

There's something off about Monroe's smile, something that doesn't sit right with Wyatt whenever he sees it. A shiver runs down his spine and Monroe chuckles to himself, swinging the key around and around on one finger. "Don't forget the rules," he reminds him, and Wyatt gets the feeling something bad is about to happen.

The man from the hall returns with Wyatt's purple shirt in his hand, the material still stained with dirt and grass marks. Monroe takes it from him and hands the other man the key, gesturing towards Wyatt. "Get those off of him."

Wyatt keeps his eyes on Monroe as the other man enters his cage and unhooks the cuffs weighing down his wrists, freeing him, before stepping back out just as quickly. He seems almost fearful of Wyatt, jittery in his actions, and he wonders if he's new to this, just like he is. Monroe throws the shirt at him.

"Put it on, mutt. You'll need it."

"Why?" he asks, keeping his voice neutral.

Monroe's lip twitches, annoyance spreading across his face. "Rule number two, mutt," he answers, and then he whistles again, two short sounds that make the other wolves in the room flinch and recoil, pulling themselves into tighter balls, huddling as close to the wall as they can get. Wyatt doesn't like it. "Do as you're told," he threatens, tapping the front bars with his finger. "Serve your purpose."

He smirks and takes his leave as two new men enter. One he has seen in days prior; Dave is his name, tall with dark hair and dumb enough that the other men seem to always be shouting at him. The other one is short and stocky, with black hair and a crooked smile that has met a fist one too many times. The jittery man in front of his cage is still standing there as the others advance, grabbing pipes from where they hang on the wall.

"Put your shirt on, or go without," the stocky man orders, his face flush with impatience.

Wyatt does as he's told, slipping his shirt over his head. As soon as it's on, two of the men grab him by the arms and throw him from the cage, letting him crash to the floor on his knees. "Get up," Dave grumbles, like Wyatt had chosen to fall rather than being thrown.

Someone else grabs him by the arm and yanks him to his feet, so fast that he stumbles and nearly falls again. Their grip stays as Dave leads the way, expecting him to follow. Wyatt hesitates for a moment, and then is jabbed in the middle of his back when he doesn't immediately move, unsure of whether to fight or follow.

"Move it, mutt," one of them seethes from behind him, digging the pipe deeper, and Wyatt wills his feet to move. He shuffles out of the room, into a dark hallway where he can't see anything. Faint lights hang above him, casting enough light to see the way by, but not enough light for him to peer into the rooms that he passes, every one silent and dark.

They walk and walk, until suddenly with a shove, he is turned to the left, into a short tunnel and a shaft of bright light that falls from somewhere far beyond the gate at the other end. A hand on his shoulder jerks him to a halt just short of the gateway, its grip so tight the nails almost draw blood, digging through his shirt to the soft skin below. Another hand presses something into his palm, something hard and round and warm with a fire that soaks into his skin, and reaches all the way down to his bones.

A moonstone, he knows without looking; not his moonstone, one with considerably less power than his would currently hold, but a stone nonetheless, a source of the power of which he has so long been deprived.

"In you go," someone grunts behind him, and then a pair of strong hands propel him through the gate. The gate slams shut behind him, rattling on its hinges. He glances back at the men that stand there, watching him with hungry eyes from between bars of pure silver.

A roar rises above him, so loud it makes his ears ache, and he whips back around, his gaze turning upwards. He finds himself staring into bright fluorescent lights and the faces of a hundred or more hunters, a jeering crowd that shove and jostle their way past each other, leaning over the top of the wall to stare at him with curious eyes and wide grins.

What is this? he wonders, and stares at the circle of humans just as they stare back, at the circular cage of concrete walls and packed dirt floor he has found himself in. A loud creak echoes from the other side of the ring, another silver gate opening, and then a wolf tumbles into the dirt, a moonstone clutched in his fist. He scrambles upright, eyes wide and frightened, and hurries to put the necklace on, like someone might take it from him if he doesn't.

Feeling the warmth of his own stone in his hand, Wyatt does the same, settling it warm and heavy around his neck.

There's a loud banging, the sound of metal hitting metal, from the gate behind the other wolf and the man jumps, skittering away from the noise and closer to Wyatt. His eyes are scared but his body is tense, like he might attack; Wyatt eyes him uncertainly and circles to the right, keeping his distance, his eyes flicking up to the crowd every now and then as he tries to figure out what is going on.

"You're new here," the other wolf says, hunched like he's about to jump towards Wyatt, his moonstone shining bright as his eyes flash yellow.

"What's going on?" Wyatt asks, his eyes focused back on the ground, on the wolf and the walls and the dust that rises as their feet scuff at the earth. "What do they want?"

The other man tilts back his head and laughs; the noise quickly devolves into a cough, reaching into his chest and ripping at his lungs. "They want us to fight," he croaks, rubbing at his throat with one hand. "That's what they do here. They hunt down wolves, and then they watch us kill each other."

Wyatt pauses, surprise colouring his face. "Why would anyone-" He's interrupted by a shout from above, a glass bottle that sails past the other man's head and shatters on the floor behind him. The wolf flinches and steps closer; too close for Wyatt's liking, but his back is almost against the wall and the crowd is leering above him, and he can't quite understand why a wolf would fight another wolf on the commands of a couple of humans.

"Don't have much choice, pup," the man tells him, and something hard and painful flashes through his eyes. "You'll learn soon enough."

"I won't fight you," Wyatt says, eyeing the wolf carefully, his eyes darting between the moonstone resting against his chest and his hands, squeezing and twitching. His eyes flash again, amber, but the color's dim and faint. It doesn't take a fool to realize that this wolf is on his last legs, a step away from collapsing and never standing again.

Wyatt's heart clenches painfully.

He won't fight. He won't attack. He won't give these monsters something to watch, something to cheer and laugh at. "What're you waiting for pup?" the man growls, draws his lips back so that Wyatt can see his teeth, yellow, chipped and bloody.

Wyatt takes a step back (stand tall, his father tells him with a nudge to his shoulder, the two of them standing before the entire pack, Willa a few steps ahead of them with his mother. Betas stand tall, Wyatt) and the wolf follows him, closing in.

"We can get out of this," Wyatt tells him, lowering his voice, his eyes scanning the crowd. He finds Monroe standing closest to the railing of all, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turn white. The wolf laughs, but it holds no malice, only exhaustion and desperation.

"No," he mutters, so quiet that Wyatt has to strain to hear him. "No one gets out of here." He closes the space between them, his claws reaching for Wyatt's throat.

Wyatt's not much of a fighter. He's a good hunter, he's good at tracking, and he has the patience to wait for the perfect strike, has a knack for knowing what his prey are going to do. Fighting face-to-face though, fighting other wolves, is far from his strong suit. He's the peacemaker of the pack, not the fighter - that's Willa, not him. That's why he's Beta, why she's Alpha.

Even so, it's almost laughably easy to duck under the older wolf's grip, to leap out of his reach and then do it again when he turns and gives chase, throwing himself across the ring. He lands in the dirt at Wyatt's feet; for the flash of a second, for a terrified beat of his heart, Wyatt's instincts tell him to kick the man away, to bury his boot in the wolf's stomach - but he doesn't. That isn't who he is, isn't what he wants to be, no matter what this older man insists.

"Kill him!" the crowd roars above him, a hundred voices all shouting together, and Wyatt stumbles backwards, horrified - at himself, at the humans, at the way the other man rises to his feet and comes after him again and again and again, impossible to beat down no matter how many times he hits the dirt.

Trash rains down from above - bottles and beer cans, scraps of food and rocks the size of his fist, thudding into the dirt around them. A rock throws the other wolf sideways, narrowly missing his scalp, and a bottle shatters hard against Wyatt's arm, shards of glass embedded in his arm. He ignores the sharp sting of pain, ignores the angry cries that swirl above his head. "Fight, mongrel!" a man snarls from one of the silver gates, his fist beating hard against the metal, and then the older wolf lands on top of him and they crash to the ground amidst the rocks and glass and twisted metal.

The man's hands reach for his throat, claw at his eyes, scraping at any soft spot they can find. Wyatt's mind screams at him to get out of there, even as he struggles against the weaker man, even as he shoves him off and rolls over to follow him, pins him to the ground-

"Kill me," the wolf snarls, his eyes a pale gold, his fangs chipped and dulled and ground down to nothing. "Set me free from this cage. Kill me."

Wyatt almost backs off, almost lets him up. "No!" he hisses in surprise, and rears back when the man holds up a large piece of glass between them, swiping at his hand. The glass returns in an instant, hovering in the space between their faces, just below the man's eyes.

"Do it, pup," the wolf hisses, and his other hand, the arm that's half-pinned to the ground under Wyatt's hand, wraps around his elbow. "Or I'll do it to you. There's no sense in a young one like you getting killed by a dead man like me."

Wyatt's eyes grow wide in alarm, even as he shakes his head. "No," he says again, firm in the belief that he is doing the right thing. "No. I won't. We shouldn't be killing each other. This isn't right, this isn't - this isn't-"

The man stares at him, almost in resignation. "Damn you," he mutters regretfully. "Couldn't just get one thing in life." He sighs one last deep, shuddering breath, and then he turns the glass downwards, and plunges it into his own neck.

Wyatt scrambles backwards, ignorant of the glass spread amongst the dirt that cuts into his palms and the skin of his knees. He watches, mouth open, heart pounding, as the blood bubbles from the man's throat, as he kicks and shudders and then grows very, very still. The crowd above is silent.

And then, over the creak of the gate opening, they start to boo.

He hears them before he sees them, his ears made sharp by the power of the moonstone around his neck. Three men, not big, but not small either, their boots stomping and shuffling in the dirt as they loom over him. He can smell the sharp poison of the silver around their necks, the heavy reek of the iron chains in their hands. Their grim faces glare at him from the corner of his eye, their lips turned downwards and frustration echoing in their eyes.

He looks at the wolf on the ground, bloody and broken and staring into a space no one can know, and he decides; he will not be like that. He will not die in this ring, begging for another wolf to kill him.

He will not be broken.

He will not be tamed.

He is not the best at fighting, not the most savage of the wolves, but as he rises to his feet, as a growl rips from the back of his throat unbidden, his eyes a gold so deep even the sun could not light them, he finds within himself a power he has never felt before.

He leaps towards them, strong, unbridled, and when his claws catch in the flesh of the one that leads the way, he doesn't even remember to be afraid or to feel guilty, to avoid doing damage he doesn't have to do, like he usually would. He dispatches the other two with the same fury, eyes flashing and teeth bared, and even when one wraps a chain around his fist and buries it into the side of his ribs, he doesn't feel them crack and bend and bruise beneath his skin. He buries his claws into the man's throat, deep enough that he feels the blood run hot between his fingers, and then he leaves the man to fall and bounds towards the unguarded gate, his mind already settled on the next most important thing.

Willa.

Find Willa.

The hallway is dark and empty, abandoned by the hunters for the bright lights and spectacular views of whatever lies above. "Willa!" he calls, his voice ricocheting off the circular walls, but he can't hear an answer except for the echoes of his own voice and the nearby whine of some half-dead beast that is not his sister.

He turns right, away from the cage that he had come from, and goes through the rooms one by one. They are all pitch black (he wonders how the humans see down here, when the only way he sees anything is through his moonstone), and most are filled with cages that line the walls, anywhere from six to ten. Wolves sit huddled within the silver bars, gaunt, skeletal creatures that look more like monsters than they do like wolves. Blood drips from injuries old and new and the place stinks - of silver, of rotting meat and festering wounds, of the stale tobacco the hunters love to smoke, when they're not busy burying their boots in a wolf's stomach.

He stops, and he stares, and a shiver runs down his spine, but none of them look up at him even when he calls out, and none of them are Willa. He keeps moving.

There are voices behind him in the hallway, the quick step of boots ringing loud in the concrete hall. He moves faster, tries not to see the other wolves, the ones he can't help. "Willa!" he calls again, louder this time, and in the distance, he thinks he hears her voice calling his name in return. He yells again and skips several rooms, following the sound of her voice, the loud howl that splits the air and calls him to come to her, to help, to fight. He bolts down the hall, sure of where she is, sure that he can reach her, even as the sound of the humans behind him grows louder and louder.

He rounds the corner, ducks through the doorway, and their eyes meet - his, wild, rolling, his chest pounding as he stares at her, hardly able to believe he found her, and hers inches from the burn of the silver bars that hold her cage, wide and growing wider as they flick from his dirt-stained, bruised cheeks to the doorway behind him-

Something hard and heavy and saturated with the stench of thick-plated iron slams into the back of his head and he drops like a stone to the hard-packed floor, spots dancing in his vision.

"I told you to follow the rules," Monroe growls, his fingers curling around Wyatt's neck as he shoves him into the ground, his knee digging into his back. Someone else twists his arm behind his back, too far in a direction it's not supposed to go. Monroe presses his face to the dirt, pain erupting in so many different places he can't keep track of it all.

"You'll learn. You'll listen," their leader says, shoving one last time against his neck before releasing him and returning to his feet.

Four men lift Wyatt to his feet. All he can hear is Willa, calling for him wildly, the hiss and sizzle of her skin as she pounds against the bars of her cage. For the first time in his life where he is scared, scared of the unknown, of what happens next.

He's never been the bravest (that was always, always Willa) but he was brave enough. He's always done what he had to, even if he didn't like it, even if the thought of it made his stomach turn. He's always tried to prove his worth as a wolf, as Beta. But now, torn away from his sister, trapped under the greedy, careless eyes of Monroe, beaten and bruised, Wyatt's never felt more terrified.

He thinks trying to find Willa will be the last brave thing he ever does.

They don't bother pulling him away or taking him somewhere else to punish him, they just hold him there until Monroe turns back around, getting so close Wyatt can smell the ashes of an old cigarette on his breath. He regards Wyatt with a cold stare and then erupts into laughter, the sound of it chilling with Willa's screams as its backdrop.

"I have my work cut out for me."

Wyatt doesn't hear anything else.