fly, songbird, fly
Chapter 1: The Omega
Summary: "We get dirty, and the world stays clean." That was always the mission of Task Force 141. Two alphas, two betas, and the unshakable bond of a pack forged in bullets and blood. No omega needed, not when they had each other. But when a raid pulls you from the wreckage of a human trafficking ring, their entire world changes.
You’re a survivor first—an omega second. Thrust into a world of soldiers and secrets, you don’t trust the hands that pulled you from the dark. They say you’re safe, but instincts are louder than words, and your fractured bond to the world leaves you adrift.
In the shadows of their newfound mission, Task Force 141 struggles to piece together the horrors they've encountered. Lines blur. Tension builds. And maybe, just maybe, you're what they never knew they'd been missing.
Pairing: Eventual Poly141 / Reader Warnings: Omegaverse, Human Trafficking, On-Screen Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, A/B/O typical sexism, Military Inaccuracies, Military Operations, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Medical Experimentation
Author's Note: I promise, this story is NOWHERE NEAR as dark as those warnings make it out to be LMAO, but it's a very much "it gets worse before it gets better" type of deal.
Read the full fic on AO3 here!
MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER →
Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location
You stir with a soft, pained groan. Has it been hours… or days? There’s no way to tell, not while shackled in this iron prison that’s become your newest home and only sanctuary. A heavy, smooth, metal collar rests around your neck, forcing your head to the floor under its excruciating weight. Even without being able to see, you can sense the other omegas in the room. The stench is awful—rank with agony and terror emanating from your fellow victims.
It’s cramped—too cramped, your body jams against the unforgiving leaden bars whenever you so much as shift—and the chain keeping you connected to the wall makes it impossible to arrange your fragile limbs into any painless position. Frigid air washes over your body, barely kept warm enough to survive as you shiver, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The steel cage burns cold against every inch of exposed skin, ice-like in its sleekness.
The groaning of metal on metal, coupled with a growing sliver of light, is enough for you to lift your gaze in cautious curiosity. As the container door opens, your entire body is tenses. Completely on edge, metaphorical hackles raised as if you have any hope of freeing yourself from this place. Not even letting your omega take over will save you now, weak as she is.
At least that might grant you a painless death. Forcing yourself to distress until your heart gives out under the strain. You’d be unconscious, far away from everywhere and tucked safe in the recesses of your mind to live out your final moments in… what, comfort? Certainly more comfortable than this.
A bright light washes over your naked body. The blinding glow leaves you paralyzed, unable to escape its scrutiny before moving on to the next cage in the line. The scent hits you next: sharp, bitter, like burnt hair and skin. A stark contrast to what you imagine you smell like now, between the sour smell of your fear and the sickly sweet tang of forced arousal. Reflexively, you shrink back as far as you can, the heavy collar leaving you to strain beneath its weight. Others shift around you, their own chains rattling against the bars and floors of the cages flanking you.
Angry alphas are never a good sign. Anger means pain, you’ve learned that the hard way. Disgust, boredom, annoyance… it seeps from the soldiers like the concoctions they drug you with. And you are the outlet. Always. Your ribs ache just thinking about it. The others—the ones in white coats, with their clipped voices and shiny shoes—don’t hit. But they’re somehow worse, because they come with machines and needles and false smiles. Drag you to cold, sterile rooms while you beg for mercy. They’re the ones who sell you, who decide when you’re ready.
After all, that’s what you’re all here for, right? Taken from whatever came before, thrust into this world of darkness and pain to be an alpha’s plaything? A warm, pliant body to use and abuse however your betters see fit?
Boots echo down the steel floor as the soldiers prowl down the row. Their black masks, black vests, shirts, and pants… everything about them melts into the shadows, unseen until it's too late. Speaking in rough tones in a language that you’ve given up trying to understand. Some of the others around you make tiny, fearful noises, throwing their terrified scents in a last-ditch attempt to attract mercy. You can smell it—the faintest sweetness weaving through the overwhelming sour terror. How sparks of longing flicker in a few even now, filled with the hope that maybe this won’t be so bad, maybe someone will come take pity on us or rescue us. Some reach through the bars with shaking hands that are quickly crushed under a heavy boot, or rattle their chains with desperate cries for comfort.
Others, the broken ones, merely cower away.
Dull.
Flat.
Lifeless.
Empty.
You’re not sure where you fit just yet.
What is anyone, when all that’s left of a person is merely a husk? A pathetic facsimile of who they once were? Did you have a name, a job, a family?
There are warring, equal measures of desperation and acceptance constantly flooding your frail body. The desperate hope that someone, somewhere, knows you’re gone.
And the acceptance that no one is coming to save you.
In any case, you’ve learned the hard way to keep yourself silent in the presence of your superiors, the alphas. That’s all there is, anyway. Betas are dangerous, too harmonious for a place like this. Able to comfort a fearful omega and subdue an enraged alpha.
Or vice versa, you suppose. Not like you’ll ever see that in action.
Now, at least, you know to be obedient. It’s the last thread of control you have, what started as defiance quickly transitioned to malicious compliance—at least, until the malice was beaten away—that left you a weak echo of whoever you may have been… before this. Time blurs, distorts in your mind. Your life as you knew it is gone, and you’ll likely never know where the memories ended up. Tucked away somewhere where no one could take them? Or gone forever?
Would life have been easier, different if you had been born an alpha like you were supposed to be? That much you remember. You remember the anger in your sire’s eyes and the disappointment in your dam’s when you presented, thrust into your first heat cycle with nothing. No pack omegas or betas to comfort you. No promise of a hug or a warm meal or anything to ease the dreadful, burning pain.
Maybe it would have been easier to have been born a beta. Disappointing, sure, but not enough for you to be thrown out into the snow during your first cycle, left alone and terrified in the cold.
A single gunshot echoes through the room, cutting off a weak cry. A body thumps to the floor, wet and heavy, but you refuse to look. It’s better if you don’t, anyway. You don’t know that you could survive seeing the viscera.
In a fucked up way, you’re jealous. Death has long since become your only method of escape, but it remains just out of reach. Your earlier thought of forcing yourself to distress would never work anyway; they’d just drug your omega into suppression.
You’re so broken now that you can’t even attempt to defy their orders. It’s easier if you don’t. Safer. A fleeting strand of comfort, like gossamer ready to snap at the slightest tug. Maybe someday you’ll be lucky enough to be roughed up to the point of no return.
Will death be kinder than life?
What happens on the other side?
The soldiers continue speaking, in English now to make sure you all understand. And you do, even despite the heavy accents. “When’s this batch shipping out? Could have some fun, blow off some steam, da?”
“Not sure. Boss said we could do whatever we want, though there is one he does not want roughed up. Some high-profile buyer.”
“Payday, ura!”
“Might as well get to the rest, they are going as comfort omegas. I am tired of used goods, loose and sloppy holes. No good for a knot.”
“No, no. Tight is better. We get a bad job, we deserve a reward.”
You whimper anxiously, unable to help the noise. One of the soldiers kicks a heavy boot against your cage, rattling it and sending the aftershocks through your exhausted form. Startled, you shrink back even further as a face looms in your vision. His feral smile grows when the tension on the chains stops you from moving too much, baring his fangs and snapping at you. Your limbs shake and cramp—whether from exhaustion or terror you can’t be sure—as his hand reaches in to grab your jaw and drag you forward.
This cage is the closest thing to safety you have, to a nest… and now violated. You’re not safe here, you’re not safe anywhere. What had started as the tiny hope that as long as you’re contained in these walls they can’t hurt you too badly… your little sanctuary has shattered and it freezes the blood in your veins.
“Pretty whore,” he coos. “Going to make your new alpha very, very happy.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Even weak and tired as she is, your omega is still frantically trying to protect you from this horror, but the alpha’s pheromones hit your nose, betraying his intent. There’s arousal, sure… but past that you can smell his utter delight at scaring you like this, like a drug he can’t get enough of. He relishes in this, relishes in your fear, relishes in how you tremble and keen, wordlessly begging him to not touch you.
He does anyway, a hand gripping the back of your neck in a tight scruff, forcing the collar up. At once, your chest drops to the floor, hips up in the air and helplessly presenting while the pressure of his fingers forces you into obedience—
The alpha’s radio crackles to life before he can do much more than stuff a couple digits inside you, gathering the miniscule amount of slick you’ve produced. Your eyes slowly open as he releases you, sagging back to the floor of the cage when he backs away with a frown. Whoever interrupted him, he’s very displeased—spitting words into the receiver with venom usually reserved for whichever ‘whore’ he’s picked to warm his cock. His barked words force the other soldiers around to attention, no longer poking and prodding at their victims. The loss of contact almost hurts, in a weird way. A violation, of course, but at least he’d been… somewhat gentle. Your thoughts are hazy and slow as you fight to reconcile this with yourself, craving and fearing more in equal measures.
Your idle thoughts briefly flicker to curiosity. What would it feel like to kneel and present for a real alpha? Will you somehow find your way to a gentle and kind mate, or are you being sold to an even crueler master? Will they feed you? Bathe you? Clothe you? Or will they prefer you naked, weak, helpless, to do whatever they want?
“New orders,” the alpha’s growl, deep and powerful, sends you far out of your thoughts as you straighten in response. Despite the words not being aimed at you, his alpha tone jerks you into compliance almost immediately. “Drug them and secure the container for shipping. The buyer has made his selections, and he wants these ones untouched.”
He kicks the side of your cage with a heavy boot once more, narrowly missing your fingers before he turns and stalks away. Your whimper, thankfully, is lost in the groans of the other soldiers—these ones more American sounding than the others.
“Aww… we never get to have any fun…”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Plenty of other whores for you to knot up once we’re done.”
“Ugh, I don’t wanna breed one of these stupid sluts.”
“Don’t worry, that’s what the scientists are for. I knotted and claimed one the other night, next morning it was good as new. No scar, no pregnancy, no nothing.”
Their griping continues as, aisle by aisle, they draw closer. Something buzzes faintly, the hum and crackle of electricity echoing throughout the room, coupled with agonized yelps that continue down the line with heavy thuds. Your eyes catch the glint of a thick needle, almost comically thick, with a sickly orange fluid tucked in its barrel, forcibly jabbed into each omega’s body wherever the soldiers can reach.
One by one, they fall like dominoes. Terrified, pained screams cut off abruptly as the soldiers continue down the line, omegas gurgling and contorting as the sedative runs its course. Rendered helpless and compliant even as they each try—and fail—to fight back. You’re nauseous even being in the same area as them, knowing there’s no escape.
Watching the light dim from each person’s eyes as they sag helpless to the floor, unable to resist. Your thoughts race, knowing the worst is yet to come… how long will you be left waiting, shaking, terrified before it’s your turn to be brutalized? There’s nothing you can do to stop them, to stop your body from falling out of your control completely, transformed into nothing but a passive participant, a glorified plaything for the alphas above you…
Someone retches on your left, and you turn your head ever so slightly. The omega a few cages down is covered in his own vomit, trembling with fear as he tries to scramble back with terrified eyes and helpless keens. You wince in sympathy as the alpha with the cattle prod storms over, wishing you could save yourself from the sickening smell of burning flesh and the howls of pain.
You can’t watch. There’s nothing you can do to save him, all you can do is grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut as the alpha holds the prod over the omega’s chest until the noises die down to pained gurgles and fall away completely.
Silence.
You’re not even sure he’s breathing. You’re too busy focusing on controlling your own heartbeat to dwell on it for long. Distressing won’t save you now, you know this. Knowing that you’re to be sold… not even death will be your escape.
“Gonna need another one,” someone remarks callously.
“Just tell the buyer that we lost one in the shipment, that’s all.”
“Boss’ll be pissed. He won’t want to refund.”
“Yeah, well, it’s your head anyway. I’m not the one who electrocuted the poor sod.”
A hand roughly grabs your chin, pulling you forward by the head. You bite down on your cheek hard, stifling your frightened scream as a torrent of blood fills your mouth. Screaming makes it worse, you knew that already but the reminder… resisting means they’ll pull you from this cage and do more than just drug you. It’s likely better for them to crush their slave’s spirit than risk losing another one.
In any case, you don’t want to end up like the other omega. Hopefully he can find mercy in death.
A needle jabs straight through the meat of your shoulder, the burning liquid oozing into your veins, slow as molasses as a hand explores your body while it has the chance. Your vision swims and distorts, body falling to the bottom of the cage in a helpless heap as the pain sears over every inch of your bloodstream. It’s different this time, not the usual aphrodisiac they’ve used to force your cycle to start or when they desire more… active participants. It’s not the same paralytic as usual, either, the one they use when they’ve had enough of their slaves trying to squirm away from their cruel hands.
This one… your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. Your eyes feel like they’re bulging, head pounding like it’ll burst as everything goes gray and fuzzy around the edges. You drool, unable to lift your head from the puddle you’re laying in as your senses dull. The room spins, distorted and muddy, every thought in your mind clouded over. A weak attempt at moving your hand proves futile; your limbs are nothing but lead bars, unresponsive to whatever signal you just tried to give them. Did you even try to move? You can’t remember, can’t see, can’t think, your world has shrunk. Blissful yet terrifying, bile creeping up your throat as the sensations fade in and out.
The last thing you manage to focus on is something whizzing by you, sending the room into blackness. Whatever it is, it shatters the lone bulb illuminating the room, eliminating the dim glow and leaving you in the dark. The soldiers shout around you, panicked and confused as strangers swarm inside and your world explodes into gunfire.
16 MAR 2022 21:32 Cpt. John Price Task Force 141 Credenhill, UK
Cigar smoke curls lazily in the dim light filtering through Price’s office. He leans back in his chair, boots tapping ever so softly against the floor, eyes half-lidded as he flicks through his endless stack of reports. It’s late, of course, and his mates are waiting for him. He can almost scent them, their quiet comfort in the night. With his door cracked open like this, he hears the sound of his boys’ laughter, the low hum of the television. He smiles to himself, there’s something to look forward to when he finally drags his weary arse out of this chair—
The sharp buzz of his phone cuts through the stillness, and he sighs. It’s late, too late for any kind of real action, but is he that lucky? He glances at the screen, brow furrowed. And with a heavy exhale, he takes the thing in his hand and swipes across. “Price.”
“Captain.” Laswell’s voice crackles over the line, crisp and efficient. “We’ve got new intel.”
His attention sharpens immediately, all traces of weariness gone. “Oh?”
“I’m sending the files through now. You’ll find everything you need. Call me when you’re ready to discuss details.” Her tone is as steady as ever, but there’s almost an edge to it now. Something unspoken, something that tickles the back of his mind. When she calls like this, it’s never casual, but something feels different.
“Understood,” he replies, response clipped as his mind shifts gears. “I’ll get the team ready.”
The line cuts out, and static meets his ears. He tucks the phone away, glancing almost forlornly at his reports while his fingers tap lightly against the desk. Laswell’s delivery leaves him unsettled, though. She doesn’t often operate like this—efficient, sure, but this terse? No pleasantries? And she said she’d be on standby? It’s rare.
Hopefully he’s not about to walk into the latest attempt at World War III. Rubbing a hand over his face, Price lets out a heavy sigh. The boys won’t be thrilled that he’ll be interrupting their movie, but they’ll forgive him. With any luck, it’ll be something simple while they wait around for the pencil pushers to do their jobs. His fingers brush the keyboard, the blue glare of the screen illuminating his features as he opens the documents Kate sent.
His knees crack ever so softly when he stands, the last couple hours of sitting doing nothing for his joints. He flicks the cigar into the ashtray, heading for the door, trying to ignore how his heart beats just a little faster as his mind tries to come up with the reasoning behind this all. His crystalline blue eyes scan the familiar hallway of the 141’s barracks, footsteps quiet against the floor as he makes his way towards the rec room.
The sight that greets him when he steps inside is a comfort. His pack—his boys—are all lumped together in their usual position, sprawled across the oversized sofa he’d bought in varying states of relaxation. Soap, as always, has his head in Simon’s lap, purring away softly as Simon lazily runs his fingers through the Scot’s mohawk. Kyle leans against Simon’s other side, casually snacking on some popcorn, eyes fixed to the movie they’d put on the telly.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he imagines ignoring the op. Padding over like nothing happened, stealing kisses from all three of them before curling up and hiding away from the world.
He can’t. He knows this. He’s always known this.
Bloody military packs. We bond and yet barely get the chance to celebrate it.
Someday, though…
Price dismisses that thought with a quiet cough. And it’s like a switch flips. His presence, the unspoken authority of their alpha in the room, shifts the energy. The atmosphere tenses, just enough to be noticed.
Simon glances up first, eyes narrowing slightly as he examines Price’s posture. No skull balaclava, Price notes, just the black gaiter tonight. The subtle shift in his scent hits the air before he can even speak, and soon enough, Soap and Kyle are looking up at him. The three move with practiced ease, approaching him with curious expressions.
“Get ready,” Price commands, voice low. “We’ve got a job to do.”
He doesn’t need to explain any further. His pack doesn’t question him. They’ve trained for this—years of experience and a bond forged in the heat of battle. The moment the words are spoken, they’re ready.
Soap flashes him a cheeky grin as he heads for his room, brushing past Price with an easy swagger. He leans in for the briefest of moments, making sure their shoulders touch, letting Price know that he’s there, he’s listening, he’s ready. Even without that touch, though, his aura says it all. The sweetness of his excited curiosity coupled with a sharper, more serious edge.
Simon’s movements are quieter, more deliberate. He moves with a similar intensity, only pausing to nod briefly at his fellow alpha before disappearing down the hall. Their bond ran deep—no words exchanged. The look in his eyes told Price everything: he needs time to gear up, to put on his mask and become their Ghost. Price understands, maybe more than Simon realizes.
Kyle, however, hangs back. Price can’t help the slight softening of his expression as the man stops only a few inches away, warm brown eyes searching azure blue depths. Price can’t help it, he reaches out to pull Kyle close, wrapping his strong arms around his beta. It’s grounding for both of them, a silent reassurance that no matter what—just like Soap and Ghost are two halves of the same whole—Kyle has his back.
“Solid, sir?” Kyle’s voice is velvet in his ears, wrapping him in a soft caress. Price nods, leaning in to bump their foreheads together.
“Solid. Go get ready, love,” he rasps in return. Kyle hesitates for a moment longer before brushing by, knocking his fist against Price’s shoulder as he does. Price turns towards the door, too, towards his own room. The weight of Laswell’s cryptic message lingers in the back of his mind, and for a moment he almost feels guilty for lying to his beta. He’s solid, sure, but something about this op has left him unsettled.
He can’t help but wonder if this marks the point where everything changes. Either way, they’ll all find out soon enough. His pack is waiting for him to lead them, their bond will hold them steady. And he will hold them together no matter what happens.
It’s a short walk to the briefing room. He doesn’t quite know if that’s a blessing or not every time he finds his evening interrupted to be here. Something about the perks of his task force having their own private building, never having to go too far. Their living space, at least, is completely separate from his office, his lieutenant’s office, and their briefing room… by way of a door only a select few have access to. It’s not enough, sometimes, but he knows better than to complain.
His boys are already seated. Ready and waiting, three sets of eyes turning to meet his the moment he enters the room. The lights are already dim, the soft hum of the projector filling the silence as Price fiddles with his laptop, working to connect Laswell to the rest of them. The air is thick with anticipation—his team sits at the table, eyes fixed on the screen. Ghost leans back, balaclava hiding his expression even as the tight knit of his shoulders gives him away. Soap bounces one leg—as always—fingers drumming a rapid staccato on his knee. Gaz looks relaxed, but he knows better than to take the sergeant’s neutral expression at face value. They’re all wound tight, he can smell it in the air as Laswell flickers to life before them.
“Here we go,” he mutters softly, eyes roving the blurry background of her office. As always, her hair is tied back in a neat-ish bun, framing her sharp face as she stares them down.
“Captain,” she greets him, offering a slight nod of acknowledgement to the rest of the team. “Hope you boys are ready for this one.”
“Always,” Price replies, a slight edge to his tone. This mission’s come in quickly—too fast for his liking. He’d barely had time to get his pack re-settled after the last op before these orders came in. Laswell shoots him a brief, sympathetic look before continuing on, diving straight into the details.
“We’ve picked up chatter about an arms smuggling operation in Verdansk. Our intel suggests this warehouse,” the screen shifts, her icon shrinking as the map of Kasovia fills the screen, “was once part of Barkov’s network. We believe it’s potentially been reactivated by one of his splinter groups. You’re to infiltrate, confirm the intel, and retrieve anything of value.”
The satellite image zooms in on the location: a sprawling warehouse, isolated on the outskirts of Verdansk. “No recent signs of activity,” she continues, “but we can’t risk this getting into the wrong hands. Your mission is to get in, get out, and leave no trace.”
He exchanges a glance with Ghost. The man’s amber eyes narrow behind his mask, mirroring Price’s own uncertainty. Gaz shifts uncomfortably, even Soap looks more serious than usual. Something feels off about this—Laswell’s usually more forthcoming if there’s any real risk. But the way she’s skimming over the details too fast… it’s almost like she’s trying to convince herself that it’s straightforward, too.
“Safehouse is twenty klicks from the drop zone,” Laswell explains, the map now highlighting the route in. “You’ll take the provided vehicle to this ridge here,” she zooms in on a rough road cutting through dense forest, a sheer cliff on one side. They’d need to be careful, one wrong turn and they’d be crushed to death by the metal cab. “It’s a three-kilometer hike from there. Once you’re in position, Soap and Ghost will provide overwatch, while Price and Gaz infiltrate the warehouse.”
Soap nods, but his eyes flick to Price, seeking confirmation. “What’re we expecting for resistance, Kate?” Price presses, urging her to clarify. Kate, you’ve never led us astray, but there’s something going on here. Tell us. Tell me. Please.
“None, ideally,” she replies, but he doesn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before it’s quickly masked. “Satellite imagery shows no movement in or around the area for weeks. If there’s anyone there, they’re staying out of sight.”
Ghost lets out a low, skeptical growl, the kind that makes Price’s skin prickle. “And if we’re wrong?” His gravelly voice comes slow and deliberate, every ounce of the strong alpha Price loves.
“If it comes to that,” Laswell stresses, “weapons free. But keep it quiet if you can. They can’t know we were there.”
Price watches her closely. There’s something still lurking behind her carefully neutral expression. He files it away for later; they’ll deal with whatever surprises the op throws their way, just like always. But he will ask the moment he can. He’s known the beta woman for too many years to not see her worry in the tight set of her jaw.
“Right,” he says instead, standing and stepping in to refocus his pack. “Gaz, you’re with me on entry. Soap, Ghost, find high ground and give us eyes. If things go sideways, we regroup at the extraction point.” He pauses, letting his gaze sweep over his team. “Questions?”
Soap shifts forward, leaning his elbows on the table. He’s still, a surefire sign that he’s focused, that he’s ready… “Weather looks clear now, but what’s the forecast like over the ridge?” His voice is casual, but Price knows he’s mentally adjusting for the climb, cataloging potential blind spots and vantage points.
“Unpredictable at best,” Laswell admits. “That range can be hit with sudden storms, but you’ll have some cover from the cliffs.”
Gaz frowns, exchanging a glance with Soap. “If we’re hiking down with low visibility, might take longer than expected. Could delay our exfil if we need to bug out.”
“Then we keep it tight,” Price murmurs, mentally tallying the extra time they’ll need if it goes south. “We’re ghosts on this one. No one can know we’re there.”
Laswell’s voice breaks through the tense air again. “I’m pushing the rest of the files through. Once you’ve reviewed them, radio in if you need anything else. But remember, gentlemen—we’re operating in the dark here. There’s no room for mistakes.”
“Copy that,” Price replies, voice low and steady as their eyes meet. He holds her gaze, silently promising that there’ll be more after this. “We’ll get it done, Kate.” She nods, shuffling through papers as the room falls quiet once more.
It’s Soap, as always, who breaks the tension. “Well, lads,” the beta grins, though there’s an almost feral edge to it, “guess we’re takin’ a bloody hike.”
Ghost rolls his eyes as he stands, shaking his head. One by one, the three men file out, and he knows they’re all heading to their usual haunts to mentally prepare. Price’s mind still churns though, there’s a gnawing feeling in his gut that he can’t ignore as he turns back to Laswell. They’ve been through worse with less intel, sure… whatever’s waiting for them, they’ll face it together.
“Something isn’t sitting right with me on this,” she admits before he can even open his mouth to question her. He nods instead, glad that their unease is mutual. Her brow furrows slightly as she shakes her head, pursing her lips. “I can’t place it.”
“Feels like we’re missing somethin’,” Price agrees, crossing his arms and rocking on his heels. She nods her agreement, meeting his steady blue gaze with her steel gray eyes.
“Something important.” She lets the silence settle for a moment before speaking again. “Like we’re about to open a bigger can of worms than we expected.”
Price doesn’t need to say more; Kate has long since been one of the few people he could read like a book, who could read him in return. He supposes years of friendship does that to people, spanning since he was a mere lieutenant. It’s grounding, in a strange way, knowing that she’s struggling to reconcile this, too. “I’ll bring them home, Kate. You know that.” His voice is steady, calm. A promise that carries weight, and he watches as her shoulders relax ever so slightly.
Laswell’s eyes narrow slightly, a look that he’s seen her wear often. Cutting through the layers of bullshit to hear the truth in his tone, that no matter what he’ll do his damn best. It’s what he’s here for, after all. “Just be careful, John,” she finally replies. “We’re heading into uncharted territory.”
The call ends, and the screen goes black. For a moment, he’s alone in the world—his only company being the faint hum of the projector and the dim lights overhead. There’s no sense in lingering here, not when his pack is gearing up. They need him, and he needs them, so he lets his feet carry him back towards the armory.
There’s a strange warmth in his chest as he lingers in the doorway, watching them. Soap’s broad back flexes as he pulls a new shirt on, and Price can’t help but admire the shift of strong muscle beneath the fabric. Ghost’s eyes are narrowed as he smudges kohl all around them, brow furrowed as he focuses. And Gaz stretches, the motion fluid, boots laced up with the kind of precision that stems from years of practice.
“You’re all a bloody sight,” Price murmurs under his breath. It sends a thrill through him even now, he’s allowed to watch. They’re his mates, his pack, and that all familiar tinge of possessiveness curls heavy in his stomach, stoking the fire in his veins. They will come home safe, even if he dies trying. Gaz catches his eye and winks, the bloody bastard. Now is not the time for his cock to stir to life, thank you very much.
It’ll make homecoming all the more sweet, though.
“Oi, Ghostie, missed a spot,” Soap teases, leaning into the blond’s space with a grin. Ghost shoves him off before Price can get close, but a dark smudge of makeup smears across Soap’s face now.
“Fuck’s sake, Johnny,” Ghost grumbles, elbowing the stocky beta. There’s no real heat behind his words, just fond exasperation, an alpha indulging his beta. Price can almost see his cheeks lift beneath the mask.
“Och, don’t be like that, m’eudail,” Soap puts, running a hand down the taller man’s back. “Thought I was special. You wound me.”
“Good.” Price stifles a chuckle as Ghost’s eyes roll in the mirror. No matter what, Soap’s teasing always gets to him, one of the few things to ever affect the unflappable alpha.
Their playful jabs continue, the tension of the looming mission receding as they burn off the last bit of steam before the real work begins. As soon as their boots hit the tarmac, it’ll be all business. But for now, here behind these doors, in the space they’ve carved out as home, they’re just a bunch of men bound by more than blood, sweat, and tears.
I’m so lucky. Three perfect mates. I would do anything for you boys.
“You’re all bampots! Every single one of you!” Soap cackles as Ghost wrestles him to the ground, knee pressing against his back and a hand gripping his mohawk.
Price shakes his head with a smile. They’re infuriatingly endearing, his muppets. He’d follow them anywhere.
17 MAR 2022 03:40 Sgt. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick Task Force 141 Verdansk, Kastovia
The air hangs heavy, cold, and still as he crouches low behind Captain Price. His eyes dart across the open ground ahead—a wasteland of cracked pavement and weeds clawing through patches of gravel, seeking their chance for a glimpse of sunlight. The distant buzz of a generator hums like a heartbeat, but otherwise, the place feels… dead.
Too dead.
“Sir?” He shifts his grip on his suppressed rifle, trying to ignore the prickling unease crawling up his spine. “You sure Laswell didn’t send us on a wild goose chase?”
Price glances at him for a moment, and he hates seeing his own unease mirrored in his mate’s eyes. Price doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse as they creep forward again.
It’s a few more steps, barely a couple of feet, when Price’s fist shoots up and signals them to halt. Gaz freezes, heart thumping in his ears. The Captain’s hand moves to his comms. “Remember, suppressed weapons only. We can’t risk alerting the sentries.”
”Copy that,” Ghost’s voice crackles through his earpiece, as flat and calm as ever. He envies that sometimes, the ability to pull a mask down and shut the world away, even though he knows how much it had cost his alpha. “Soap, flank left with me. Keep low. Eyes on those oil drums.”
”Aye, sir,” Soap responds, voice laced with that ever-present hint of mischief even now. He envies that too, he thinks, the ability to find humor in every situation, regardless of the risks. “Alright, luvie,” Gaz stifles a faint grin, he knows Soap likely turned to Ghost just to say that. “Let’s go find ourselves some trouble. Try an’ keep up, will ya?”
There’s a low grunt from Ghost, and then silence as they melt into the shadows. Gaz watches them go with a silent plea. Come back to me, loves. He hates how unnerved this entire thing has him, hates that it’s mirrored between his fellow beta and their alphas. Even the ride in had been quiet—each of them lost in their thoughts, though their scents gave everything away. Dark, bitter, confused…
Still, it always amazes him how Ghost and Soap move. For two big blokes, they’re more shadow than man when they want to be. Especially Ghost.
Price leans closer, brushing their shoulders. His voice is barely a whisper, more felt than heard as his breath caresses Gaz’s cheek. “Stay on me, Gaz. Eyes sharp.”
”Always, Sir,” Gaz’s own breath mists in the cool air as he falls in step behind Price. The few patches of scrubby grass underfoot are wet, enough to damper their steps as they push through the brush.
He wonders if this place ever buzzed with activity. It certainly doesn’t look like anyone’s cared for it in the past years—trash scattered everywhere, rust coating the edges of boarded-up windows. Under the cover of night, it’s nothing but a desolate expanse as the stench of old fuel hangs heavy in the air.
”East quadrant clear,” Soap reports softly. “No signs of life. Movin’ north.”
“Roger. We’re entering,” Price murmurs. “Ghost, Soap, meet us in the middle. You remember where the entrance is?”
”Yessir,” Soap replies, voice crackling. “I’ve got eyes on the Ghost, we’re a few hundred meters away.”
”Good lads. Go careful now,” God, the place reeks. More rust, more oil… and something else—something foul that claws at the back of his throat. The floor groans faintly under their weight, each step echoing through the cavernous, empty space.
There’s no signs of life. Not even the buzz of overhead lights to accompany them, everything left to glow an eerie green behind his NVGs. Not even the rats seem to want this place. It’s too quiet.
Price steps forward, movements as fluid and deliberate as ever. His shoulders are hunched, tense and ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Gaz’s gaze flickers to the corners where darkness pools, expecting something to lurch out at them at any moment.
”How do you keep an enemy scared of the dark when they thrive in it?” He muses softly. Price huffs a soft laugh into his comms.
“Not scared, are you?” There’s a low rumble of teasing in his tone, and if they were anywhere else, he’d likely shove his alpha. As it stands, though, all he can do is roll his eyes and move forward.
”We’ll get you a bloody nightlight when we get home, Garrick.” Ghost mutters. “Shelves are empty here. This store’s rubbish.”
”Aye, it’s… empty,” Soap echoes. Gaz frowns, sweeping his gaze to another row of empty shelves, peeking around an open doorway to reveal… more nothingness.
”South’s empty, too. It’s… too quiet.”
”Like the calm before a storm,” Price mutters.
Ghost’s voice cuts through again. “Whatever was here, it’s long gone.”
”Let’s keep moving. We RV at the loading dock,” Price orders, voice a steady anchor in the oppressive quiet.
Gaz shifts his grip on his suppressed M4, the cool metal grounding him almost as well as his alpha’s quiet movements. They inch forward into the belly of the warehouse, the air growing heavier the closer they get to their goal. It’s laced with so much—sweat, blood, fear… almost makes him want to turn tail and run, to rush back into the light, and he can feel the ripples of his own unease from the rest of his pack.
Price glances over to him. The unspoken tension tightens like a noose.
”Hold,” Price’s whisper stops him in his tracks, and they crouch in sync. There’s the faintest gleam of light, sweeping under a set of heavy double doors just ahead. They creep closer, Gaz’s pulse thrumming louder with each silent step. “Ghost, Soap—position?” Price murmurs into his comms.
“We’re at the back entrance,” Soap replies. “Eyes on a container… door’s open. Three hostiles visible, probably more in the thing.”
Gaz’s stomach drops. That can’t be good. “They moving product?”
”Can’t tell. The door’s blocking most of our view.”
”Stand by. We’ll converge on your position,” Price commands.
They move in a blur, slipping through the shadows like phantoms. As they curl around the place, passing over and under looming platforms, the open container looms in the dim light. Its gaping maw glows amber, barely illuminating the surroundings. There’s a smell here, sharp and metallic that makes his toes curl. Blood, maybe. Sweat. The kind that clings to your skin and refuses to wash off no matter how hard you scrub.
”Gaz, with me,” Price’s voice tugs him back to the moment, gesturing for him to take point. He nods, eyes darting between the rows of crates and darkened corners. His finger hovers just off the trigger as they move in closer, listening for any signs of more hostiles.
”Haven’t found a single shred of… anythin’,” Soap mutters. “No papers, no hard drives, nothin’.”
A flicker of movement catches his eye—a silhouette shifting behind the container. “Got something,” he breathes into the mic. Price nods sharply.
”On my mark.” Price’s hand is steady as Gaz readies his rifle, counting down in silence.
Three. Two. One.
Price’s hand drops, and they swing around the container, guns raised. Gaz’s heart pounds as they rush forward, expecting an onslaught. But what they find is somehow worse—a scene straight out of a bloody nightmare.
He doesn’t get much of a chance to dwell on it. “Price, we’ve got movement!” Ghost’s voice cuts in sharply, and in that same moment, the container erupts into a chaotic firefight.
Bullets cut through the air as each of them takes aim at a hostile. Gaz lines up his shots, rounds hitting true and tearing through his targets. Muffled shouts and the wet, final gasps of dying men fill the space, blood splattering across the concrete and metal. It’s over almost as quickly as it began. The warehouse falls silent, only the distant ringing of spent shell casings skittering to a stop.
”Clear,” Ghost’s voice slices through the sudden quiet.
Gaz’s heart thunders in his chest as the adrenaline begins to ebb. He sweeps the room with his eyes, catching the faintest whiff of gunpowder and blood mingling in the air. For a brief moment, none of it is recognizable—none of his mates were hurt, and he feels wretched for thinking that at a time like this.
It’s a fucking massacre.
The walls are riddled with holes, crimson streaks dripping down where bullets tore through flesh and bone. “Fuckers didn’t stand a chance,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. His grip on his rifle tightens as he steps over a body crumpled awkwardly against a crate.
”Check for survivors,” Price orders, voice a low rumble that leaves no room for hesitation.
Six cages line the wall of the shipping container. The scent of terror—omegan fear, sharp and rancid—clings to the space like an open wound. His throat tightens, bile threatening to rise as he takes in the scene.
The sight is worse up close. Cages filled with limp forms, bodies crumpled unnaturally, stripped bare and left to die like animals. Some of them have eyes that stare lifelessly ahead, others slumped over and curled in on themselves as if they’d been discarded like dolls. Collars wrap around each of their throats, chaining them in place.
They didn’t have a single chance to escape.
He’s almost grateful they don’t have an omega. Not for lack of wanting, but the thought of this fate befalling someone he cares for, someone who’s his, theirs? No one should be reduced to this—caged, tortured, executed like they were nothing.
The silence is eerie, broken only by the echo of their boots against the floor. It gnaws at him. Gaz has been doing this long enough not to be rattled, but there’s a chill in the air that he can’t shake. Something feels wrong—off.
Price’s voice drags him back to the present. “Bloody hell…” his laser sights sweep over the cages, illuminating each victim in turn. All beyond saving. Gaz’s stomach knots tighter.
Who were they? Did they have families? Friends? Mates? Pups?
He wants to cry.
He just might, after this.
”Traffickers. This isn’t an arms smuggling ring,” Ghost growls. “It’s a bloody trafficking ring.”
”The hostiles must’ve taken ‘em out,” Soap murmurs, grim as he shakes his head. “Executed ‘em as soon as they knew we were comin’. If they couldn’t get away—“
”They made sure no one else would, either,” Gaz finishes bitterly.
”Doesn’t look to be any survivors,” Price adds, voice low and frustrated. “I can’t—“
A faint whimper cuts through the oppressive quiet. They all freeze, his flashlight beam swinging to the far end of the row. There—just beyond the shadows—a fragile figure is struggling to move. For a second, Gaz thinks he’s imagining it. But then he hears it again, softer this time.
”Sir—over here,” he calls, heart leaping to his throat. His flashlight landed on a small, trembling form, trying to push itself up on shaking arms. Pale, nude, tiny…
”Christ,” Price breathes, eyes narrowing as he gestures for Ghost to take point.
The omega’s scent—sharp, terrified, but alive—hits Gaz like a punch to the gut. It floods the room, cutting through the stench of blood and death. Ghost’s gun is still up, trained steadily on it as he approaches. The omega is weak, barely able to lift her head, but she’s alive.
Barely alive, but alive nonetheless.
“Oh, my god…”
Unknown Date/Time Omega-06348 Unknown Location
You squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as possible, curling in on yourself as the deafening pops of gunfire rattle the air. The sharp crack of bullets are nothing but bright flashes behind your eyelids, bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds. A stray shot grazes your shoulder, pain blooming hot along its path, but you can’t seem to move.
All you can do is lie there. Your heavy lids crack open just enough to glimpse these strangers—relentlessly efficient, tearing through the space like a storm. Your mind struggles to string together a coherent thought, the world around you fading in and out of focus. Should you feel afraid? It’s hard to feel anything right now. You’re not sure which is worse—not yet.
The gunfire slows, then stops. You think you might whimper, but you can’t be certain until the sound of heavy footsteps approaches. With what little strength remains, you manage to lift your gaze, and within a moment you wish you hadn’t.
The figure before you looms like Death itself—towering, menacing, all you can make out are cold brown eyes behind the hollow darkness of a skull mask. Their gaze pins you in place, a gun leveling with your head.
Your eyes squeeze shut again, a single tear slipping free. Is this it? Should you be terrified of what’s to come? Maybe. But in a way, you’re almost relieved—it’ll all be over soon. You’ll finally be free, even if you don’t know what waits for you on the other side. The agony will finally silence. You wait, heart pounding, but the final shot never comes. Instead, you hear someone inhale sharply, and that’s when it hits you.
The overwhelming stench of strange alphas.
And the pungent reek of your own terror.
There’s at least two alphas, you’re sure of it—the one looming over you, for one, his scent cold and filled with fury. And there are betas, too, their scents less intense but somehow just as confusing. Why do they all smell worried?
”Captain?” Another set of boots echoes closer. You shrink back instinctively, a soft whimper clawing its way up your parched throat. Their scents are suffocatingly strong, far more potent than those of the traffickers, and it makes your head spin. It’s all too much, everything blurring together—make it stop, make it stop, make it stop—
“Ghost, stand down. She’s not a threat.” A low, steady voice rumbles from above you, and you shudder under the weight of his scrutiny. Tremors wrack your exhausted body, broken sounds of fear slipping past your cracked lips. You bite your tongue—hard, enough to taste blood, copper washing over your mouth.
“Could be a fuckin’ trap,” Death growls darkly.
”Didn’t you see the carnage?” One of the betas counters his words fearlessly, voice soft. “Doesn’t look like a trap to me.”
”Finish sweeping the room. Gather whatever intel you can find.” The first voice is closer now, practically on top of your cage as you shake. His breath ghosts over your grimy skin as he reaches through the bars; you can’t help the violent flinch that jerks your entire form. But you’re also too weak to pull away as deft hands work to unlock the latch, the bars squealing as they’re pulled aside.
No, no, no, no, please don’t touch me, please leave me alone please I’m scared—
You want to beg but you can’t. Your voice doesn’t work, your lips move in a soundless plea but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even as you try to squirm away—each movement sending fresh waves of agony through your battered form—the hands don’t stop. You barely notice the beta flooding the air with soothing pheromones, a desperate attempt to… what, to calm you? Why?
”Easy,” he murmurs, a hand gently brushing your matted hair away from your eyes. “You’re okay. Not gonna hurt ya,” you try—oh god, you try—to pull away with a pitiful cry. But you’re trapped. Cornered. You know it, he knows it—another hand, impossibly gentle, rests on your trembling arm, fingertips trailing down to grasp your clenched fist. It’s so tender—might be the gentlest touch you’ve ever known—but it brings you no comfort, here.
Touch means pain. Touch means needles and poison and beatings and knots and—
A tiny, broken keen bubbles up from the depths of your body. The only sound you can muster in response to this baffling setting.
“Shh, sweetheart.”
Impossibly blue eyes meet your frantic gaze, kind and almost boyish despite the exhaustion etched into them. He’s got a beard flecked with gray, head covered by a black helmet and a face that softens with an almost smile as he crouches before you. His voice is low, gruff, but so… so warm.
“My name’s Captain John Price, SAS. You’re safe now. We’re gonna get you out of here.”