Sippe Wiegand

May 2, 1945

 

The rain had been drizzling for over an hour, doing its best to scrub the forest clean but doing little to wash away the stench of Nazis. Master Sergeant Robert Hackett lay uphill and downwind of the camp, sandwiched between two waterproof tarps. After two world wars, Hackett had found that every army had its own unique smell to it. The Nazis stunk of metal, murder and fermentation. Tonight, though, they had a troubling new element to their smell. Down there, they smelled like more of their kind. And that could not be allowed.

 

"You’re out of uniform," resonated a basso voice behind him.

 

"I was waiting for you to show up," he said. "You have any idea how much I hate the smell of wet dog?"

 

"The other Dogs of War are in position. Change and be quick about it. I won't let my son wait in there a moment longer."

 

Robert shed his clothing and stored them in a duffel bag, and then willed his body to explode into the form of a mottled-gold werewolf. He latched a leather belt carrying four tomahawks around his waist, and around his arm he strapped a band emblazoned with the stars and stripes and the code-name "Hatchet."

 

He looked up at the massive black figure with eyes that glinted red from some stray light. "Whenever you’re ready, Solomon."

 

Solomon, the oldest and most powerful werewolf alive, threw his head back and let loose a blood-curdling howl capable of striking fear into even other werewolves.

 

Hatchet, Solomon, and the rest of the canine commandos, six mighty werewolves total, emerged from their hiding places, descending on the Nazi camp.

 

Down below, two guards stood before the gate—except, one of them was Chance in a stolen uniform, who grabbed the man beside him and threw him into the electrified fence before he could even realize what was happening. Hatchet heard the man's scream as he was cooked alive and saw the lights in the compound flicker. And then there were no guards, just a werewolf shredding the uniform off his torso and kicking off his boots as he transformed. Chance, being half-Romanian, had survived the internment camps before being bitten by Solomon. He took a delight in shredding Nazi icons with his knifelike claws, and Hatchet could just imagine his relief at ridding his body of the hated iconography. The ashen werewolf leapt and cleared the fence with ease. 

 

The soldiers inside began shooting at him, but Chance managed to get to cover before any of them could break out the silver ammunition. He lobbed a grenade across the yard into their munitions warehouse, and that concern--along with for other soldiers--was swiftly dealt with in a conflagration that momentarily dazed Robert.

 

Two rifle-bearing soldiers took aim at Robert and fired at him through the fence. He shook his head back to alertness and weaved to avoid their fire. The blow of a bullet lodged in his shoulder, but refused to slow down and leapt over the fence. His body had already pushed the projectile out before he even reached the apex of his arc, pulling his axes from his belt. One soldier dropped his gun and started to run, but Robert landed on top of them both before he got anywhere. His axes split open the face of the braver soldier, giving him an immediate death. The more prudent soldier, on the other hand, wound up with an axe in his back. Hatchet yanked it free and hurried off to put down even more Nazis.

 

"Remember," Solomon shouted above the slaughter. "Leave the scientists alive for interrogation. Everyone else dies."

 

***

​

Robert surveyed the ruined camp around him. The mess hall was on fire, but they were going to torch the rest of the compound anyway.

 

The Dogs of War were all caked in blood and mud, but at least they were all intact, which couldn't be said for half the Nazi smears. Chance was gleefully tossing body parts into the fire, along with every flag and uniform he could find. Robert was honestly worried about him. Solomon had seen fit to weaponize his hatred, empower him to take revenge on the people who had slaughtered his family. But the end was in sight. What would Chance do once there were no more Nazis?

 

Hatchet heard a roar from the main building, and then glass shattered as a human came flying out, shards of broken glass protruding from his face and hands. But he was breathing, raggedly. One of the men closed in to put him out of his misery, when Solomon appeared at the window, pointing his arm through it at the human.

 

"Leave him!" Solomon ordered. "He is to die a slow death!"

 

Everyone froze in place. They were hunters. Killers, yes, but only with purpose. They didn't kill unnecessarily, and they didn't make their prey suffer. That was how humans killed. Werewolves wouldn't even have involved themselves in this war if Solomon had not been appalled by the atrocities committed by the Nazis and decided they were just as great a threat to humanity as rogues and vampires.

 

While the others pretended to find other things to do than watch a human suffer, Robert went in. He pushed his way past carnage and barged into the lab to find... Solomon, on the floor, cradling the dead body of his son. The boy had been seventeen. Solomon's grief was so great, it even choked back his capacity to howl.

 

Robert muttered the vilest curse he knew.

 

Surrounding them were several caged cells, each containing a werewolf cowering in a corner. Most of them were blonde and blue-eyed, and they all sported long, shaggy manes like that of Solomon's son, who was laying limp in the man's lap.

 

"They pumped him full of drugs," Solomon said, caressing his boy's head. "He didn't know what he was doing when they made him bite all those kids. That bastard I threw out the window... he heard us coming and stuck a needle full of poison into him. He didn't even know I was coming for him. He didn't even have a chance to hope."

 

"I..." Robert never expected to feel sorrow for Solomon. The man was the strongest of their kind. Another time, another World War, Solomon had come to him and offered him a choice. While he knew he had impressed the immortal werewolf, he had never for a minute thought Solomon would have cared if he had chosen differently. And now, for the first time, he saw raw, unfiltered emotion coming from the Prime werewolf. And it was a disturbing sight, made all the worse by the dead teenager in his arms. "I understand." 

 

He backpedaled out of there, meeting the other Dogs of War huddled around the door. They had, of course, heard everything.

​

"What do we... do now?" Chance asked.

 

"We wait," said Valkyrie, the only woman in their unit and arguably the most fearsome soldier. She had a white, blood-stained pelt, and a milky eye on her left side. No one ever dared approach her on that side, not without warning. And no one dared question her unflagging loyalty to Solomon. She gestured towards the closed door. "In there is a man who has outlived everyone he has ever loved, and can't even remember most of them. His son who should by all rights have stood by his side for centuries to come has been cut down before even his twentieth year. He will grieve, then he will give us our orders."

 

And so, as messed-up as it was, they resorted to huddling under the ruins of the barracks and playing poker and ignoring the agonized groans of a human dying slowly. But then, this war had set new standards for depravity.

 

When Solomon eventually emerged, he was heralded by the other freshly-bitten werewolves, staggering out and many falling into the mud on their hands and knees as he herded them out.

 

They all dropped their cards and stood up.

 

"Pathetic, all of them," Solomon growled. "But these Hitler Youths were turned by my son's bite, and they're all that's left of him." He waved Chance over. "Translate for me. Tell them their führer is dead. He took his own life like a coward rather than face the consequences of his failure when the Allies marched into Berlin. Tell them I am giving them a choice. They can renounce the Reich and swear their allegiance to me, and we will rehabilitate them into a proper pack. Or they can die as Nazis."

 

Chance chattered away. The fledgling werewolves looked amongst themselves, then one by one, bowed their heads to Solomon. Robert folded his arms, wondering how these children would react once Solomon shifted back into his human form and revealed to them that he was, actually, a black man.

 

"And how are you going to assure their loyalty?" Robert asked.

 

Solomon turned to him. "The war's over, but there's still work to be done," he said. "The world is changing once again, and we need to adapt for the times. You, and Valkyrie, and Chance, will stay here and train these children."

 

Valkyrie bowed her head immediately, Chance froze in place, but Robert exploded.

 

"Me?" he asked. "Why me?"

 

"Because you know your duty," Solomon said. "Because you don't have a family to go home to. Because, old friend, you're a soldier and nothing else. I'm giving you a family, Robert. Don't fail them, as I failed mine."

 

Solomon turned back to the cubs. "Chance. Tell them they are now Sippe Wiegand, and they now serve a higher purpose than global domination. When they are ready, and when I have need of them, they will serve to protect all of werewolf- and man-kind."

 

Modern Day

 

"Ich bin Hatchet von Argo," he said in flawless German to the young guard at the wrought-iron gate, which was new. Or at least, after his time here. He stood in front of his rental car and glanced left and right at the stone wall that looked like it might encompass the entirety of the pack's territory, and realized with a fresh wave of guilt that they'd had plenty of time to build this since he had last set foot in this valley.

 

When the welp made no indication of moving, he growled and stepped forward. The young wolf flinched as Hatchet made eye contact. "[Tell your alpha,]" he said in a low, slow voice, "[That her father has come to see her on a matter of urgent business.]"

 

That certainly got the guard retreating to the little office beside the gate, where he picked up a phone and started speaking rapidly into it. Never keeping his eyes off Hatchet--but simultaneously keeping his gaze low--he hung up the phone after two minutes and buzzed the gate open. Hatchet grunted, got back in his car, and drove in without further acknowledging the upstart.

 

He pulled up to the manor that now stood where a Nazi camp had once been. Hatchet closed his eyes and pushed back the memories of that rainy night. He had lived here for twenty years after that, but all he could see when he thought of this place where the Nazi corpses, and the man he had once respected more than anybody else over the body of his innocent child. Those Nazis had been piled into a mass grave in one of the hillsides, because it was the only fitting way to dispose of such garbage.

 

A tall, strapping blonde man, whose harsh features were exaggerated by the way his hair was pulled tightly back in a ponytail, came to greet him in front of the door. "I am Leonhard Straub, Beta of Sippe Wiegand," he introduced himself with crisp English and a stiff bow. "I apologize for the impertinence of the guard. His lack of imagination usually makes him suitable for his job, but rest assured he will be disciplined."

 

"Straub," Hatchet repeated. "You're one of Chance's descendants?"

 

"And yours, I am proud to say," the man said. "Miriam is my grandmother."

 

"Huh." Hatchet took a closer look at his great-grandson. No, there was definitely more of Chance in him. Something about the shape of his eyes and nose. 

 

Leonhard turned and started leading him up a flight of stairs. "I was with great-grandfather in the end. I am sorry what happened to your friend."

 

Hatchet closed his eyes for just a moment. "He probably wasn't much more than a wild animal by the time you knew him, but he was once a good man. Staying here healed him, for a little while. His demons woulda caught up with him a lot sooner if it hadn't been for this place."

 

"And, if I may ask, how was this place for you?" He spoke more quietly now, as they were coming within earshot of the Alpha's study.

 

"Complicated," Hatchet said.

 

"Of course," Leonhard said. He stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and nodded. "The Alpha of Sippe Wiegand will see you now," he said, delivering another bow before marching off.

 

Hatchet watched his great-grandson leave. So. Not how he expected to meet his descendant, though he was thankful for the lack of sentimental displays. Austerity was a virtue in this pack. Odysseus was too much of a romantic for Hatchet's taste, but he never would have been able to retire in Sippe Wiegand, for many reasons.

 

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door twice before opening it. This had once been his study. Now, the room looked absolutely nothing like how he remembered it. The simple office furniture had been replaced with rich oak. The head of a massive taxidermied deer loomed over the hearth, which crackled with a small fire that seemed more for show than warmth. And sitting behind the desk, rigid in posture, was an ancient woman that looked just like Hatchet's mother before tuberculosis had taken her. But this woman exuded a fierce, predatory air that his mother had never had. This was a pack Alpha who was nowhere close to death, except when she brought it on others.

 

"[You've gone bald,]" was the first thing his daughter said to him in forty years.

 

"[And you've gone white,]" was the first thing he said to his daughter in forty years. He closed the door behind him and stood, waiting for an invitation to sit. As a Chosen, and a former alpha, and as her father, he didn't need to wait for such a formality, but he was not here as any of those. He was here as a representative of Argo, because Odysseus had assumed the familiar relation would appease Sippe Wiegand's alpha. But Hatchet suspected it might have the opposite effect. "[Hello, Mary.]"

 

"[It is Miriam. Miriam Jäger, not Mary Hackett. Sit,]" she said. "[No doubt whatever you came for must be important.]"

 

"[It is.]" Hatchet eased into the seat before his daughter. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photo of a tall, ruddy boy with long brown hair and haunted green eyes, placed it on the desk, and slid it towards Miriam. "[We rescued this child from BioPharm. Before that, his parents were murdered, we suspect by the Silver Cross. He shows signs of some Sippe Wiegand heritage, most likely on his mother's side from the way he describes her. My alphas would like to find out who his family is. It might do him some good.]"

 

Miriam spared only one glance at the photo and then back up at Hatchet. "[This child is not one of ours.]"

 

She said it with such vehemence that Hatchet was momentarily taken aback. "[Are you certain? You can't expect me to believe no women in this pack have ever left it-]"

 

Miriam shot up, long, spindly fingers resting on the desk. "[There was one girl,]" she said. "[But she was a disgrace to this pack, and must never be spoken of.]"

 

Hatchet likewise stood, staring his daughter down. In English, he said, "Oh, spare me the drama, Mary. I just want to track down this kid's relatives-"

 

"I'm telling you, he has none! And it is Miriam!" she said, her English thickly accented. "And even if he had relatives, the boy has no family here. His mother was one of the most promising in our breeding program, but she refused to breed with our selected male. Instead, she selfishly ran off with an American mongrel, setting our program back a generation!"

 

"Oh, yes, your glorious eugenics." Hatchet growled. "Breeding the perfect soldiers for the Order. We only allowed your parents to try their 'program' because we could only deprogram them so much. Valkyrie may have thought it was an interesting experiment, and Chance went along with it because of all the tail he got for being a Chosen, but I hated everything about it. And I hated watching your mother fill your head with all that bullshit."

 

"At least my mother was there!" Miriam snapped. Switching back to German, she declared, "[Keep the mongrel child. He has no place in Sippe Wiegand. Maybe you can try being a father to him than you were to me.]"

 

"So that's it, then?" Hatchet asked. He bowed his head. "Listen, I'm sorry I was a goddamn shit parent. But I want you to know, you had nothing to do with why I left. When I went away to Vietnam, I told myself I had to serve my country. But the truth was, I was overwhelmed. I didn't know what I was doing, but I did know how to fight. And at the time, I guess... I chose to go back to what I knew then try to see through a marriage that had become loveless and a child who was becoming more a stranger to me every day."

 

Miriam was quiet for only a moment. "[You have changed,]" she admitted. "[But it is too little, too late. What's done is done, and we have both lived our lives. Go. And tell your alpha, the next time he sends a representative... to send someone else.]"

 

Hatchet shut his eyes, but he knew better than to argue with his daughter further. She was far too stubborn and hostile. Too much like him. He turned around to leave, but hesitated as he gripped the doorknob.

 

"Whatever you think about me, you shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss the cub," he said. "He survived the Silver Cross. He survived being a lone cub for years. He even survived the horrible things they did to him at BioPharm, and killed a bunch of his tormentors himself. And after all that, he earned his pack name for saving another cub's life. He's lived more and achieved more than half the people in this pack. You may think he doesn't deserve a place in Sippe Wiegand, but the truth is, Sippe Wiegand doesn't deserve him."

 

Hatchet slammed the door behind him and left, to return to Argo with somehow even less than he had before. 

 

***

 

After her father left, Miriam sank back into her chair. Her father had forgotten his picture. She picked it up and stared at it, studying the boy with the braided hair and eyes that she recognized. So. Her daughter was dead. Caecilia's foolishness had led her to a premature death. Miriam drew no satisfaction from that, of course. She was no monster. But Caecilia's betrayal had made her dead to Miriam years ago.

 

She stood up and tossed the photo into the fire, watching it darken and curl as the flames lapped it up. No, it was better this way. Her father and her own daughter had both left her, but at least she still had her other child's line to carry on her legacy. And her father would never know that the boy was his own great-grandson. She could take some satisfaction in that minute, petty revenge.