4

You pass through a checkpoint—a tight funnel that forces you to zig-zag through parallel walkways. It reminds you of the human setup you'd seen in an old movie theater lobby back in Haven, but here the walls are solid concrete embedded with thick bullet-proof glass. On the other side, tables heaped with bright yellow jumpsuits are lined up at regular intervals and you're ushered to the nearest unoccupied one to change into your prison attire. A small white patch on the front left breast is stitched with the number "1707." As you're slipping the suit on, grateful to cover your nakedness, Warden Washburn steps into view on the other side of a pane of glass.

"You will each receive one standard-issue prison garment. The identification number on the front is your new name, so commit it to memory. Each of your collars is outfitted with tamper-proof suppression technology." He points at you. "You. 1707. Step into the center of the room and try to remove your collar."

You step forward nervously and wrap your fingers around the collar, little doubt in your mind as to what is about to happen. You pull gently at the constricting band and you're surprised to feel it yield slightly under the pressure. For a moment you think you're going to be fine, but then white-hot agony shoots from your neck to the tips of your toes. Your vision goes black and the next thing you know you're on the floor. Your entire body aches.

Warden Washburn nods at the gaping wolves. "Remember that sight the next time you get the bright idea of trying to remove your collar." He sniffs. "Each collar is outfitted with tracking technology. We know where you are in the facility at all times. We know your blood pressure. We know if you're awake or sleeping. You understand? You belong to us now. Behave and you'll live a relatively comfortable life. But if you don't…let's just say that there are worse things than hell…."

Ever Deeper

You march downward alongside your companions, single-file, descending a long set of switchbacking concrete stairs. The air smells sterile, pumped in at regular intervals through small gratings high on the bone-white painted walls. Each landing is barred with a checkpoint manned by sallow men and women who seem more ghost-like than human. You wonder if a lack of sun caused them to go pale and lose themselves in the depths. If one of them emerged from the pit and stepped out into the sun, you imagine they would burn up, ivory ashes scattering on the wind as a warning to any daring to approach the gates of the Nail.

Each checkpoint gateway slides open on a track automatically as Washburn approaches, allowing him to lead his prisoners deeper into the depths of the prison. You count at least eight levels before he stops in front of a door labeled "Lvl 9." He shoves the doors open roughly and you get your first glimpse of the werewolf prison habitat.

Next

The first thing you notice is the smell. Even with the ventilation systems and air-recyclers working around the clock, there's only so much the humans can do to cover the scent of hundreds of werewolves living day and night in an enclosed space. You wrinkle your nose, but as you follow in the warden's footsteps you slowly become accustomed to it, the smell fading into the background. The second thing you notice is the pristine curvature of the outer walls as you're led through a spiraling series of rooms toward the inner chambers. You'd gone over the layout with Sonoma before setting off, but there's something to be said for seeing a place with your own eyes—a map rarely does justice to the marvels of modern architecture.

The final checkpoint is a heavily-reinforced set of steel doors designed like a pressurized chamber. The first gate opens with a groan of massive weight and you're all driven inside, milling about nervously like a herd of cattle. The door seals shut behind you, prompting a wave of panic before the opposite door opens in a similar fashion. You emerge tentatively, sniffing the air. It almost smells like—

"Food!" one of the wolves shouts. She's one of Sonoma's; you're not sure of her name. But she's right! The briefly-forgotten rumbling in your belly accelerates beyond your control in response to the tantalizing smells wafting from the chamber beyond. After so long spent transformed, it's a wonder that you're still able to move at all. Nerves, adrenaline, and fear may combine to form a potent stimulant, but none hold a candle to the promise of desperately-needed sustenance. You can almost feel your inner beast clawing away at your small reserves of body fat as one by one your companions break into a run, trampling one another in their haste to sate their hunger.

I take my time, cautiously. I've waited long enough for food and it won't kill me to wait a little longer.

If the humans were going to kill us they'd have done it already. I follow the crowd in search of food.

Hunger overwhelms me! I dash ahead of the pack, animalistic need driving me!

Next

You allow the others to run ahead, keeping your distance as you warily round the corner at the rear of the pack. The room beyond is bustling with activity. Werewolves by the dozen congregate around long tables eating dubious-looking food from brown plastic trays. Half of them are transformed into their lupine selves while the others remain human. They look up at you as you approach, many gawping openly in surprise. One of the wolves steps up on the table, the long nails of her footpads clicking against the metal surface as her head grazes the ceiling. Other than Haken you can't remember seeing a wolf form so large and intimidating.

"New fish!" she says, wolven muzzle cracked in a toothy grin, arms crossed over breasts tightly bound by straps of black cloth matching her ebony fur. "And here I thought all we had for dinner tonight was this garbage!" She throws the contents of several trays in your direction and your packmates tackle the discarded food atavistically, tearing scraps from one another like primitive animals. She laughs until she's in tears and many surrounding her follow her lead and do the same.

"Gods do I love this little ritual," she crows before jumping down from the tabletop with a thud. She howls and charges the nearest of the new arrivals, slamming into him with a vicious headbutt just as he wrestles a scrap of meat away from another wolf's jaws. "Welcome to the Nail, newbies!" she whoops, bringing her knee slamming up into the unfortunate wolf's gut. Chairs scrape along the floor as several dozen prisoners get to their feet and charge at you while a few others hold back. Are they sympathetic or simply weaker? You stand riveted to the spot as a menacing brute rushes toward you, half-eaten strings of gristly meat hanging from his teeth. He's quite a beast, but he's not showing much in the way of tactics. A brute, then.

"Take ya lumps, pup," he says, cocking a fist back as he prepares to lay you out flat.

This guy is going to learn a hard lesson in pain. Time to kick his ass!

A head-to-head fight isn't going to get me anywhere. I escape the brute's clumsy attack and approach those who stayed back, demanding answers.

He can't hit me if I'm not there! I nimbly dodge the attack, sweeping around behind him to try tripping him up.

This is crazy—we came here to help them! Anger flows through me as I stare down the brute in a rage.

Next