Project Hellhound

The night air crashes over me like a wave as we emerge from the crumbling Hydra facility. I freeze at the threshold, overwhelmed by sensations I've only experienced in brief, controlled moments during missions. The vastness of the open sky stretches endlessly above me, scattered with stars I've glimpsed only through barred windows. Wind carries scents I have no names for—earth and vegetation and something clean that makes my lungs expand with each breath.

For a moment, I forget the knife in my side, the blood matting my fur. I forget everything but this first taste of freedom.

A mechanical hum pulls me back to awareness. A jet waits in the clearing ahead, ramp lowered. Three figures stand at its base, their postures stiffening as they spot us. Their unease crackles in the air, sharp as the scent of suspicion rolling off them.

"Here we go," Steve mutters beside me.

As we approach, I catalog the strangers instinctively—a survival habit Hydra unintentionally taught me. The man in the metal suit stands slightly forward, his faceplate raised to reveal sharp, analytical eyes that scan me like a threat assessment. To his right, a woman with red hair maintains deceptive casualness, one hand hovering near a holstered weapon. The third—lean, wary, a bow slung across his back—takes an unconscious step backward when his gaze locks onto my bloodied form.

"That's not a wolf," the metal-suited man says flatly. "That's a goddamn dire wolf. Jesus, Rogers. When you said 'wolf,' I was thinking, you know, wolf-sized."

I bare my teeth slightly—not a threat, just acknowledgment. Size equals survival in my world, but here it marks me as dangerous rather than ally.

"What part of 'enhanced' wasn't clear, Tony?" Steve responds, tension threading his calm tone.

"Enhanced usually means 'can bench-press a Buick,' not 'sized up like something from Game of Thrones,'" Tony gestures wildly toward me. "Did they feed this thing super-soldier serum and protein shakes? What am I looking at here?"

I sense Bucky's irritation spike before he even speaks—the subtle shift in his scent, the almost imperceptible acceleration of his heartbeat. I edge closer to him instinctively.

"She's enhanced," Bucky says tightly, his metal arm catching moonlight as he shifts. "She's hurt. And we need to get her on the jet now instead of standing here playing twenty questions."

"She?" The archer quirks an eyebrow, fingers twitching near his quiver. "You've named it already?"

The word 'it' lands like a physical blow. In the labs, in training, I was always 'it.' 'The asset.' 'The specimen.' Never anything acknowledging what I am beyond my function.

I growl low in my throat, the sound rumbling through the clearing.

"I didn't name her," Bucky replies, jaw clenching. "She's a she. Not an it."

"Splitting hairs when we've got Cujo's bigger, angrier cousin standing in front of us seems counterproductive," Tony retorts, taking a small step back even as his hand hovers near his suit controls. "We are not just loading up Hydra's pet death machine like this is an ASPCA rescue mission."

A growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it. The knife shifts with my tensing muscles, sending a fresh wave of pain through my side. But it's not just his words—it's the way Bucky's scent sharpens with indignation, with a deeper hurt that strikes at old wounds.

Bucky's hand comes down on my shoulder, firm but gentle. "Easy," he murmurs, so low only I can hear it. He raises his voice to address Tony: "Maybe stop calling her names and she'll stop thinking about using you as a chew toy."

"Are all your friends this charming, Barnes?" Tony asks. "Or just the furry ones?"

Steve steps between them, shield still strapped to his back but presence just as commanding without it. "Tony. She's a victim. Just like Bucky was."