Subject D-7069. That’s what they called me. It’s what’s still tattooed on the inside of my left ear in faded black ink—like a brand. Not a name. Just a serial code, a tag, a number to keep track of me in a lab full of others like me. I’ve had it since I was a pup, before the experiments started, before he changed me. I don’t remember much of that time—guess I’m lucky in a way. The ones who were older? The ones who remembered what it was like before? They had nightmares. Woke up crying or screaming, even years later. Me? I just have the ear. And sometimes, when it’s quiet, I wonder what was taken from me before I even had the chance to know it.

  Doctor Silas Smyth—the mad ringmaster, the self-styled maestro of monstrosity. He was the one who changed me. Some of the others, the ones who cracked under the weight of it all, called him Father. But a real father doesn’t hurt you. A real father doesn’t strip you down to your DNA and stitch you into something else just to see if he can. A real father doesn’t turn your body into an experiment and your mind into a cage. Smyth wore his top hat like a crown, ruled his circus with a cane and a scalpel, and looked at us like canvas waiting to be carved. He never saw a soul in any of us—just potential. Potential to be beautiful in his eyes, grotesque in everyone else’s. I was just another act in his carnival of cruelty.

  Me and the other animals—those like me, made to walk, talk, and think like people—we were created using something they call the Moreau Method of splicing. I don’t pretend to understand super-science, not really. All I know is it’s old. Real old. Been used, refined, perfected, and passed down through the dark little corners of science no decent soul dares to go. It’s invasive. It’s ugly. And it hurts like nothing else.

  From what I’ve picked up over the years, the Moreau Method combines elements of vivisection, genetic rewriting, and injections of mutagenic compounds. Once upon a time, it was all crude surgery and unstable serums—nowadays, it’s high-tech horror with lab coats and clean needles. But no matter how polished the tools get, the pain stays the same.

  It’s the most reliable, well-documented way to make people like me—animal hybrids—according to the twisted rulebook of mad science. A crime against nature, banned in nearly every civilized nation on Earth. Not that it stops men like Smyth. People like him… their minds are too big for their hearts to keep up. They don’t see pain. They see progress. They don’t hear screams. They hear success.

  And I still remember the screams.

  Back in those cages, before I escaped… I heard them. Foxes, cats, raccoons, bears—crying out as their bones stretched, as their voices broke and twisted into human speech, as they were forced to become something else. Something they never asked to be.

  That’s what haunts me.

  Not the scars. Not even what they did to me. It’s the pain I remember from the others. The ones who didn’t make it. The ones who never stopped screaming.

  That’s what gives me nightmares.

  I remember the day the man I call my father rescued me.

  I was still a pup—small, caged, and shivering. Struggling to make sense of the world as instinct clashed with this strange, painful new awareness. One moment I was something close to a dog… the next, I was more—understanding too much, feeling too much. Afraid. Confused. Alone.

  That was when he found me.

  Warrick. Agent Christophan Warrick. Some folks call him "Agent Leaf." But to me? He’s Dad.

  He and his team had busted up one of Silas Smyth’s operations way out in the remote north of Canada—cold country, deep snow, thick forests. The kind of place no one finds unless they’re looking for trouble. And they found it, all right. Found cages. Labs. Screaming.

  And me.

  He didn’t look at me like a monster. Didn’t recoil. No guns raised. Just this quiet man in a long coat, kneeling down by the bars, his voice low and calm. And then—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a peanut butter bar. Broke off a piece. Held it out.

  I still love peanut butter.

  I don’t know what he saw in me that day—some glimmer of hope, maybe. Something worth saving. But he took me in. Raised me. Taught me how to live, how to be. Not just as some rescued experiment or a case file with fur, but like a son.

  He gave me a name.

  He gave me a home.

  And for the first time in my life, I felt safe.

  Dad taught me a lot.

  He taught me how to read—slow at first, one paw at a time, fumbling through picture books and phonics like a confused pup trying to chase his own tail. But he was patient. Always patient. He never laughed when I stumbled, just smiled that quiet smile of his and let me try again.

  He taught me how to be a person, not just a frightened animal with a human mind trapped inside. How to sit at a table. How to speak with more than just growls and glances. How to write my name—my name, not a number.

  He even tried to teach me Shakespeare.

  That one… I never quite got. Not the way he did. He'd recite it like it was sacred, his voice all soft and reverent, like the words held the keys to the universe. I liked the sound of it, the rhythm, the poetry. But the meaning? That still feels like it's locked behind a door I don’t know how to open.

  Still, I listened. Because it mattered to him.

  But more than books or plays or table manners, Dad taught me what it means to be a good boy—not the kind who sits and stays, but the kind who stands between danger and the people who can’t protect themselves.

  He taught me what it means to be a soldier. A protector. A teammate. Someone who cares.

  Because deep down?

  I like people. Even the ones who stare or cross the street or pretend I’m not real.

  I like animals too. The wild ones. The skittish ones. Even the ones who hiss and growl and don't like me back.

  And that’s okay.

  Because Dad always said being good wasn’t about what you got—it was about what you gave.

  I’ve got great ears, a sharp nose, and I’m real big. Strong, too. Comes with being part Newfoundland dog, I guess. Big paws, thick fur, built for the cold—and the cold don’t bother me much. Snow, sleet, icy wind—I was made for it. I can swim like a seal, paddle through raging rivers or frozen lakes without breaking a sweat.

  But the rest? The training—that was different.

  That wasn’t something I was born with. That was something I chose.

  Because once I got my head on straight, once I figured out who I was and what I wanted to be, I knew I wanted to help people. People who were lost. Trapped. Hurt. Scared. The ones out there in the wild who needed someone strong, someone who could sniff out danger and carry them back to safety. That’s what I wanted to be.

  So I trained. Hard.

  Search and rescue. Wilderness survival. First aid. Navigation. Everything I could learn, I did. Not because someone told me to. Because I wanted to.

  Sure, I can handle myself in a fight. I’ve got claws, teeth, and a left hook that can knock over a moose if it’s feeling mouthy.

  But that’s not what I’m proud of.

  What I’m proud of—what makes my tail wag—is finding the ones who thought nobody was coming. The ones who gave up hope. And showing them… someone was.

  And that? That’s why I’m in a helicopter, somewhere over the Canadian Shield in late fall.

  A geological survey team was scheduled to check in three days ago. They never made it to the rendezvous point. No radio contact. No GPS ping. Just… silence.

  Then the freak snowstorm rolled in—one of those mean, bitter ones that shows up late in the season, like winter wasn’t ready to let go. Temperatures dropped. Winds howled. And just like that, a routine expedition turned into a survival situation.

  Folks are fearing the worst.

  That’s why I’m here. Because right now, out there in that white wilderness, there are people—cold, alone, maybe hurt. And if I don’t find them soon, we won’t be finding anyone until the spring thaw.

  And by then?

  It’ll be too late.

  Winter comes early and hard in this part of Canada—sweeping in like an angry cat, all hissing winds and cold claws. For folks trying to beat the snow and make it into the bush before the deep freeze sets in, it’s not a welcome sight.

  I check my harness.

  Then I check it again.

  Just like Dad always taught me: "Check twice—never know when a gremlin’s been at your kit."

  I’m still not totally sure what a gremlin is, but Dad said they used to mess with airplanes during the big war he fought in.

  I’m going in alone.

  Northforce, along with most of our search and rescue assets, are tied up dealing with a supervillain raising havoc out on the East Coast. Guy took over an oil rig and is causing all kinds of trouble. I’d be there with them if I wasn’t needed here—but I volunteered for this.

  Someone had to find the missing survey team. And I can handle this on my own.

  They trust me to get the job done. And I trust them to stop the bad guy. Because that’s what friends do. Dad taught me that—real friends trust each other.

  I lean toward the open door, feeling the cold wind rush past me—fast and wild, like sticking your head out of the window during a truck ride or standing in the back of Dad’s old pickup. It’s almost fun. Almost.

  But I’m not here for fun.

  I’m here to drop into the search zone, find those folks, and get them home safe. That’s the mission. That’s the job.

  And a good boy? A good boy always gives his all.

  ***

  The parachute flared open above him with a satisfying snap, and Gander Blue angled his descent toward the rocky outcropping below. The wind whipped at his ears and fur, but his eyes stayed sharp—scanning the terrain for hazards, noting the snow-covered treetops, the frozen lake just east of the drop zone, and the steep escarpment to the north.

  The landing was clean. He hit the ground with a heavy crunch of snow and rock, knees bending to absorb the impact, paws instinctively stabilizing him. He dropped low for a moment, letting the parachute billow around him before unhooking it and packing it away with practiced ease.

  Already, even he could feel the chill setting in.

  Not the crisp, pleasant cold of a November morning walk—this was the deep, bone-biting kind of cold. The kind that seeps through your gear if you don’t keep moving. The kind that makes fingers numb and hope harder to hold onto. A thick fog was rolling in from the north, and the sky, though still daylight, carried that pale, tired grey that warned of an early sunset.

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  He tugged his collar up and flicked the snow off his muzzle. “Alright,” he muttered, voice low and steady, “let’s find some lost folks.”

  The wilderness was vast, indifferent, and beautiful. Towering pines dusted with snow swayed in the wind like silent sentinels. Somewhere out there, a group of surveyors was cold, scared, and probably running out of time.

  Gander’s nose twitched. He caught the faintest trace of something human—sweat and diesel fumes, filtered through pine and ice. A camp? A crash site? It was hard to tell with the wind blowing sideways, but it was something.

  He checked his GPS tracker, verified his position, then started forward—each step deliberate, each breath a foggy plume.

  The trees creaked. A raven croaked somewhere in the distance.

  The Canadian Shield didn’t care that he was here.

  But Gander Blue did.

  More importantly, he cared that they were here—four members of a geological survey team who were now days overdue in territory that didn’t offer second chances.

  The Canadian Shield wasn’t just wilderness—it was wilderness turned up to eleven. Even on a good day, it was a maze of jagged granite, sudden ravines, and cold black lakes that looked more like wounds in the earth than bodies of water. But this? Late fall, a surprise snowstorm, and plummeting temperatures? This was worse than a bad day.

  This was the kind of place where the ground could eat you, where a single wrong step could send you tumbling into a gorge, and where even the animals didn’t always give you a warning before they decided to make you dinner. Moose and elk weren’t majestic photo ops out here—they were territorial tanks with hooves. Timber wolves were ghosts with teeth. And the bears? They didn’t sleep yet. Not this early. Not when the cold came fast.

  Gander moved with silent efficiency through the forest, paws crunching over frost-hardened snow, tail flicking behind him for balance. He sniffed the air again—diesel, closer now. And sweat. Stress-sweat. Human. He could smell the fear baked into it.

  “They’re still alive,” he whispered, more to himself than anything else. “Still out here.”

  And as the wind howled down from the north, sharp as broken glass, Gander Blue pressed onward—because somewhere out in this frozen wild, four people were waiting for help that might never come.

  But he was coming.

  And he wasn't going to let the Shield take them without a fight.

  His nose twitched again—sharp, musky, and mean. Wolverine.

  He stopped in his tracks, body lowering instinctively, ears perked and rotating like satellite dishes trying to pick up the faintest hint of trouble. The scent was fresh. Not hours old—minutes. And that meant it was close.

  Gander exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, forcing his breathing to calm. He didn’t want a fight. Wolverines were meaner than they had any right to be—small but fierce, all muscle, claws, and bad attitude. They could tangle with wolves, chase off bears twice their size, and tear through snow like a buzzsaw on legs. And worst of all? They never backed down.

  He didn’t blame them for that—just like he didn’t blame a storm for blowing or a river for biting cold. It was just what they were. Wild things being wild. Survival made savage.

  But he didn’t want to shoot. Didn’t want to claw or crush or hurt something that was only defending its territory.

  He reached down slowly and unsnapped the leather holster on his side, the movement careful and nonthreatening. The tranquilizer pistol nestled there was custom-sized for his hands—non-lethal, strong enough to put down something big if he needed it. He didn’t want to use it. He just might have to.

  "Easy now," he murmured, voice barely more than breath. "I’m just passin’ through."

  The wind shifted. Snow blew sideways. And somewhere just ahead, in the underbrush, he heard it—the faint, dry huff of breath from something low to the ground, watching.

  Waiting.

  Gander stilled completely. Every muscle coiled like a spring. The cold didn’t matter. The snow didn’t matter.

  Only the silence.

  Only the smell.

  Only the sense that nature was watching him back.

  And in that frozen moment, the wilderness held its breath to see what the dog-man would do.

  Gander inhaled deep and slow through his nose, sorting the layers of scent like a sommelier of the wild. Wet moss. Lichen. Cold iron rock. And there—musky, pungent, wild.

  Her.

  A female wolverine, and this patch of forest was hers. She’d marked it clear as day—along the base of a tree, near a half-frozen log, even across a shattered rock where her claws had scraped warning lines like angry calligraphy. Not bluffing, not posturing. Claiming. This was her turf.

  And if she was marking this fresh, she was probably hunting close.

  He paused, body still as a statue carved from winter’s breath, then turned slowly, making a slight adjustment to his path. He didn’t break into a sprint—no sudden movements. Just a low, steady shift as he veered off into thicker brush where her scent tapered off, faint and stale. Safer. Not safe, but safer.

  He could take her in a fight—he knew that. But it wouldn’t be clean. Wouldn’t be quick. And she’d be hurt. Maybe bad. Maybe worse. And what was the point of that, when he had legs strong enough to reroute, a nose sharp enough to sense the warning, and a mind gifted enough to know better?

  His paws crunched softly over the frosted undergrowth, careful not to crack branches or stir the snow more than he had to. He dipped low, slipping between boulders, letting the cold sting his snout as he refocused on his mission.

  There were people out there in trouble. Humans. Lost and cold. And Gander Blue? He was a good boy on a mission. And good boys didn’t pick fights they didn’t need to win.

  Gander sighed, a plume of white breath curling from his muzzle into the frigid air like smoke from a chimney. He knelt down with a practiced motion, his gloved fingers tugging at the heavy-duty buckles of his boots. They were good boots—military-grade, lined and reinforced, custom-fitted to accommodate his unique feet. But good wasn’t always right. Not for what was ahead.

  The path forward was a mess of black ice and jagged granite veins, the kind of terrain that could twist an ankle or snap a knee if you stepped wrong. He trusted his paws more. Always had. Thick, padded, wide as dinner plates and lined with the kind of claws that made traction a second nature.

  He peeled off each boot and set them gently into his pack, tightening the straps with practiced care. Then he flexed his paws against the cold rock, claws lightly scraping the stone beneath. He could feel the shift in texture, the slickness of ice, the subtle warmth of sun-touched moss where the frost hadn’t crept yet.

  “Better,” he muttered to himself.

  He rose slowly, scanning the horizon—sharp ridges dusted in snow, crooked trees twisted by decades of wind, and a sky bleeding grey, promising worse to come. The wind howled softly between the boulders like it knew something he didn’t. But that was fine.

  He had four missing people to find.

  And the best grip in the Shield.

  The rocks beneath Gander’s paws shifted with a whisper of danger—one wrong step and he would’ve been tumbling down a chute of jagged shale, the kind that tore through gear and flesh alike. His claws scraped for purchase, digging deep into the uneven surface until he stilled his momentum, heart pounding but breath steady.

  “Close one,” he muttered, more to the wind than himself.

  He paused, crouched low, scanning the ridge ahead. Then it came again—carried on the wind like a ghost’s breath—smoke. Faint, but stronger than before. It was thin, dry, the kind that clung to the cold air and curled through his nostrils with a sharp sting. Not woodsmoke from a proper firepit. Something smaller. Emergency fire maybe. Or desperation.

  Smoke meant heat. Heat meant people.

  His ears perked, swiveling for sounds beneath the whistle of the wind. Nothing clear. No shouting. No movement. But that didn’t mean they weren’t close. Gander rose and pushed forward with a renewed focus, moving low and deliberate across the craggy rise.

  Hope was dangerous out here.

  But so was giving up.

  As the scent grew stronger, Gander picked up the pace, dropping to all fours with a practiced ease that spoke of instinct and experience. When it came to sheer speed and stability over rough terrain, nothing beat four on the floor. He wasn’t built like some skinny-arsed greyhound meant for racetracks—he was a Newfoundland through and through: broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and thick with muscle packed onto a frame made for snow, ice, and cold water rescues.

  His limbs moved in a steady, powerful rhythm—front left, rear right, front right, rear left—paws striking the frost-hardened earth with muffled thuds. Each stride carried the weight of a creature made for survival, for enduring, for saving lives in the most unforgiving environments Canada could throw at him.

  The cold bit into his paw pads, sharp as shattered glass, but he hardly noticed. His thick fur collected snow and ice like decorations on a Christmas tree, but still he pressed on, weaving around trees, vaulting fallen branches, ducking under low limbs. He moved like a black-furred freight train barreling through the boreal wilds—unstoppable and determined.

  Wind screamed through the trees above, clawing at him with frozen fingers. Snow swirled in whorls of white and grey, stinging his eyes. But still, he ran.

  The scent was stronger now.

  Woodsmoke. Pine. Char. And beneath that—sweat. Human. Stale and sour, the kind born of stress and fear and cold creeping too close for comfort.

  Someone was alive out here.

  Alive, and not far off.

  He bounded up a rocky slope, claws scraping stone, then leapt from a ledge and landed in a crouch. Nose up. Ears pivoted. The wind shifted—and there it was again. A solid trail. Human scent laced with desperation, hunger, fear… and just a hint of hope. Maybe they’d managed a fire. Maybe they were hanging on.

  Maybe.

  Gander’s tail flicked once behind him, steadying his focus. He sniffed again, deeper this time, sorting layers of scent like a sommelier identifying the notes in a fine wine. Cold, smoke, wet wool, plastic tarp, someone’s breath heavy with exertion—and yes, the faint tang of blood.

  They were close. A few hundred meters at most. Time to find them.

  Before the cold did.

  The tang of blood sharpened in his nose, kicking his instincts into overdrive.

  Injury.

  Someone out here was hurt—and not just in the scraped-knee, twisted-ankle sort of way. No, this was deeper, rawer. The scent had that coppery edge, too fresh to ignore. It made his ears twitch and his pace quicken, paws churning up the snowy path as he surged ahead.

  He crested a low hill, snow crunching beneath his claws—and then he saw it.

  A thin plume of smoke, dark and uneven, twisting through the treetops like a signal flare from a dying fire. His tail gave one slow, steady wag. Not excitement—focus. They were close. That smoke meant survival, meant heat, meant human effort still pushing back against the cold.

  He angled toward it, already running calculations in his head—not the kind humans did, but the kind instinct and training built into his bones. If they were alive, he’d need to check for injuries, get them warm, assess if they could move on their own. If not, he'd have to make the call for air evac… assuming the radios worked up here.

  Which they probably wouldn’t.

  The Canadian Shield didn’t care for convenience. Mountains, canyons, and dense woods made communication spotty at best—so odds were good he’d be playing guide dog through hellish terrain before the night was done. But that was fine by him.

  Helping people—that was the job.

  He dropped to all fours again, tail low for balance, and loped toward the smoke with single-minded purpose.

  He wasn’t just going to find them. He was going to bring them home.

  He found them huddled beneath a small copse of wind-battered pine trees, half-buried in snow and desperation.

  Four of them—two men, one older, one younger, and two women. Their emergency tarp was strung between the trunks, sagging under the weight of fresh snow, barely holding back the creeping cold. The fire at their center had burned low, sputtering embers licking feebly at the chilled air, a pale ghost of warmth clinging to life.

  The blood was hers—a young woman in her twenties, maybe. She was curled up against one of the backpacks, her arm wrapped in a crude sling fashioned from a thermal blanket. The angle of it was wrong, jagged. Broken, no question.

  She was pale, lips chapped, and her breathing was fast—shock setting in.

  Gander didn’t hesitate.

  He stepped into the clearing slow and steady, ears forward, eyes soft but alert. The older man rose instinctively, half-ready to defend the others despite the obvious exhaustion in his limbs. But when his eyes locked onto Gander, they froze—not in fear, but in stunned, flickering hope.

  “Are... are you real?” the man whispered hoarsely, blinking at the massive, fur-covered figure moving through the trees like something from myth.

  Gander gave a slow, reassuring nod and dropped to one knee beside the injured girl.

  “Master Corporal Gander Warrick, Northforce SAR,” he rumbled, voice low and warm as the fire they wished they had. “And you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

  He reached for his med pouch. Time to get to work.

  Gander worked quickly, methodically. His paws weren’t quite as nimble as human hands, but he’d trained hard—faster than most with gloves on, and just as precise. The girl’s arm was broken at the radius, swollen and darkening beneath the torn sleeve of her jacket. Not fresh, either—it’d likely happened during a fall, maybe when the storm rolled in. Pain dulled her expression, but she hadn’t passed out. That was good.

  “Easy now,” he said gently, reaching into his pouch. “This is gonna sting, but it’ll help.”

  He cleaned the wound with antiseptic, careful not to jostle the fracture too much, then wrapped it tight with a compression brace and thermal bandaging. He’d stabilize her properly once they were sheltered, but for now, keeping circulation steady and the arm supported was enough. She flinched once, tears forming at the corners of her eyes—but she didn’t cry out.

  “Tough pup,” he murmured, with quiet admiration.

  The other three members of the team—two men, one older woman—looked dazed, frostbitten around the edges, but alive. He tossed them each a ration bar from his vest, then shrugged off his insulated cloak and draped it over them like a tarp. They needed calories. They needed warmth.

  The young man—early twenties, with a scruffy beard and wide, tired eyes—finally found his voice.

  “You’re with Northforce? We thought they’d send a team…”

  “They did,” Gander said simply, adjusting the girl’s sling. “You’ve got me.”

  He rose to his full height, snow falling in lazy spirals around his thick fur. The sky was darkening fast—clouds low and angry, more snow coming. The chopper wouldn't make it in this weather, not with this tree cover.

  “We’re not waiting on pickup,” Gander said. “There’s a Lands and Forests ranger station twelve klicks south, nestled in the rocks near the lake. No easy trail, but I know the way.”

  The older woman, shivering as she leaned on her knees, looked up. “Can… we make it?”

  “You will,” Gander replied. “I’ll get you there.”

  He looked down at the injured girl. She gave him the smallest nod. Brave. They were all brave, in their own way. Survivors.

  The forest around them groaned as the wind picked up again. Winter was baring its teeth.

  But Gander Blue bared his own—just a little. The wilderness was harsh, but he was built for this.

  “Let’s move,” he said, turning toward the path only he could see. “Stay close. I’ll get you home.”

  And into the storm they went—Master Corporal Gander Blue Warrick at the lead, a hulking shadow against the falling snow, a loyal protector cutting a path through the cold for those who needed him most

  Not all heroes fought monsters and villains—some were just good boys who helped people get in out of the cold.

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