Chapter 1 - Sparks
X23 grimaced, her senses sweeping the overfilled human cavern. Cement smells and steel smells and the stale chemical smell of HCFC-22 coolant slowly leaking from the HVAC system all drifted through her perception and were subsequently discarded as unimportant. She settled her makeshift rucksack, sewn from the remnants of Madam HYDRA's clothes, on the floor, carefully, so as not to jostle the precious cache of hard drives recovered from the ruins of the HYDRA command ship. A small sneer flickered across her lips, deeply tanned skin pulled tight under perpetual stress creasing momentarily. For a redoubt, the security here was pitiful, not that she had ever attempted to break into a commercial zone, but, still, the cinderblock walls would only repel small arms fire and one wall was made entirely of glass - an obvious trap. She wasn't sure what the mechanism was, but the only reason to have an apparent weakness was to lure assailants that way. Although, one this transparent was...insulting. Instead, she had slunk around the backside of the complex, counting off steps until she encountered a steel door in roughly the right location. One claw and a little force was enough to shear through the iron banded brass of the deadbolt and door latch. A small tug of resistance had alerted her to the presence of a paired magnet security alarm, but a shaved end of a magnetic something torn out of a ruined looking harddrive and some quick reflexes had bypassed the triviality.
The first room past the rear metal reinforced doorway was clearly intended for storage. Familiar metallic shelving and a variety of goods neatly organized into sturdy cardboard boxes was almost similar enough to a HYDRA nest to be comforting. The other room, the cavern room, however, was a nightmare. Wasteful arrays of mismatched shelving formed dangerous warrenous corridors and brilliantly pigmented marquis displayed encrypted information X23 could make no tactical sense of.
The place was, however, adequately quiet, and from the mostly still air she picked out the deep thrum of the building's air circulation system; the resultant baritone hiss of air forced through and out of aluminum ducts. There was fluttering paper, crinkling plastic and there, in one of the deeper most corners, farthest from the glass false way was a human heartbeat. Of course, X23 was also in the rearmost portion of the cavern room near the center where the storage room let out into the chaos room - a matter of only 30 feet separating her from the sonic signature. Worse, the sound producer was behind a series of low shelves that would reveal a standing child, let alone an adult, which indicated the contact had already noticed her and was seeking cover. Fangs glittering in a silent snarl, X23 burst forward into a stealthy sprint, mind already calculating the ideal kill sequence to silence the guard before it could deploy a weapon or a radio. Determining to simply drive her claws through the shelves and into the center of the sound source her plans were immediately halted by the snap hiss of a butane torch. A spin, a kick, and a left cross created two long gashes in the drywall separating her from the storage room, the metal door, and, hopefully, a safe distance from a thrown explosive. A moment later a sulfur sting of a scent alerted her to burning paper but with it came a heavier pungent purplish sort of a smell followed almost immediately by fear scent.
A soft, tremulous, voice reached out from the unknown contact in the corner. The voice sounded frightened, which was reasonable, but not hostile, which was not. The odd combination drew at...something beneath X23.
The vertical stroke had been nearly silent, but the lateral stroke had taken out three studs and alerted the guard. X23 knew she should run - to escape or to kill - but instead she hesitated. She felt... Her scowl returned etched deep into her face in true disgust this time. She felt...curious. A wholly unacceptable feeling and an error she had not self logged in months, not since the assault on Weapon-X's habitat at Xavier's. Arm blades working back and forth rending the tissues of her forearm only to have them heal and rend again, X23 prepared her error report for... for... for recalibration.
The wetware report only took one thousand seven hundred fifty milliseconds to complete but that was enough time for the contact to attempt communication. X23 knew she should abort the mission. Her cover was blown and this was not a critical locale, any commercial zone installation containing electronic merchandise would do just as well. Instead, to her disgust, she found herself stepping forward, mimicking the guard's call sign.
Eanruig Seaghdh stood at the stern of the little wooden boat and rolled his tired shoulders. "I don't know about this Rahney," his words almost drowned in a thick Scotch-Gaelic brogue. The teenage girl in the prow just lifted her shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. Privately, she was also having deep misgivings about her impulsive master plan, but she was nowhere near ready to voice those concerns.
What's a matter?" she asked, spinning around from her perch upon the prow from which she'd been keeping an eye out for rocks, "are you scared?" For a moment as she turned her long vividly red hair, unbound for a change to ward off the cold Scottish sea air, pooled across her face. In spite of himself Eanruig shuddered. While Rahne's hair usually minded him of red blaeberries, in that moment it had struck as more akin to blood running across her face.
Crossing himself more than half unconsciously, the taller youth muttered under his breath, "of course I'm scared I'm not a bloody superhero" but when he turned his face up to meet hers he wore a warmer if slightly sarcastic grin. "Worried about being woken up at quarter until first light with you about blowing up my phone with texts telling me to meet you at the key and now we're eight miles to sea near a creepy little slip of an island and you ain't said near a quarter score of words the whole way?" He pursed his lips and thought about it for a minute and then gave a little shrug. "Actually, that's pretty par for the course around you Elevensy. You always did play things close to the vest."
Rahne laughed softly and looked at her oldest friend. He had filled out considerably for a fifteen year old, years he had spent scrambling over the sea cliffs and shore hills with her finally catching up to him. His usually shaggy blond hair was matted down from the exertion of hand rowing their little dingy and his usually bright blue eyes were slightly muted but his sardonic grin was as ready as ever. Sitting in the prow, Rahne had to crane her neck to look up at him; even when both were standing her friend had nearly half a foot on her.
For a moment Rahne silently pouted, "when had that happened?" when she had left for Xavier's institute, almost a year ago now, she had been the taller one, if only just. Rahne sighed. Life at the institute had been amazing, she had had seven of the most perfect months imaginable. Sure there had been a lot of hard work, but it had been the first, and only, place where she felt like she could really be herself. "Besides," she murmured out loud, "I'm not a superhero, not anymore."
For a moment Eanruig blinked in honest confusion then he cursed and raked his fingers through his disheveled hair, "I said that out loud did I?" He sighed and took a long moment trying to organize his thoughts. He had known Rahne for most of his life. He could still remember the day Moira MacTaggert had brought her to school. She had been so...wild, and not in the hyperactive way that some of the other students were. She had been completely drawn in on herself, eyes darting about to track each new sign of movement, nose working - drawing in air so vigorously that from even on the far side of the swing-set there was an audible sound of...sniffing. In short, she was weird, and so immediately attracted the attention of the Goons - seven of the biggest and meanest of the fourth and fifth graders. He had wanted to warn her, he had, but a traitorous voice restrained him, grateful that he and his family situation were given a reprieve from their attacks.
He remembered that the entire playground had gone silent, like in one of the American cowboy movie showdowns, and Rahne, his fellow first grader, had looked terribly small surrounded by those boys, a couple of whom looked likely to need to start shaving any day now. But the inevitable didn't happen. There was a flurry of shouting back and forth and Iacob, the meanest of the pack cocked his fist back to strike, but the blow never landed. Instead he screamed and stumbled back, and there was the feisty little redhead her teeth sunk deep into the older boys wrist. Eventually, the teachers pried Rahne free with an audible pop and a spurt of blood. Rahne was sent home for a week and Iacob was sent for stitches.
When her exile was over Rahne had been surprised, and not entirely pleased, to learn that she was the new school celebrity. The Goons had terrorized nearly everybody and nearly everyone wanted to enjoy some vicarious revenge through the new girl. But all of Rahne's mumbled replies were noncommittal and she tried to downplay the whole affair. Gradually the pool of admiring students had diminished until it was just her and Eanruig. He was never quite sure why he had stayed, perhaps it was that he was comfortable with long silences, or that Ullapool was not a big place and Rahne had increased the population of first graders by thirty three percent, but mostly it was just that he had stayed.
From that a friendship had eventually germinated, one that spanned almost an entire decade, he knew his friend quite well now...and he knew if he didn't choose his words very carefully he was the one who was likely to get bit. Not that he was afraid of wolf-Rahne, at least, no more so than any other sane person is of a great big wolf driven by as quicksilver a mind as Rhaney's. Indeed, he had been one of the first to see her canine form when-
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Rig, dry up." Rahne snapped. A flicker of amber within the girls usually cool green eyes told him that he had taken too long to answer. "This is a perfectly good plan. We're just going to talk. And I know I'm pretty awesome but you are not allowed to hero worship me." She stuck her tongue out at him, "we established that years ago."
For a moment something flickered across Eanruig's face, something unsaid, but it was instantly washed away into a canary eating grin. "Oh, ho! So, we're going to meet someone are we? That's a start anyway. Who are we going to meet? And you're right. You are way too much of an Elevensy for that."
Rahne growled. "I am not an Elevensy!". Elevensy, her favorite most hated nickname, it was Eanruig's favorite way of calling her one short of a complete dozen.
"I don't know," he said, amused grin still fixed, "sneaking out in the middle of the night...sneaking out on your mother of all people...and going to meet someone on a deserted crag of an island...sounds like an Elevensy plan to me."
Rahne threw up her hands in frustration and turned to peer once more into the water under their prow. "Just row, my lord," this time there was a definite lupine growl underlying her words.
Breakbreakbreakbreakbreak
Rollings "Crispy" Johnson settled back on the cool tiled floor his head resting on a displayed car subwoofer system, the plastic mesh protecting the magnets making a surprisingly good pillow. His hands jittered slightly, evidence of the third Nos he had sucked down; the heavily caffeinated energy drinks were the only things that got him through the late night restocks. He looked at his watch, quarter of two in the morning and he still had to check to see if the CD's were alphabetized. He sighed and ran through a series of curses in English and Gaelic for the useless newbie who had failed to show up for his shift again. Frank, the night manager, had given up at one o'clock and told Crispy to lock up when he was through and that they'd take care of the rest in the morning. Frank was a good guy. He knew Crispy would rather stay and work up the overtime and, after working together for more than three years, the night clerksman felt no resentment over his friend wanting to knock out.
He did, however, feel that he had earned a reward. So he pulled a small plastic bag out of his inner shirt pocket and a small piece of paper out of his jeans and rolled himself a treat. Cylinder between his lips, he whipped out and flicked his Bic with a practiced fluid flourish when three sharp cracks made him yelp, snatch up his cigarette, and hide it behind his back. His first thought was that Frank had come back for some reason, which, friendship or no, would be a catastrophe if he found Crispy with the lighted package. His second thought was that an animal had somehow gotten in. Licking his lips, he was able to force out a single word deciding he'd try to swallow the evidence if Frank replied.
"Hello?" he asked the word, voice breaking halfway through, while his heart hammered, waiting for a reply. For a long moment the silence lingered and Crispy was just beginning to settle, deciding that he had been hearing things when a soft voice returned his greeting, mimicking the inflection and the break in the voice perfectly. But the pitch was high. Too high. Way too high to be Frank.
Silent expletives racing through his mind, Crispy crawled to the edge of the shelf and craned his head around the corner. Crispy frowned, frantic half formed possibilities that had formed in his mind twisted, tried to fit, and were discarded. The first thing he noted was her face. It was absolutely devoid of expression. It wasn't blank or disengaged, that would have been something. This was totally neutral and perfectly still, it was a mask of flesh that revealed absolutely nothing. Around her face were long, slightly wet, tangled shocks that ended haphazardly as if they had been knifed when they started to fray. Her eyes, however, were never still. They darted over the room, always checking what was going on around them but instantly snapping to his with animalistic intensity whenever he moved. The next glance brought heat to his cheeks; she was, mostly, wearing a heavy black jumpsuit but it was riddled with long slashes and small perfectly circular holes that reminded him of the holes left in pop cans he and his buddies had ventilated in high school. Incongruously with the remnants of the military looking suit, her feet were bare and the entire girl was covered in a thin sandy mud as if she had rolled in a stream before coming here.
Crispy winced at that, even in the summer, streams in New Brunswick ran cold. He ran his hand through his hair wondering what in the hell he was supposed to do. Or, at least, he tried to. He didn't think his hand had actually moved before he was spun around, his arm twisted up against his shoulder and his face crushed against the floor.
He shifted wondering what he was supposed to do now. One hand twisted into his collar, small fingers tightening with an oddly metallic pop, while two broad knives pressed along the line of his spine. Now Crispy knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to lie very, very still.
The surf, rippling waves of the Sea of Man sluffed against the gravely beach of Priest Isle. Eanruig looked around the clearly deserted beach head and gave Rahne a baleful glare. "If I rowed three and a half hours for naught..."
Rahne looked around a deeply dissatisfied expression on her face. "I don't understand," she whined, "Moira said this is where the abbey that handled my adoption was."
Eanruig frowned. "Is that what this is all about Rahne? Are you still mad Lady MacTaggert brought you back home?"
"Yes," She growled, more than a little of the lupine coming out around the edges. "But it isn't that, really. I love me mum, I do. But for all her tinkering about with 'mutant genetics,'" Eanruig winced at the bitter tone accompanying those two words, "she can only tell me what I am. Xavier was telling me who I am. At least these people can tell me who I was. I want to be a who, Eanruig, not a what."
The pale redhead turned away surreptitiously scrubbing away a treacherous tear. Eanruig gave her a moment to compose herself and tried desperately to think of something to say. Her open anger about returning to Scotland - to him - stung more than he was ready to let her see. Taking a deep breath he forced his words out in a stumbling rush, "You are someone. You're Rahne, the Elevensy, and my oldest friend. Come on, let's head back. Ol' Maggie'll have a pot of fish chowder and I've a bottle or so of real Glenfidditch that needs tending too. Besides, this beach? This isn't the empty of abandoned, this is the empty of never was here."
Rahne's shoulders sagged. "Yeah, I guess you're right." Looking around dejectedly she sighed, "but I'm sure this is the place Moira said."
"Maybe they were shipwrecked? Some of those shore rocks are pretty unfriendly looking." He gestured at a small trihull with an outboard rigger that had clearly run afoul of the rocks and now sat listing heavily upon them. "Or maybe..." he paused, the sea breeze tousling his fine brown hair his best impish grin decorating his face, "you're fey born. I always said that you were more than a little moon touched."
On the verge of reaching out and finding if her best friend's best grin would be quite as charming after having been dunked in the sea, a sudden shift in the wind, dragging the air across the small island instead of blowing in from the sea, diverted Rahne's attention. Her head whipped across, nose tracking the faint brown gray scent of woodsmoke drawn across heavy peat. Her mind entirely focused on the scent, in a rush of impatient impulsivity to better track down the scent, she phased straight into her lupine form.
She knew it was a mistake before her forepaws hit the pebbles. While both forms weighed the same, their proportions were completely different. Her tail plumed out comically into her skirt, but her v-neck shirt stretched and popped alarmingly. Rahne cursed inwardly. She missed the clothing at Xavier's. Electromagnetic seams and a metallic mesh had detected the conductivity of her skin (and Ray's and Ororo's bolts) but the relative resistance of her fur interrupted the current making the garment fall away without damage. Phasing back had required a little more art, or some conveniently located screening, but it had become second nature...while she had had access to the Institutes resources.
It had been nostalgia that sent Rahne into her old wardrobe. That, and a year and two inches ago these clothes had been baggy enough not to present a problem and skirts, she had learned early on, were a gift from the Gods.
Shifting to her were - midform state - her blush was brilliant enough to shine through her finer muzzle fur. Still scarlet beneath her fur, Rahne hesitated before pushing down her skirt. It wasn't that she felt ashamed walking around in her hybrid and lupine forms, the fur was long and thick enough to provide ample modesty, and, besides, clothing pressing down on her fur felt distinctly unnatural.
She and Logan had had many heated arguments on this point. He insisted that she needed the extra protection afforded by body armor like that which was built into the other x-men's uniforms, and when it came to that point she didn't disagree, but whenever they tried it, the constant pressure and sensory deprivation cause the wolf within her to have a panic attack. Still, at Xavier's the clothing had burst out as a part of the transformation. Actually having to take them off was much, much worse.
Fortunately, Eanruig could read the distress in her face, or else knew her well enough, for when she turned back, he had already turned his back on her, ears and neck scarlet with a blush that deepened Rahne's own. With a few hurried movements, Rahne bundled her clothes into her skirt and tied it to the two ends of a stick. Shifting back to full wolf she grabbed the stick, flipped it over her neck, and gave a soft muffled "wulf" to tell her friend to turn around.
X23 hesitated. Standard operating procedures were to eliminate all unknown contacts and to secure all mission criticals. Her prisoner did not match any known physiological profiles, was of unknown characteristics and capabilities, and, worse, was, poorly, concealing a chemical agent of unknown capacity. She tensed the slingshot like muscles that extended her claws, ready to pop them quickly and isolate c4 from the rest of his spinal column, killing him almost instantly. But before she could release, the retractor muscle anchored to the distal terminus of her humorous spasmed, locking her claws in place.
X23 growled. Leaving the guard alive was unwise but she did not have a specific kill order for this individual and with the waves of fear scent washing off of him, a slower method of dispatch seemed...unnecessary. Plus, there was still that disconcerting sensation of curiosity. Letting the game of muscular tug of war end with a sigh, X23 retracted her adamantium claws with a familiar shhnnk as the bonded metal on her twin claws slid along the space between her similarly encased radius and ulna, forcing the two bones apart. Turning her side to the prone officer so the lines of force fell along her shoulders and hips, she heaved him to his feet and then caught his arm twisting it and forcing it up onto the verge of dislocation. "Name, rank, and serial number" her voice rapped out the familiar litany. There was a long pause while her prisoner, who had foolishly raised himself onto his toes, danced around. After a suitable pause of six thousand milliseconds X23 repeated her quarry in an even more authoritative bark.
The boy danced about before for another second before replying. Unfortunately, "what?" did not fit within the matrix of expected responses. Still, this was Canada, and X23 decided to give the guard one more chance before engaging in advanced interrogation techniques. Loosening the tension on his arm to a level suitable for a first query she repeated her question "nom, grade, numéro de série militaire. Qui travaillez-vous?".
"I don't understand. My name? I'm Rollings, Rollings Johnson. Why? What do you want?"
X23 decided to ignore the questions, at least she was getting somewhere. Clearly she had captured an idiot, or else his company kept shockingly lax discipline. "What is your rank?"
"I don't understand. I don't really have a rank. I'm a stocker." He gestured at a small plastic ID on a lanyard around his neck. X23 flicked her hand out, neatly looping the ribbon of fabric over her captive's head. The picture on the card matched the young man before her, and the name matched the one he had given. The reverse side had a magnetic reader strip and a serial number, obvious falsification points to prove the ID and bearer were genuine - not that she had a database or a reader to confirm his story. However, the front of the card listed his position as "night clerk" not "stocker".
She whipped him about, to look up into his eyes. Facial expressions were an imperfect tell, but this Rollings seemed so open that it would either be highly effective or else he was a deep cover master. "Which are you, a night clerk or a stocker?"
He blinked and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but his eyes remained dilated in fear, and his scent mirrored his expression. "A night clerk is just a fancy way of saying I restock the shelves. I handle the stock. So I am a stocker."
X23 nodded. Shorthand. That made sense. "But why do you restock the shelves? What other duties do you hold? What are the security protocols?"
Crispy grimaced briefly, his thoughts spinning toward the security system. She must have tripped the alarm breaking in. The police should be there soon. And he was a hostage. How often did stand offs work out in the hostages benefit? A slight increase in the pressure on his arm forced his tongue loose, "I, nothing. I don't provide any security. I just do the shelves. Because, you know, people buy things and the sales clerks don't have time to do it during the day."
"You provide no security?" the flat disbelief in her voice made sweat pop on Crispy's skin.
Crispy shook his head vigorously. "The alarm. Police. Be here soon." The hard angry face before him showed no reaction, not even a flicker of concern, but abruptly she was holding his Bic before him little flame burning steadily and the eyes seemed to, impossibly, harden farther. "That? It's just a lighter. It's harmless. For my cigarette-" a quick jab to his trachea had turned stammered answers into a series of choking coughs. X23 ran her hands over his front in a quick but efficient body search and then she spun him around to give his back the same treatment. His wallet had been quickly tossed, the drivers license compared to his face and his ID and then quickly kicked back towards the stockroom. She'd pulled open his half empty pack of cigarettes and sniffed them experimentally before wrinkling her nose and tossing them over to where his wallet had wound up. His cellphone had undergone more scrutiny. She had checked for recent calls and recent messages and then carefully searched for any alternate messaging app that could have been used to send an alert. Finding nothing she ripped open the back. The phone went onto the pile but the battery had gone into a pocket in her jumpsuit and she had swallowed the SIM card.
X23 pushed him away and he fell to the ground still coughing. She couldn't understand. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was a guard. He hadn't even had defensive weapons. But why leave a redoubt completely undefended? She closed her eyes and tilted her head back pulling the air, the scents, into her, but she could smell no living thing besides the boy, herself, a small line of ants and a couple of mosquitoes. There weren't even any mice.
Slowly, so slowly, she sank down to the ground. She ordered her knees to hold her up, but they refused to obey. How could this be? How could they survive like this? How could they still be alive? HYDRA had taught her the ways of the world. Everyone was evil. Everyone was always looking for the ideal time to kill to get ahead. They had let her read the news. Murder reports and battle reports. She wasn't living any differently than anyone else. She was HYDRA's weapon because everyone had weapons. She killed because otherwise others would kill her or her masters and then she'd be dead or alone in the deadly world. She had killed all those people because those people had needed to die. But now she had killed HYDRA and she was alone in the killer world. And she had killed all those people in the world. And she was alone. And no one was killing her. And this Rollings was alone. And he was defenseless. So no one was killing him. Except her. He had needed no weapons. And she was a weapon.
Eanruig sighed. Again. He felt like he had been sighing for hours now. Rahne had just started to see sense and to concede that there was nothing of interest on Priest Isle when she had suddenly spun and blurred. He had seen her wolf out many times in the past, before she left. At first having a werewolf best friend had been beyond awesome. At least until he found out how much wolf had come with the were.
The first time had been shocking but ultimately uneventful. They were racing to Dunharrow, each taking the path they thought was best. He had gotten upon the bluffs, a fair step ahead of her, and watched as she tore along the serpentine seaward pass. Around one bend he say two flickers of bobbing red pigtails, maybe a quarter mile behind him. Then, a half a minute later, he saw a decent sized red wolf tearing off along the same pass. He had instantly panicked and began scrambling down the broken sea cliffs. Eanruig was no woodsman, but he had been running on the heath long enough to recognize a footprint - both canine and hominid and the proximity of the two in the coarse Scottish sea sand had sent chills down his spine. The next part of his memory was confused. He remembered running and calling her name and then she had come trotting from the direction the wolf had gone. She looked terrible, pale and sick and she was holding up her jeans with one hand. The collar of her t-shirt was stretched oddly, like she had been grabbed from behind; when he spun her around and lifted her rain cloak, checking to see where he needed to start first aid, the back of her jeans had been shredded. There was, however, no blood, no angry gouges where the wolf's teeth and claws should have rent her skin. As his adrenaline started to drain, Rahne was able to pull free.
"I'm fine," she complained.
Eanruig's brain had been still struggling to catch up. "You went after the wolf?" he accused, incredulity so strong that it brought strains of anger into his usually placid voice.
"Not...not exactly." Eanruig could still remember how weak and sickly and…broken his best friend had sounded, "I think…I think I am the wolf."
Eanruig blinked. It was the best response he could come up with. Rahne looked back pleading, terror shimmering in her eyes. Taking a deep breath Eanruig ran his tongue along his lips trying to actually produce sound this time, "You think you're a werewolf? For real?"
She just nodded, sniffling, waiting for him to run away.
"That is too cool!" And it was, at first to Eanruig alone, but eventually his enthusiasm had caught on. There had been a fortnight of fun. They had found a hollowed out cairn where Rahne could change and they had played out on the heath. It had been one of the best times of Eanruig's life. Rahne had always had a couple of inches on him and had usually dusted him whenever they raced, but the couple of times they had rough housed had ended in tears.
Of course, that had been years earlier and bouts of king of the mountain had given way to "lost" and tramping about the countryside looking for mysteries which they could unravel. Which, when the mysteries proved few and far between, led to just tramping around, and foot races, which he didn't enjoy quite as much.
Now they had been tearing along the moor playing keep away with a yard of heavy nylon rope, each enjoying their new muscles, those just forming in the thirteen year old boy and those new found in his suddenly dogged peer. Happy yells and yips echoed across the empty landscape as they slammed into each other, fighting over the cord.
But, Eanruig sighed, again, still trudging after wolf-Rahne, it had been like they said, it is all fun and games until someone loses an eye... or a hand. It had been an unusually hot summer last year, Eanruig paused, had it really only been a year?, and one particularly fierce day had forced them out of the heath and onto the beach. There was nowhere to change, but that was okay, the wolf was fine, but sometimes it was nice to talk too.
The water was cold but the air was hot and this yielded alternating series of floating calmly about just past the knee high breakers to cool down and racing frantically up and down the beach to warm up. The competition of the races had begun to spill into the water, and their last dip had devolved into a splashing match which he had gotten the worst of. A particularly one sided race, also in Rahne's favor, had followed and Eanruig, his head drooping in remembered shame, had found that his blood had gotten hot. As soon as they had swum to deep water, he had hopped onto Rahne's shoulders, dunking her.
Both had forgotten the need to be careful and, as Rahne wasn't struggling all that hard yet, Eanruig held her down in juvenile maliciousness. The redhead, meanwhile, had inhaled a half a cup of bright stinging sea water in her initial surprise as she had gone under. She had instantly panicked and the wolf within half rose up in her mind. Her body was not fully controlled by either mind, and her reactions were weak and muddled. But as her human mind spun out in panicked thoughts, the tighter fear driven instincts of the wolf pulled together, changing her body as her mind clarified, clamping her fully lupine muzzle on her attacker's hand. Hard.
Eanruig could remember the sequential progression of the bite: teeth on skin, teeth through skin, teeth on bone, teeth shattering bone. His scream had invited the ocean into his mouth, and the sea had obliged, cutting off his cry into a gurgling cough. The cry had driven Rahne back to herself. Somehow she had dragged them both back to shore and even somehow muscled him up the path to the access road. She couldn't remember racing to Moira's and could barely remember the trip back.
Apparently, she had babbled everything because by the time Moira bundled Eanruig into the car, after tying on a makeshift tourniquet, she was fully the Lady MacTaggert. Eanruig sobbed out apologies but to his surprise she took the dunking in stride calling it "shockingly stupid" and an "act beneath his station". She was, however, more than livid that the two of them had concealed the depth and progression of Rahne's mutation. At first Eanruig tried to rally to Rahne's defense, but his best friend's adopted mother wasn't upset about the transformations, just the concealment. Arguments like the very real threat posed by shepherds protecting their flock and hunters looking for a bounty or other wolves patrolling their territory left him gaurdless and blanched.
The need for Eanruig to conceal the source of his wound was met without opposition, not that Moira had expected any. They spent a brief time hashing out their story, but the pain in his hand, which had gradually been pulling the teenaged boy towards shock, finally won over. Rahne, for her part, had been in near catatonic horror for the duration of the ride to the hospital.
Eanruig flexed his hand, mostly returning to the moment. The looping path Rahne had been setting was getting tighter. The bones in his hand had healed but the best surgeons in London had only been able to partially restore sensation.
Even he could smell the wood smoke now, but the low craggy landscape of the island remained stubbornly bare. They turned a corner where a small run crept between two hills. The absolute silence about them made the twined metallic cocking of two shotguns sound even more ominous.
