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Paris, France; Friday, December 7, 2007, 1:52 A.M...
"NO!"
Unsure of whether or not he had merely shouted it in his dream or in real life, Sly shot up in his bed, clutching his head and grinding his teeth as tightly as he could. He opened his eyes at long last, staring out at the rest of his bed before him and the door beyond it. It was mostly dark in the room around him, and the darkness only added to the disorientation of the immediate aftermath of the nightmare he had just broken free from.
He closed his eyes again, breathing in and out heavily. It took him a few moments to regain his composure, and realize what had just happened.
Not again.
He could feel the sweat dripping off his brow, and on his palms. He grabbed the covers and threw them off, as they only made it even hotter and more disorienting. He slowly slid out of the bed, wearing only his pants. He stumbled through the dark room to the door, out into the hall and towards the bathroom.
Flicking on the light switch on the wall beside him cast the first bit of light he had seen since the nightmare, and the brilliant white flash briefly stunned him and forced him to squint. But he eventually shook it off and stared at the disheveled, disturbed face in the mirror in front of him. Closing the door behind him, he moved over to the sink and turned on the cold water, letting it run freely over his hands as he cupped them together. He held them under the water for a few more seconds, enjoying the chill of the fresh water even as it overflowed from his cupped hands. Then he finally threw the water into his face, splashing it over his fur and dripping down onto the sink and floor around him. He took several deep breaths, letting the water run down his face, before cupping his hands again and throwing another bunch of water in his face even faster.
It had happened again. No matter how hard he tried to avoid thinking about it, he had the nightmare again. It got more and more intense, and this time was no exception. The ghostly image of Carmelita was even more haunting, the horrible yellow eyes were even brighter, the laugh was longer and deeper, and the explosion was far more powerful. Even if just a dream, he could feel the force of the blast in his nightmare. As always, it had been the one thing that jolted him from his sleep.
It had happened again.
With a growl of frustration, he slammed his fists down on the sink with a BANG as his fists slammed against the porcelain.
He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't go on every single night with these nightmares practically eating him alive.
But what could he do? How could he make them go away?
He thought for a moment. Then he realized something. In his dream this time around, he thought he saw a flash of something in between the yellow eyes and the laugh. He hadn't thought much of it during the actual dream, but now that he thought about it, it was a new feature that he hadn't seen before, even though he had this dream dozens of time.
The Volcano.
That smoldering mountain, smoke still rising out of the crater, the distinct orange glow just barely visible. He remembered it now, and he realized what it meant.
He sighed and tightened his grip on the sides of the sink, not liking the idea one bit but knowing that there was no other solution.
He didn't know what else to think. It was becoming clearer and clearer every night, ever time he went through this. But it still wasn't solid.
Another deep intake of breath, followed by a long exhale. He still squeezed his eyes shut, as if keeping them closed would shut out the horrible memory and the rest of the world with it.
"Sly."
The first thought running through his wreck of a mind was that it was either Bentley or Murray, once again, coming to check on him after a loud awakening. But after a few more seconds of refusing to open his eyes, he realized that the voice was much different. It was feminine, and all too familiar.
He finally opened his eyes, staring down at the sink that he was still clutching.
"Sly." The voice called again.
He slowly raised his head, then nearly threw himself back against the door when he saw another person in the mirror rather than his own reflection.
"Sly." The voice of Carmelita Fox called once more, as her image, from the midriff up, stood in the mirror before him. Unlike the white gown she wore in all his dreams, she was now back in her regular police uniform.
He nearly had a heart attack at the sight of her, after so long. She looked exactly as he remembered her.
"Carmelita…" Sly started.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"This…this can't be." Sly squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head again. "Am I…still dreaming?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. But while I am here, I have to warn you."
"Warn me?" He looked back up at her, struggling to grasp what was happening.
"Warn you about the imminent threat. It is inevitable, and it is determined."
"What is it? What's this threat?"
"The most terrifying, most powerful, most destructive thing that you can possibly imagine." As she spoke this sentence, something in her voice seemed distant and hollow, further enhancing the illusion of this entire scenario.
"That…that doesn't help. I need to know what it is…Is it from my dreams?"
"Yes."
"Those yellow eyes…that laugh…the explosion…Are they all part of it?"
"Yes." She repeated in an equally monotone response.
"And…that Volcano…It appeared in my dream for the first time. I saw it clearly. That was the Volcano, wasn't it? The Krak-Karov Volcano?"
"Yes."
"I…I have to go there, don't I?"
"Yes."
"Enough with the 'yeses', Carmelita. I have to know: what is it? I have to know. I must know. What is this threat?"
For the last four responses, her voice sounded empty and monotone, almost emotionless. But then, just before her image vanished into a blur of color and motion and was replaced by his own reflection, she uttered two more words. And she said these two words in a very ominous voice that seemed to echo from beyond the mirror and beyond the two worlds that they each inhabited.
"…The past."
And then she was gone.
Sly found himself staring into his own eyes once again. The only sound in the entire room was the continual rushing of the water from the faucet. It was as if she was never there. Maybe she wasn't.
It took a few long moments for Sly to fully digest all that had just happened, and when he realized the abnormal – almost supernatural – circumstances of the situation, and how even he didn't know whether or not it was a dream, the pure ambiguity of the whole situation unleashed something he had very rarely seen in himself. Pure and powerful frustration, anger, sorrow, doubt, and confusion all collided and exploded out of him at once.
Sly then unleashed a loud, long roar of fury as he slammed his fists down against the sink one final time. He didn't even hear it through his own rage, but he could feel the porcelain of the sink buckle under the force as his fists cracked the gleaming white edge. Still full of white hot rage, he raised one fist up off the sink and back behind him before slamming it with all his might into the cursed mirror, shattering the glass and distorting the reflected image of himself and the room around him. Several shards of glass fell off altogether and landed in or around the sink. One piece bounced off and fell to the floor with a shatter as it broke to several more pieces. Ignoring the pain in his fist as blood leaked from his knuckles, he reared back and smashed his fist into the ruined mirror again, with another roar. His knees then buckled out from under him at that moment, and as he fell to the cold floor, his bloody fist grabbed onto the faucet and pulled so hard that he yanked it right off, now sending a jet of water straight up into the air, splashing back down onto the floor and partially onto his own body as he leaned against the back wall. He sat against the wall as he stared up at the ceiling, blood leaking from his right hand's knuckles and water dripping down onto him, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open as he sobbed loudly and miserably. But the entire time, even as the door was thrown open when Bentley and Murray burst into the room, everything else around him grew silent or intangible. The feeling of the sticky blood disappeared, the water dripping onto him and the sogginess of his clothing vanished, the frantic words of his friends, and his own sobbing, vanished into silence before he finally blacked out.
…
Sly wasn't exactly sure when he woke up, for he was still in a very hazy environment where a rush of sounds mixed together into a single blur. He thought he could hear voices…familiar voices…
"The past…"
Then his eyes finally opened, and he stared up at the dark ceiling, with the fan blades spinning rapidly and sending a faint wave of cool air down onto him. He could also feel a wet, fairly heavy presence on his forehead.
He slowly began to prop himself up into a sitting position using his elbows, just as Murray came into his field of vision standing over him.
"Hey, he's awake!"
"Oh, thank Heaven." Bentley replied as he also wheeled over. Just as he arrived at Sly's bedside, the wet rag fell off of Sly's forehead, crumpling onto his lower stomach.
"Sly, how do you feel?"
"It…I…I can barely tell what's real or what's a dream anymore."
"I see…So what happened in there?! The mirror was smashed, the sink was cracked, the faucet was torn off…"
Sly weakly lifted up one hand to his forehead, rubbing it casually and closing his eyes again. He was now sitting straight up, and could see more clearly.
"I…I lost it…just for a moment."
"Well, what made you 'lose it'?" Bentley pressed further. "Something in your dream? Unless you sleepwalked into the bathroom, then you were awake when it happened."
"No, I was awake. I know…I know…" He opened his eyes again, glancing down at his other hand. There were several bandages crudely wrapped around his knuckles, and a few drops of blood on and outside the bandages.
"Well, then you should have an easier time remembering it if you were awake. Sly: What happened in there?"
During the entire interrogation, the painful memory of Carmelita's appearance was, indeed, still fresh in his mind. Every single second of it, every single word she said…it all still rang true. So why couldn't he answer his friend?
"The V…The Volcano."
"Say again?"
"The Volcano. The Krak…The Krak-Karov Volcano."
"What about the Krak-Karov Volcano?"
"We…We have to go there. I have to go there."
"Your dream told you this?"
"That much I clearly remember. It told me more clearly than any dream I've ever had before. Whatever is causing these…these nightmares is at the Volcano."
Bentley finally turned to Murray, who had been silent the entire time, his eyes now wide at this last statement. The two friends shared a brief glance before they both turned back to their bedridden comrade.
"Well, in that case, I think we should go as soon as possible. You've been having nightmares consistently for the last few months, and this is the worst outcome yet. If these are starting to physically affect you, then we have to deal with it now."
"No…I have to deal with it."
Sly slowly swung his legs over to the side of the bed, gently setting both feet on the floor and grabbing the edge of the bed. He lifted his head up and looked right at both of his friends.
"I don't want you guys to get hurt in any way, shape, or form. Even something as minor as this…"
He held up his bloodied knuckles.
"…I don't want happening to you. I'll go alone."
"I don't think so, buddy." Murray finally stepped in. "We're all in this together. We've been through tough times, emotional struggles, and close calls in the past. Why should we just let you go off on your own now? And I'm no genius, but I think it's obvious enough that whatever is causing these nightmares has something to do with what happened there two years ago."
"He's…he's right, Sly. I was getting ready to say the same thing myself. And if it's anything remotely close to the magnitude of that incident, then you can't go alone. I'm sorry, Sly, but we're going with you."
The pain, the memory, the imagery, and the emotion made it all too complicated and too much for Sly to bother with arguing, let alone with his two best friends, so he simply sighed and agreed.
"OK. We'll all go."
"Very well. We'll pack in the morning and leave around noon."
As they both left Sly's room, their friend lied back down on the bed, a hand on his forehead as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. But as they left, they were certain of two things: This trip was not going to yield zero results, and none of them would be getting any sleep for the rest of the night.
Especially Sly.