Disclaimer: G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc. and IDW comics. I'm just one of a large family of fans who likes telling family stories – no profit needed, no profit earned.
Author's Note: I apologize in advance; I'm having some difficulty getting the formatting of my story to stick. I've tried a number of different things, and none seem to be working on this site. Grrr.
Also – the next few chapters take place within Scarlett's dream. I'm trying to replicate, as best I can, that intangible and somewhat illogical quality of dreams; I think we've all had memories of dreams where things don't necessarily make sense to our waking minds, but they make perfect sense while we're asleep – things or people appearing out of nowhere, sudden awareness of details that you'd never note in your waking life. Of course, that comes across to me as sloppy narrative – so critique and suggestions are, of course, welcome.
Gates of Sleep by Catwings1026
Scarlett dreamed.
In her mind, she wandered the pine forests of her Georgia childhood, the paths she'd known so well once upon a time. The trees were as familiar as old friends, each dip and bend in the path part of her pacing feet. The further she wandered, however, the more she began to sense a difference… a change. The further into the forest she trekked, the more… wrong… it was.
It wasn't something she could pinpoint, that wrongness. Her father, her brothers, her grandfather had all been avid hunters and fishermen. Camping and hunting, fishing and hiking were as much a part of her childhood memories as karate tournaments and rough-housing in the back yard; by ten she could field-dress a deer as easily as other girls could whip out a batch of sugar cookies.
It was true that she'd never found much appeal in gun hunting, her brothers' passion; the bow was her preferred weapon, and despite the ribbing from her brothers for such "old fahioned" methods, she'd bag her buck as often as not. It was a source of pride for her - scorning her brothers' elaborate ground hides and tree stands, she would take herself off to her own private stalking grounds in the gray, misty autumn pre-dawns.
She'd never admitted it to her brothers, of course, but hunting itself paled to the scouting. None of her family held with baiting the deer with oats or corn; you took your buck honestly or not at all. And so her memory was thick with the hours rambling the forests months before hunting season opened, seeking out the places where the deer laid up, where they grazed, the preferred paths to stream and pond. The subtle art of picking out the game trails, of noticing the bit of ear or antler protruding from the thicket – the stalking, becoming one with the forest – that had been her greatest pleasure.
And… maybe that's it, right now. I feel like a stranger here… but is it just that? No…
Rather than the jay-broken stillness of the midday wood, filled with dappled patches of sunlight and the footstep-hushing dry needles beneath her feet, or the twilight thick with cricket-song and the trilling of toads, this dream-forest was silent. No sound of footfall, no song of bird, no rustle of squirrel overhead or on the forest floor. The deeper into the forest she moved, the more the colors bled away until all colors were muted, fading to grays – the sky above the meshed branches was overcast, heavy with rain. And the smell…
The scent of destruction filled the air, palpable as a brick wall – burned wood and wet ash, the reek of burned flesh, burned hair. The trees thinned about her, the undergrowth vanishing– revealing a smoking wasteland of burned trunks and downed trees, smoldering against a gray ground mist and wall of fog, the remains of a recent and ferocious fire.
I know this place…
Her steps had led her, as if they had minds and memories of their own, to the one safe place in her girlhood world… her own place, her secret spot, screened from prying brotherly eyes by tangles of brush, the sound of water over rocks a curtain to keep the outside world at bay. But this was changed, this dream landscape. The fire-ravaged landscape was a charred skeleton of her memories.
There was the bluff above the river, nakedly exposed through blackened shrub brambles – the bluff she'd retreated to so often, leaning against the grandfather pine with a book as water chattered softly over river stones below. The sound of the river was still there – no forest fire could take that away – but the old pine, her dear friend, was reduced to a skeletal a charcoal log. She sat on it, tears welling in her eyes, numb.
I was just here. Months ago. I came to say goodbye before…
Before she'd died to the world. Before she'd turned her back on everything she'd known, and given herself over to serve her country. Before…
Something crackled behind her, and she was on her feet, eyes narrowed.
Nothing.
This is not right.
The mist thickened, coiled at the ground like a hundred smoky snakes. The silence, as dreamworld-bizzare as anything, seemed to grow louder – or, at any rate, thicker. She sensed, rather than saw, something just outside her line of sight… a shadow where no shadow should be.
Something's out there.
Her hand went to her back, instinct born not simply of military training but all those years of deer hunting, and there was her crossbow. She didn't even have to think – her fingers found the bolt, fitted it into its groove, and she sighted down the length of the bow.
The wolf materialized as if from nowhere, black against the gray mist, and bared its teeth, eyes narrowed and fur rising along its spine.
A crashing, as of a heavy body moving rapidly through undergrowth, swung Scarlett's attention away from the wolf - and if the sound hadn't been enough to draw her, what happened next assured her full focus. A creature careened through the swirling mist, vast and radiating menace, stopping and heaving itself to hind legs as thick as small tree trunks. A mountain of fur and muscle towered above her, its roar shaking the ground beneath her feet, and then a blast of flame lanced out from the creature's mouth, crisping the bushes closest to her. She flung herself away just in time, rolling, and came up in a crouch, bow still in hand. She loosed the bolt, rose even as she reached for another, backpedalled to get a better sense of what this thing was.
The first bolt had struck home, burying itself in fur and shoulder muscle, but the creature seemed to notice nothing. It swayed above her, lumbered forward a step, massive forepaw swinging – she felt the breeze of its near-miss on her face, heard claws whistling through air, increased the pace of her retreat. Turning her back and running would be a mistake, she sensed… but shuffling backward, it would be only a matter of time until the creature struck again.
What the hell is it? A fire-breathing bear? The shape of the body was familiar – legs, paws, torso all shrieking BEAR - but the size all wrong… it was easily twice, three times the size of the largest black bear she'd ever seen. The fur was the brown-red of dried blood, tipped with silver… the head more massive, absurdly small eyes glaring at her with a mindless fury. Grizzly? No, it's big even for a grizzly, and we don't HAVE grizzlies in Georgia. And it has… two heads?
Yes. Two heads. Where a moment before a single, monstrous ursine head had snarled at her, now were TWO… a second swiveling forward, only this new head was no bear. The mountain lion opened its mouth and screamed a challenge to her, canines as long as her hand bared, as the grizzly head roared a counterpoint. Together, they belched a column of flame - and this time she dove under it, towards the monster. As though cued, the creature's long, whiplike tail snaked up – and it was no tail. The fanged, forked-tongue head of a rattler the size of a python gaped, reptilian eyes flashing.
Two heads… a snake for a tail… The sudden nagging feeling that this creature should be familiar distracted her – this creature out of some demented fever-dream. Something in its form tugged at the back of her mind, knowledge long catalogued and set aside… something important… Focus, Shana, focus! Identify later – fight NOW! She loosed the second bolt, dove to the side as it flew, came up reloading. Like the first, the bolt plunged home – to no visible effect. Damn, damn, damn…
The panther head screamed again. The beast dropped to all fours as the snake-tail lashed back and forth, and both mammal heads dropped, hackles rising and eyes locking onto her, lips bared in feral snarls. She took a step back, slowly – and the rattler tail lashed forward over the monster's back with the hiss of lava hitting the sea, gold and black eyes unblinking as it stared down at her, mere meters away. Scarlett froze. A fear as palpable as an iceberg gripped her, and her legs locked, eyes riveted on the creature before her. The thought, vaguely, of how birds and small mammals were said to freeze before reptilian predators as though hypnotized. She watched, muscles unresponsive, as the forelegs crouched, muscles bunching beneath that blood-colored hide.
Oh, shit… it's going to… The thought cut itself short as too many things erupted simultaneously. The monster lunged, an avalanche of mindless blood-lust. She tore free of the fear, pulled the crossbow trigger, sighting and firing on pure adrenaline and instinct – and suddenly a smaller form was between her and the oncoming monstrosity, launching itself into the air…
The point of the crossbow bolt , instead of burying itself shaft-deep in the mountain lion's eye, instead struck the hind flank of the interposing wolf. Still, the animal's momentum carried it true – it landed between the two heads, whirled, and sank its teeth into the ear of the grizzly head. The beast howled from two throats and reared, grizzly head shaking violently, and flung the wolf off as though it were a leaf, insubstantial.
The wounded animal cried out, landing heavily and awkwardly some distance away. Scarlett, however, loosed her fourth bolt as the wolf was tossed clear, and this one found its mark – that same wounded ear. With a shriek of pain and anger, the monster whirled and retreated, snake-tail lashing as the lion-head snarled over its shoulder. As suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone – the sound of its flight vanishing into the distance.
Instinctively, her eyes scanned for the wolf. It was gone. She could see the furrow of charred earth where it had landed, skidding for a distance – but it, too, was gone. She dropped to a knee, touched the ground, probing, as she'd examined so many deer beds in her youth. Her finger came back sticky with blood and burned earth. The wolf was gone, but wounded – wounded by her hand.
Dammit… She hadn't meant to shoot the wolf, not from the first. It hadn't done more than frighten her, and logically, she'd likely frightened it first. Given the chance, she knew a wolf would flee rather than fight a human…
But this one had flung itself between her and that nightmare of fur and fangs and claws.
Shana, it's a damned poor bow hunter who leaves a beast to bleed to death because her shot's sloppy and she's too damned lazy to track it down, her father had intoned so long ago. You gonna hunt with a bow, gal, you best be ready to follow up every shot. I won't have no child of mine disrespecting the creatures out here.
Never mind that her brothers had shot and wounded their share of bucks, and moaned mightily about having to follow the blood trail to its end. It was easier for them, with their guns. Scarlett hadn't had to wound more than one buck to learn the lesson well enough not to repeat it – and the misery in the animal's eyes before her second arrow put it down was fresh in her mind still.
Ears open for any sign the nightmare-beast might return, Scarlett focused her eyes on the ground and began to methodically follow the injured wolf's trail. A broken twig here, a splash of red there…
She owed it that much, at least.
The light was failing, but Scarlett had passed out of the burned territories and was now deep among the living pines and scattered hardwoods. She'd found the bloody bolt with visible teeth marks some time ago – and now the wound was bleeding freely, making her job of tracking that much easier, despite the encroaching night. She didn't look forward to the end of the trail, however… despite her brothers' best efforts, she'd never believed in the Big Bad Wolf – or Little Redhead-with-Hood, who usually wound up eaten by Granny Wolf because she didn't listen to her brothers' sage advice, and found the idea of werewolves simply silly. If anything, she admired wolves, the way they ran in packs, formed close-knit family groups, cared for one another.
Like the Joes, she thought. A wolf would be a fitting symbol for her team. And… what? Follow that analogy, and I'll start feeling like I'm tracking down an injured Duke to put him out of his misery…
Not that she hadn't had that very thought on occasion, but still…
She didn't want to be doing this. She didn't want to kill the wolf, if for no other reason than its absurdly illogical behavior. But in the Georgia forests, with heat and humidity and insect life in profusion, even a simple scratch could "go septic" all too quickly. She couldn't condemn any animal to a lingering, painful death… not when it was her fault.
Again. My fault again. Her heart thumped woodenly. And I can't even properly say I'm sorry, this time…
Well, she could. She could try, at least. Not that it would do a speck of good for her, or the wolf.
Providing, of course, that the wolf would let her anywhere near it.
Scarlett stopped on the path, scanning the surroundings. Ahead, the corpse of a majestic pine lay across her path… ferns crouched close to its shadowy underbelly, tuffets of yarrow bloomed in the patch of earth open to the sunlight. And there – she saw it now. A den, a wide hole dug out from where the roots had left the soil, filled with darkness. Slowly, setting each foot down with conscious thought, she crept forward, crouched. The blood trail led clearly to the den. Slowly, she raised her crossbow…
… and was hurled to the ground as one hundred pounds of muscle and fur cannonballed into her with a snarl of fury. It was the explosive voice in her mind, however, that sent her reeling.
*You, noisy, smelly human female!* a deep, rough male voice roared in her mind. *Give me one good reason why I should not rip out your flimsy throat – you, who bring death to your own forest and throw flying teeth at those who would warn you!*
She shook her head, trying to clear it of the voice – it hadn't been audible, she hadn't HEARD a thing – but the rumbling growl that overlaid the voice, THAT she had heard… and could still hear. Blinking, she found herself staring into the bright blue eyes of the black wolf as it pinned her, teeth bared and protruding tongue curling in fury.
Blue eyes? Wolves don't have blue eyes… She'd seen blue-eyed huskies, odd-eyed shepherd dogs with one blue and one brown eye, but never a blue-eyed wolf. Not even in photographs. And this wasn't canine blue, the pale blue that was almost gray – this was a vivid violet-blue, like a Siamese cat's eyes. Or a human's…
Just as quickly as it had pounced, the wolf was off her, leaping a safe distance back – wrenching her bow from her hands as it went, tossing it into the ferns with a derisive flip. Those blue eyes glared at her with unmistakable fury.
"Are… are you talking to me?" Cautiously, she drew herself up to a sitting position, keeping both hands were the wolf could see them and scooting backward until her back pressed against tree trunk – a modicum of protection, at least.
*Stupid female. Do you see anyone else here?* The wolf swivled its head, licking quickly at the bloody gash in its flank, before snapping its attention back to her. *You stink of a pack of men. You are so noisy a birth-deaf pup could hear you. And you HURT me – stupid, stupid human female!*
I'm talking… to a wolf. A talking wolf. A very, very angry talking wolf. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and the wolf snapped at the air, its growl rising in volume and pitch.
*Stay still! You will not bite ME with another flying tooth! I am hurt, yes, but I can still fight you!*
"I don't WANT to fight you." Scarlett's mind was whirling, trying to call up every bit of information she had ever learned about wolves. Look down, and away… don't make eye contact. Behave submissively. "You're right. You could rip out my throat before I found my bow. You're stronger than I am. You would win a fair fight."
*Yes, I would!* The wolf's eyes were still hard, but its lips relaxed ever so slightly. Its tail still raised, ears shoved forward aggressively, it seemed to pull itself up straight, hackles raised. *Throwing flying teeth is NOT a fair fight.*
"Better than a gun," Scarlett muttered, but at this, the wolf cocked its head, apparently considering this.
*True. Guns are most unfair. Perhaps you are not so stupid.* It took a step forward, but whined as the injured flank moved. Again it licked at the wound, keeping the weight off that leg, and seemed to wince.
"If you let me, I might be able to help," she offered quietly. The wolf's eyes flashed, its ears flattening.
*You came to end me! Why should I trust you?*
He was right, of course. She'd planned to put the wolf out of its misery… she'd been thinking hard about that, in fact.
Thinking.
She closed her eyes, clearing her thoughts, and pictured the wolf running free, uninjured. Then she pictured the wolf, its flank badly infected, barely hobbling along, rear paw dragging. Instantly, the wolf growled.
Are you reading my mind, or just the pictures I put there? No reply. Pictures only, then, like a television with the sound turned off. Well, that would explain why the wolf knew she was planning on putting it out of its misery – but not the regret she'd felt. She frowned, then constructed a third image in her mind, talking it through as she built it, layer upon layer.
"Because… I can help you. Because you can understand me, at least a bit, and that means I can tell you what I need to do." She nodded at a nearby clump of yarrow. "The wood is full of this plant… my grandpa called it woundwort, and said the old timers used to use it for medicine. I can clean the wound, make a poultice. If you let me help you."
One by one, the images flashed past her mind's eye, a mental slideshow. A wolf fleeing from Scarlett. The same wolf, watching calmly as she dressed the wound. The tiny flowers and feathery leaves of yarrow, then a mashed poultice, cool and soothing to the touch.
*Why?* And now she sensed that the question had changed – no longer, "Why should I trust you" but instead, "Why would you help me?"
She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and held out her hands, palms up, the universal gesture of helplessness. For those of us with hands, that is.
"Because you're right. I hurt you, when you were trying to help me. I didn't mean to, but I did. Please. Let me try to make things right."
The wolf licked at its flank again, then looked directly at her, hackles lowering slowly, ears still shoved forward – a gesture of dominance. It was not the sort of wolf the tree-huggers would put on a poster, she realized – despite the luxuriant black coat, its muzzle was lined with scars from fighting; its ears were notched, and the tip of one was missing entirely. There was even, she realized, a chunk of lip missing – the proud, bare flesh shone against the black fur. It blinked at her, slowly, acknowledging her careful scrutiny.
*Then I shall let you make things right, if you can.* The wolf lowered himself to the ground, eyes never leaving hers. *But woman, if you hurt me again, I swear I WILL bite you!*