Work Text:
“21.72, cash or card?”
Scott glanced up at the cashier, a bored young 20-something with a tinted pixie cut and mismatched celestial earrings. “Card, no receipt,” He adds after a moment, slipping his wallet into the pockets of his worn jacket.
The woman nods, tapping at the screen with one painted hand and waving him off with the other, “Here ya go honey, you have a nice weekend ya hear? Careful out there,” She calls to his retreating back, “it’s ‘spossed to start rainin’ the next few days.”
“Thanks, you to,” Scott calls back, shouldering the door of the small mom-and-pop grocery store open. Smaller than average, it had a faded sign in cheerful blue and yellow letters that read “Martindales’” smiling out the front of the store window. Transferring the bags to one hand, Scott fishes the keys out of his jeans as he walks. His bike sits in the small parking lot, metal gleaming in the afternoon sun, a pair of saddle bags hanging from the sides. Closing up the bags, Scott stands, glancing behind him at the sound his name.
In a wide brimmed hat and pale green khaki uniform is a Park Ranger with a clumping gait. He waves at Scott, a toothpick dangling from his lips, “Afternoon, Mr. Summers was it? Don’t know if you remember but I’m Dwight.” The ranger grins loosely at Scott, hands planting themselves on his belt. At Scott’s blank face, Dwight’s grin falters “I’m the one that told ya ‘bout camp safety?” He prods after a few moments.
Right, the fifteen minute long failure at charming him. Scott most certainly hadn’t forgotten. Maintaining the same carefully blank gaze, Scott nods, “Because of all those calls you’ve been getting. You said not to feed the animals.” Behind the ruby tint of his glasses, the ranger coughs and shuffles, and Scott, unseen, glances past him to the small row of singlestory brick-and-wooden buildings that make up most of the town’s main street. Noting drolly the line of a kitschy American diner, tackle and bait shop with a Plasticine fish, and bar with what would likely be well worn leather seats.
Despite Scott’s best efforts, the man brightens. “Right, that’s me! I just wanted to let you know that chances are it’s probably just an animal that wandered to close, but we want everyone to be safe out there,” Ranger Bates, as his tag name reads, pulls out a card with a flourish, “So if you need anythin’ you go ahead and give me a holler.”
Resigned, Scott gives a polite smile, reaching out to take the card, “I think I’ll be fine, but I’ll keep it in mind.” He makes a show of placing the card into his pocket, if only to give the man the satisfaction, “Besides, I’m sure you’ve got a lot more than me to worry about. Have a nice evening Ranger Bates.”
Ranger Bates coughs, gnawing on his toothpick and glancing away, “Yeah, well you go on and have a good one then.” Scott mounts his bike with a nod, watching the man able away across the empty parking lot. For a moment he sits there, eye’s flitting down the street. There are family’s filling the diner with its cheerful ice cream sign, a small group of men saying goodbye in front of the now closed tackle shop, and a growing crowd of them filtering into the bar as the sun sets. Scott’s just about to take off when he spots him. Leaning against the wall of the diner, with a bottle dangling limply in his hand, a man in a dark duster and a buzz cut watches Scott. The man’s gaze is steady, eyes glinting in the fading sunlight with a heady animal focus that makes the nerves along his spine dance unpleasantly.
In the scant seconds that follow, the street fades into the background, and there is hardly a whisper of sound.
Then the man whips his head around, staring far out into the tree line with a narrowed gaze.
Scott drives off.
======================================================================================
It’s only as Scott drives past lines of sequoias and crawling greenery that he begins to relax. The tension in his shoulders loosens minutely with every breath of crisp, cool air and while he can’t see the thin rays of evening light playing through the trees, he watches the shadows stretch over the dirt road. Parking, he dismounts with a swing of his leg, jostling the grocery bags as he ambles his way up to the front steps. Feeling something disturbingly soft beneath his foot, Scott glances down and wrinkles his nose. “I swear if someone's rabid dog left me a present…”
Lying along the front steps of the single-story timber cabin is a small mass of blood and fur. Startled, Scott steps back, wiping his foot mechanically along the steps, for all the good it would do. For a moment Scott stands there, unblinking, groceries dangling from his hands. Finally pulling in a breath, Scott nudges the carcass aside with a grimace. “Excuse me,” He mutters lamely, because it felt rude to ignore the poor thing. Stepping into his home away from home, with its worn wooden walls and plush leather sofa, Scott places his things onto the small table.
A few moments later he steps back out, armed with latex gloves, bleach and enough trash bags to hide a zombie horde. Kneeling, Scott gingerly grabs a furry end, wincing in sympathy, “I’m sorry for your suffering Mr. Rabbit, looks like Elmer finally got you.” He peers closely at the carcass, head tilted in concentration at the clean striations along it’s neck, “Or a particularly surgical dog, what next reboot is cyber Cujo?” Pulling the remains closer, he fingers the edge of the wound in contemplation. Whoever had gone rabbit hunting ensured the animals death had been swift and painless. “So why leave it here,” Scott murmurs. Unbidden, Sctott glances at the forest, trees dotting the edge of the property line lost in gnarled shadows.
In the tepid silence that follows, Scott feels oddly disappointed.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Scott scrubs the stone vigorously. Blood bubbles and froths, staining his boots. Sopping up what remains of the mess, Scott stalks across the yard, tossing the bag with a huff. Ranger Bates must have been waiting for that phone call, he thinks wryly. Scrubbing his face in frustration, he lets the door fall shut behind him. “Just my luck I get to spend my weekend cleaning up someone else’s mess, I get enough of that with a house full of teenagers,” Scott mumbles, flicking on the old radio he’d brought to pass the time.
The sound flickers for a moment, going staticky, as Scott tunes it. It settles onto a slow plucked guitar, and a low, bittersweet voice. Willie Nelson, most certainly not his first choice, but given where he was Scott wouldn’t call it a surprise. Mindlessly, Scott hums along as he cooks, a light, herbaceous scent filling the air, “Love is like a dyin’ ember, and only memories remain…”
Swaying to the tune of the guitar, Scott gazes around the cabin. The warm lighting makes the place look deceptively inviting, all soothing rustic interior dabbled in browns and leather, from the plush couch to the fireplace. Even the scratches along the floor of his small kitchenette feel homely and lived in. Of course, Scott thinks, with only Willie Nelson’s guitar as company, the silence in the room seemed a heavy, looming thing. Scott sucked in a shaky breath, eyes closing in the heat of the suddenly too small room. He felt exhausted suddenly, the ache behind his eyelids pulsing steadily. “Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain,” Scott murmurs thoughtlessly, slumped over the counter.
The scent of butter and smoke makes him jump. Swearing softly, Scott deftly grabs the pan in an attempt to save his dinner. “Well,” Scott says after a moment, grimacing down at charred remains, “I don’t quite think that’s what HGTV means by pan seared.” dumping the food onto a plate, Scott sags into his chair, fork mindlessly chasing rice and carrots. Jean would have laughed herself sick at his near disaster. She’d often said more than once that for all Scott’s mental prowess, his inability to not burn the house down was something like karma.
“it’s like watching a hamster who’s too tired to run,” She’d teased him often. The memory of his best friend made him smile. She was off on a medical conference, putting the merits of her degree to work outside of patching Scott up for his own failings. He should call her soon, Scott decided, especially if she would stop by to see Warren after. Tapping a fork against his half-eaten plate, Scott gazed out the windows into the steady deluge of darkness. With only the radio floating overhead, he found himself suddenly fatigued as the swaying of the trees in the wind lulled his senses.
The soothing, hypnotic movement is broken by a lone howl in the night.
It was a low, mournful baying that seemed to disappear as quickly as it had come, leaving only a ringing silence and a shock up Scott’s spine in the aftermath. Thoroughly awake now, Scott stared wide eyed out into the night, heartbeat hammering in his ears. It must have been a wolf, Scott reasoned to himself, a dog- a something his mind told him. A something that had sounded far to large, and far to close to be safe-
Scott shut down the thought immediately, forcing his body to relax in minute increments. His fingers, clenched tightly around his fork, began to peel themselves off bit by bit. Scott took a deep breath, and then another, the fork clattering onto the table as the sound replayed in his head, pained and alone. Alone, Scott thought, was most certainly a feeling he understood right then. Scott shook his head, “Next thing you know you’ll be talking to yourself Scotty,” He said to no one in particular. Or maybe he was talking to that sound, to that aching chasm of loneliness. Talking to that something that was out there in the dark.
Standing abruptly, Scott crossed the room only to hesitate. A glance over his shoulder and some tinfoil later, he walks out the door, wrapped plate in hand. He tells himself it’s only sentimentality, it’s only human nature, it’s only that aching sense of loneliness. Maybe, he reasons, it’s even his own sense of rebellion. Whatever it is that has Scott standing out here in the cool night time air may not mean much in the morning, but it’s better than the empty glow of the cabin lights, Scott thinks. “Hello,” He calls out softly, crouching down to watch the treeline, “I brought you something, if you’re hungry.” Scott waits, feeling increasingly ridiculous. Yes, he thinks ruefully, somewhere in the universe his best friends were laughing themselves silly, and Jean would probably call him wondering if he’d gotten devoured by a bear or something. Despite this, he leaves the plate on the stoop before making his way inside.
======================================================================================
Scott leans against the counter, steaming mug in hand. Rubbing sleep addled eyes behind his glasses, he takes a sip, leaning over to fiddle once more with the radio. A few turns of the dial reveal a bright, staccato morning broadcast, “Alright everyone, this is Andrew with the local weather here at KPLX, and I’m sorry to say that you might have to change those weekend plans! Overcast and cloudy for the next few days, with a strong breeze at about 25 miles per hour, so be careful outside. But be ready for Saturday, as a heavy storm moves in from the west with dangers of flooding-”
A rumbling noise jolts Scott out of his thoughts, and sends hot coffee down the front of his shirt. Swearing, he places it onto the counter, grabbing a towel to dab at the stain. He keeps his gaze on the front door, where the rumbling has transitioned into a set of sweet croons and smacking noises. “Hello,” Scott calls out hesitantly, “is anyone there?” Abruptly the sound cuts, as if a switch has been flipped. Despite this Scott moves tentatively towards the door, steps light and silent. He feels oddly lightheaded, flushed with nerves he can’t explain, fingers trembling as they trace the wooden door. “I won’t hurt you,” He tries for reassuring, but ends up breathless instead, “So please don’t run.”
Scott’s words linger for a moment, gripping the handle tightly, waiting for something, anything in return. As his hand slowly turns the knob, he is hit by a cacophony of sound, the smacking of flesh upon the earth in a mad scrambling covered mostly by an abrupt, blaring noise. Jerking open the door, Scott turns just in time to see birds skittering out from a small row of disturbed trees. Scanning the foliage gives no sign of his wayward visitor however, so Scott turns his attention to the truck now idling along the dirt road. “Mornin’ Mr. Summers, how’re you?” Ranger Bates tips his hat from where he sits in the drivers seat, fingers drumming on the dash.
Fuck, right, the man had mentioned they’d been on top of patrols lately, worried visitors and animal carcasses aside, there was still that little matter of potential flooding to be dealt with. Scott glances at himself, sweatpants, stained shirt, no shoes and only out of bed a handful of minutes, and does his best to smile, “I’m doing fine, sir, enjoying the peace and quiet. Is everything ok?”
Ranger Bates looks him over, gaze somewhere between hungry and assessing. His toothpick rolls between his teeth in contemplation, “Nothin’ to big if that’s what you mean. Whole bunch a’ us been sweepin’ the area nearby, with the flood warnin’ comin’ and all,” Ranger Bates says after a moment, “Surprised you ain’t packed up like most a’ the others.” He leans back in his seat, eyeing Scott in contemplation.
Scott gives a disarming smile, making a show of leaning against the open doorway, “I’m a prepared kind of guy, I’ve been through a lot worse than a bit of river flooding.” Crossing his ankles, Scott nudges the now empty plate aside, “But I really do appreciate the concern,” He adds after a moment.
The ranger peers at him for a moment, seemingly contemplative, “Ain’t just the storm we’re worried ‘bout.” he admits after a moment. “Told ya ‘bout all those calls we’ve been getting yeah? All those animal bodies, ain’t been nothin’ to big yet. Smaller stuff mostly, but it’s got folks spooked.” The candor surprises Scott, and he stands, frowning at the other man, perplexed.
“You think whatever’s doing it is dangerous?” Scott asks in surprise. If that were true, he thinks to himself, then maybe there was a reason Ranger Bates seemed to be lurking so much.
Ranger Bates frowns, brows pinched into a pensive expression,“Nah, not intentionally at least. We think it’s just a small predator that’s gotten to close. With all the heavy weather, sometimes they wander off to find somewhere safe and end up to close to the park buildings. Can’t blame ‘em for that.” Dwight glances at Scott shrewdly, “It’s why we’ve been houndin’ people to clean up after themselves. Can’t be leavin’ food out for the animals, gives ‘em the wrong ideas.”
Scott glances at the plate near his foot but says nothing. “I’ll make sure the place is spotless,” Scott assures the man, who is now gazing past Scott, jaw working in frustration. Unsure of what could have roused the man’s ire, Scott shuffles, giving the man a charming smile, “But thanks for the heads up anyway. I really am grateful for the help Dwight.”
The Ranger’s jaw ticks, gaze unexpectedly flinty, “Anytime Mr. Summers, but you best be careful, don’t want you to get yourself hurt now.” He revs the engine, eyes flitting between Scott and the treeline for a moment, “And do keep your word, and clean up after yourself.” He finished pointedly. With that, the man drives off, and Scott watches him go, bemused.
Strange, Scott thinks, the plate dangling from his fingertips, something about this whole thing feels off somehow. He feels a little too much like eyes are following him, and unprompted, his mind goes to the “gift” left on his front porch the night before. Shuffling to the large trashcan a few feet away, he dumps the plate in, only to furrow his brow.
Hadn’t he closed it last night?
======================================================================================
Scott stands on the river bank, feeling the damp wind brushing across his face. His cabin, tucked away in a grove of trees, wasn’t to far from the river, with it’s normally soothing waters and rocky shoreline. Today the day is cool and cloudy, trees swaying in the wind as Scott reels in one last time. At his feet is a bucket laden with fish, and he feels a good mood coming on despite his rocky morning. Scott hums something soothing and nameless as he steps over the slick rocks, bucket swaying in his hand, pole slung over his shoulder.
Scott steps easily over the sprawling greenery, the humming of birds and the lapping of the shore nearby soothing his ragged mind. “Watchin’ every motion in my foolish lovers game,” Scott taps his fingers against his thigh to the beat, having heard it on the radio at some point. His boots walk soundlessly down the now familiar dirt path, the clouds shifting overhead, casting sprawling shadows over the earth. “Take my breath away...”
Scott shivers, blowing out a noisy breath as the wind cuts across his face. With hardly any sunlight lancing through the trees, all that remains is an increasingly cold, bitter chill and the distorted shapes of tree limbs and gravel. Coffee, Scott thinks to himself, sounds wonderful at the moment. He trudges forward, ignoring the tension drawing in his shoulders, shifting the pole in his grip despite the chill creeping up his spine. He’d watched one to many of Jubilee’s horror movies, Scott reminds himself, and the comparison makes him snort. Yes, he was simply stuck in his own head after too many months in a school full of teenagers who would have gleefully reminded him that had he been the main character, walking alone in the woods with a sense of foreboding and eery music playing in the background is exactly when some monster would have jumped out-
There is a wet squelch under his foot.
Instinctively, Scott clamps down on every muscle, fighting the urge to run. Drawing in a slow breath through his nose, Scott lifts his foot, peering at the underbrush closely. There, staining his boot is a wet, sticky substance that puddles along the bowels of one of the trees,. The scent of iron travels to his nose. Blood. He’d stepped in blood. Automatically he catalogues, mind racing as he notes the volume of blood at his feet. Whatever had been here had not been small game, he concludes. Dragging his gaze up the tree itself confirms his thoughts.
There, embedded deep into the trunk are a series of slash marks. One- no Scott realizes, stepping forward to inspect the bark, two. There are two sets of marks cut deep into the wood, one in long, sweeping motions, the other in thin, needle-like gouges. From the height alone, whatever had made them have to have been large, perhaps standing on its back feet? But no, Scott thinks, feeling a cold sweat on the back of his neck, the angle doesn’t make sense. One set- the long cuts- face forward and up, cutting into the middling of the bark- the stomach Scott knows, a common weak point. The other set of thin, pointed talons are coming down with force, skittering across the bark. A height difference, Scott can see now, backed by heavy weight and sheer muscle mass.
The world seems infinitely small then, gazing at the carnage left behind from this unknowable rampage. Everything feels muddled, yet oddly loud. The wind in the trees, the crackling of sticks, the rustling of leaves that seem to reach out and unfurl, brushing his skin as if to swallow Scott whole. Trembling, Scott steps back, skittering across the gravel with a mounting sense of dread. It’s not the adrenaline rush of a battle gone wrong, but something deeper, an instinctive sense of fear that clutches at his insides and makes his legs feel like ice.
Wiping his slick face, Scott sucks in a harried breath, then another, closing his eyes against the dizzying sensation swirling in his head. Turning, he walks back down the dirt pathway, steps hurried. The bucket thumps heavily against his thigh, but Scott keeps walking, ignoring the prickling sensation creeping up his back. Too many horror movies, Scott thinks grimly, Jubilee would be laughing at him. Clearing his throat, he searches vainly for something to focus on besides the whispering of the trees. “Turning and returning to some secret place to hide,” He starts under his breath, voice catching. Scott clears his throat, feeling the wind shift, his stomach quivering, “watchin’ in slow motion as you turn to me and say, my love…”
The lush plants edge toward him, the cool air damp against his heated skin, but Scott keeps his gaze resolutely forward. Mentally, he plans a relaxing evening, coffee and that book Jean had
recommended after a nice dinner. Maybe he’ll turn on the radio again, and play a guessing game of what stations he’ll find, Scott thinks wryly, beginning to relax. Under his breath he hums once more, “Take my breath a-”
Beneath the sound of wind and shivering underbrush there is a slow, deliberate crunch. A footstep. Scott’s breath stutters in his throat for a moment, panic racing up his insides as the bucket clatters to the ground.
Scott runs.
Legs pumping, arms swinging, Scott runs. Behind him something crashes through the underbrush, large and heavy bodied. Scott can hear- smell – the rotting heat of it’s breath, panting and hungry. Fuck, just when he didn’t have his visor on hand. Jean was gonna hate him for being right about carrying it everywhere to. Lungs burning, Scott jumps over a fallen log, scrambling along the loose dirt along the path to his cabin. Ahead he can see the trees thinning, the grove just beyond his reach. A snarl sounds behind him, and Scott’s heart leaps into his throat. Chancing a glance behind him Scott can see a hulking body and a heavy throw of fur too large and nightmarish to be an animal. Turning back, he takes a running jump, clearing another set of stones and logs just as his feet skitter in the dirt, sending him smacking into a heavy body.
“Hey hey whoa-” a set of heavy hands grip Scott’s forearms, and Scott looks into the concerned gaze of Ranger Bates, “Where you off to in such a hurry now, Mr. Summers? Everything ok?” Beneath the brim of his hat, the rangers’ face is pinched into a look of worry, eyes flitting from Scott’s disheveled form back to the empty trail he’d come from.
Scott is panting, face pale and ashen, “Yes- yes I just thought…” Shaking himself, Scott peers into the foliage, searching for any signs of the hulking beast. There is nothing more than a scant rustling of leaves and silence. Whatever had been after him, it’s long gone. Or very well hidden, Scott thinks grimly.
“Thought what?” Ranger Bates pressed, nothing his haggard expression, “Mr. Summers is everythin’ ok?” Reaching into his pockets, the ranger brings a canteen up to Scott’s face, motioning with it in a ‘go on’ gesture. Scott drinks gratefully.
Nodding his thanks, Scott hands the canteen back, feeling his skin flush, “I thought I heard something,” Scott admitted sheepishly. He knew he’d been followed, knew now that whatever was hunting in this area wasn’t human. At least, Scott reflected, not completely. While Scott had no doubt Ranger Bates could hold his own against drunk camp goers and an occasional bobcat, the man seemed far to inquisitive to be trusted with anyone enhanced. Scott didn’t want a federally funded anything poking into this business. “It sounded pretty big though, I guess I panicked more than I thought I would,” It isn’t exactly a lie, but Scott gives a seemingly nervous smile, “Thanks for the save.”
Ranger Bates peers at him suspiciously for a moment, then motions behind himself, where Scott can see the now familiar white truck with its green stripes and lettering, “Got the truck just up ahead, I don’t mind drivin’ ya back.” Whether that’s back to his cabin, or back to town, Scott isn’t sure, but he gets the distinct feeling it’s the latter.
Falling into step with the man, Scott shakes his head, “It’s alright,” he says instead, “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way,” Hands in his pockets, Scott maintains the casual air, I don’t want to be any more trouble. At least it makes for a funny story right?” The charming grin Scott gives the man seems to fall short at the ranger's intense expression.
As they make their way to the fork in the road where the truck sits, idle, Ranger Bates shakes his had, rolling his toothpick in irritation. “Ain’t out a the way or anythin,” He insists to Scott, making a point to pull his keys out of his khaki colored pants with an enticing jingle, “‘sides, it’s best not to leave anyone alone so close to dark.” Voice trailing off, Ranger Bates peers past Scott back into the now darkened canopy from whence they came. With dusk falling soon, the pressing of the overcast clouds held a heavy sense of foreboding.
For a few seconds they say nothing, simply gazing into the forest and perhaps feeling the same eery way it seems to gaze back at them. Shaking himself out of his stupor, Scott turns, facing down the fork and hoping he’d make it before nightfall, “Really Ranger Bates, I appreciate the concern but I’ll be ok.”
Dwight studies him for a moment, eyes intense, lingering on Scott. Then he nods, “Alrighty then, you have a nice evenin’ mister Summers.” As Scott flaps his hand in goodbye, he’s startled when the man reaches out, gripping around his bicep, with that same intense look, “Don’t be getting into any trouble now, ya hear me?” Ranger Bates says gruffly.
The words feel weighty, and Scott can only stare at the man for a moment in mute shock. Nodding slowly, he waits for Ranger Bates to release him before turning and trudging down the dirt road. Behind him, Scott can hear the man slowly ambling towards his truck, the jingle of his keys filling the air between them.
In his stomach is a lead weight.
=========================================================================================
The clouds are tumbling in, the day overcast and gloomy. The wind carries a tension into the air, weary glances at the sky and mutterings among the thinning crowd of occupants as they prepare to buckle down. Bags laden with gallons of water, kerosene, and canned goods are hurriedly placed into trunks and backseats. Scott’s glad he had the foresight to over prepare before he came down. “$42.57, that gonna be all for you dear?” The cashier, an elderly woman with coiffed graying hair and penny pants, smiles at Scott, “Alrighty then, you take good care out there.”
Slipping his fingers through the plastic handle, Scott slips out the door of the hardware store with a nod of thanks. He ambles along, deliberately relaxed, even giving a small smile to a harried woman and her son. Loading up his saddle bags, he peeks at the street, watching the same stretch of road that lead to the diner-tackle-bar shops. A deliberate cough has him straightening with a sense of deja vu. Scott turns, blinking behind his glasses at the sight of the khaki uniformed stranger. Not who he was expecting, but not a surprise, he surmises. The stranger, bearing the same khaki green uniform and wide brimmed hat, now bears a head of fluffy auburn locks and a fresh face, no hint of stubble Scott notes. The ranger shuffles nervously as Scott raises a brow, “Mr. Scott Summers? I’m Rick, I was wondering if I could ask you something?”
Scott nods, leaning against his bike, hands in his jacket pockets to ward off the chill. From this point he can see both the ranger, Rick, he corrects himself, and the wide view of the main street. “Of course, is something wrong?” His voice is light and even, polite if a tad weary. Scott scans the man again, noting the name tag on his shirt, Owens.
Ranger Owens fidgets under his pensive gaze, nibbling his lip in contemplation,“Well, probably not but I just wanted to ask if you’d seen Dwight this mornin?” He asks after a moment. “See we usually clock in ‘round the same time, but he didn’t show,” Ranger Owens says, face flushing.
The news has Scott straightening in shock, “Ranger Bates?” Scott asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.
Ranger Owens nods, pulling the hat off his head, squeezing it between his palms, “We assumed he was just late, but when we asked ‘round nobody saw him come in last night.” The man explains, seemingly unable to look Scott in the eye. “Last thing he radioed in was that it was his turn to go check down near the creek,” he adds, staring down at the ground.
Scott quirks a brow, then narrows his eyes at the other man, “And you think I’d seen him?” It’s a deliberate question, slightly on the light side of hostile, but he has no way of knowing if Ranger Bates had mentioned anything about their encounter the night before. Or, Scott wonders grimly, if the other ranger had gone traipsing about looking for what had sent Scott running right into him.
Ranger Owens seems quite embarrassed, if the way he presses his lips together and flushes seems to suggest. “Relax Mr. Summers, ain’t nothin’ like that,” Ranger Owens lifts his hands in a placating gesture, speaking slowly, “I’ve just been worried ‘bout him. He’s been mentionin’ ya quite a bit if you get my drift.” Scott did indeed his drift and feels a faint flicker of annoyance cross his face. Ranger Owens either didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care,“He even wanted to go down there to make sure everythin’ was safe,” He adds after moment.
From the wide view of the main street, Scott can see people milling about, loading up their cars and campers for what is hopefully short-term danger. The storm is imminent now, and those who can’t leave are hoping for the best. Among the muttering of concerned parents and the macho goings of pepperjack haired men, Scott can see someone drifting along the street. He moves easily, his powerhouse stature hidden beneath the long black duster. Scott deliberately keeps his gaze on Ranger Owens, “I haven’t seen him this morning,” Scott tells the man. It technically isn’t a lie.“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” He adds needlessly, while Ranger Owens blinks at him. Scott can feel the weight of the blonde man’s gaze from where he leans against the wall of the bar. His face is set in a smirk, cocky and knowing as he licks his lips in a show of hunger.
Turning brusquely, Scott zips up the saddle bag with one hand, grabbing his helmet with the other. As he does so, a paper flutters to the ground near Scott’s, now deliberately clean, boot. Ranger Owens makes an “ope”, quickly leaning down to grab it. Behind him, the man in the duster stares with dark eyes. Scott stares back, gaze even, eyes hidden behind the ruby lenses. For just a moment, there is a flash of that massive, hulking body and the scent of rotting breath. Ranger Owens pops back up with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck as he holds out the receipt, “Well, chances are he’s probably had a bit to much after work, but give me a hollar if you hear anything?”
Swinging a leg over the bike, Scott nods, stuffing the receipt into his back pocket, “Will do, but I should get going. The rain’s coming isn’t it?” At Ranger Owen’s nod, Scott raises a hand briefly in goodbye before gunning the engine. He had work to do.
======================================================================================
Scott strides up to the cabin, arms laden with supplies. The front step is thankfully clear of anymore gifts, he notes, quickly stepping inside. Dumping the bags onto the counters of his small kitchenette, he glances at the clock. 9;15, he notes with a grimace. Nowhere near enough for the scale of what he suspects he needs to do, but needs must, Scott supposes. Glancing over the counter he notes the yards of rope, metal wire, empty cans, pliers, his hunting knife, and the portable shovel he’d stowed away in his travel pack.
For a moment he stands there, gazing at the countertop. Overhead is the steady tick-tick-ticking of the clock. Drawing himself up to his full height, Scott blows out a whoosh of air and leans over, silently flipping on the radio. Rope in hand, Scott sets to work.
======================================================================================
Mist had settled slowly along the forest floor. The mossy undergrowth had darkened, becoming a fetid ground of rotting leaves and slick rock. Scott knelt, dampened earth clinging to his jeans as he twisted a bout of wide, heavy wire around the base of a large tree. Much larger than a rabbit, his prey was. “A bear trap is for a bear, so what do I call this? A stalker trap?” Scott muses to himself. He pauses at the implication of his words. “Well,” He decides, “let’s hope our furry friend decides I’m worth the effort at least.” Trapping in this park wasn’t technically allowed, but given the circumstances, Scott had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t get caught.
Wiping his palms on his jeans, he stands, glancing upwards. The already overcast sky is rapidly darkening, and lightning flashes ominously in the distance. Shivering, Scott shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, fingering the edge of the knife he’d hidden. Trudging forward, he takes the now familiar path home, smoothly edging his way past the delicate root edges and mossy amalgamations of earth and rain. As the wind picks up, Scott angles his head, vainly attempting to hear over the sound of shivering branches. Whoever has been hunting him seems to like to make him sweat. It would be best, Scott surmises, to not give away whatever surprise he had left.
Thunder rumbles, clouds shifting and rolling in a tumultuous pool of gray and black. Lightning flashes, dancing off the lenses of his ruby quartz like shattered fractals. Scott breathes quietly, clenching his hand around the hilt of his hunting knife. “Through the hourglass I saw you, in time you slipped away…” The words come unbidden, perhaps more for a sense of perverse familiarity than anything else, he thinks wryly.
Beneath the flapping of tree branches and the bite of gravel against his skin, Scott hears a heavy body scuttling in the dirt. He remains blank-faced despite the soft pattering of droplets against his skin. As the earth shivers beneath him, he tries, vainly, not to react. “Take my breath away…” Scott murmurs, voice lost in the increasing reverb of heavy rain. Peering through the trees futilely reveals nothing but wooden skeletons and shadow, not a hint of bright fur in sight.
He’s almost home.
As the wind picks up and begins to whistle, Scott can feel a presence, a familiar creeping heat dragging itself through the damp earth. A chuff of hot breath tickles the back of his neck. “Think you can outrun me again, boy?” The words are curled around the lips of the behemoth behind him, and Scott can’t help but give a grim smile. Turning on his heel, Scott catch’s a glimpse of the blonde man’s surprised face before the knife edge plunges into his shoulder blade. The man snarls, thrashing in Scott’s grip before hastily pulling away, blood falling in a slew of red. Scott watches, face still, as the man’s skin knits itself back together. Well, fuck, that was two theories confirmed then. The man’s face twisted into a malicious grin, tongue lapping at the air in a lewd display of hunger. “Got some bite don’t you, pretty. Well, let’s see if those teeth a yers’ can match up to Sabretooth’s.”
Scott’s final thought before he turned and let his feet carry him through the rain was ‘Of course he calls himself fucking Sabretooth.’
======================================================================================
Thunder rumbles overhead, and the rain feels like sheets of ice against his skin. Scott pants, arms pumping, boots nearly slipping in the mud. He needs more distance. Sabretooth’s healing factor had been swift and messy, but effective. His immense frame, taut with muscle, far outclassed Scott’s own. Even with his eye beams, the most effective strategy was to keep the brutish hunter at as far a distance as possible until Scott could take him down.
There is a boom of thunder and a loud, bone rattling roar. With scant inches between them Scott can feel the drag of claws swiping through fabric, a breath away from tender flesh. Eyes darting between the trees, Scott’s mind whirs like a speed train. Stopping to turn and blast the man would waste precious seconds if he underestimates the feral, but would it be made up by time to find cover? Behind Scott there is a cruel bark of laughter, sadistic and gleeful in the midst of Sabretooth’s hunt, “Can’t hide from me, pretty boy,” He hollers, “I’ve been waitin’ for this!”
Within the copse of trees, Scott spots a loose footpath. Scott turns, swift and jerky, barely dodging the slash of claws at his back over the cacophonous rumble of Sabretooth’s outrage. “Keep waiting then, asshole,” He calls over his shoulder, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?” Scott hears another voracious cackle as he ducks, rough bark digging into his skin, only to land face first into a rigid, swaying form. The dense rain obscuring his already limited view, Scott’s palms trace the familiar patterns of cold flesh in rigor mortis, feeling the stiff muscles and stick of bodily fluids swaying in the heavy wind. Something flutters to the ground, and Scott shoves the lead weight feeling in his stomach to the back of his mind in a well-practiced movement at the sight of the green khaki hat. Well, he thought grimly, that explained where Ranger Bates was.
Tensing, Scott glances around, attempting to parse through the dense fog. For a moment there is nothing but the pounding of rain against the earth and his breath visible in the chill of the darkening sky. Despite this, Scott can’t bring himself to relax. He twists, his back to the ranger’s swaying body, one hand clutching the knife, the other his glasses.
Nothing.
Scott shifts backwards, walking his way past the bloated corpse, eyes straining through the heavy rain for any sign of the starving behemoth. Shivering now, hair sticking to his forehead, the raging storm seems to drown out all sense of sound. With his already limited vision, the deluge seems hell bent on being a sensory whiplash. Panting, Scott pushes the mounting terror to the back of his mind, turning to resume down the path-
“Thought you’d lost me, boy?”
-and nearly walking right into Sabretooth’s gaping maw.
Scott stared at the man, all dripping mouth and gleaming teeth, as he advanced, prowling like a lion. It was easy to imagine the man as some sort of bastardized children’s horror, the wolf chasing red riding hood with granny’s bones between his teeth. “What’s wrong, boy? Don’t feel like talking now? That’s alright, I don’t mind workin’ to make you sc-”
Scott lifted his glasses and fired, cursing inwardly once again. Jean really would be upset that she hadn’t proved his damn paranoia wrong. Still, he had told her keeping the damn Visor packed away was a compromise.
As Sabretooth howled in pain, Scott took his chance, raising his glasses to blast the man once more before booking it.
======================================================================================
Scott runs, lungs burning, past the treeline now edged with enough trip alarms to become a choir of bastardized wind chimes. The cabin is in sight now, a mere few feet away, and Scott pumps his legs with a burst of adrenaline-
Only to fall, a thunderous roar behind him his only warning as Sabretotooth bears down on him. Flailing in the mud, Scott jerks an elbow back, aiming for the bastard’s face, only for a large palm to pin him down. Thrashing under the heavy grip, Scott hisses, blood dribbling down his arms as yellowed claws slip out in an almost leisurely fashion. Sabretooth blanket’s him, breath hot and rancid as he croons into Scott’s ear, “Told ya I’d get ya, thanks for the chase, I like when I get to work for it,” One meaty palm slides up his back in a sinuous movement, wrapping around his throat. Scott spasms, bucking against Sabretooth’s heavy mass, one palm scratching at the hand around his throat, the other scrambling for purpose along the damp earth. Scott could practically hear the leer in the man’s voice as he noses up Scott’s throat, tongue lapping like a starving dog, “And to think,” Sabretooth muses, claws digging into the skin of his throat, “this time I beat Jimmy to his new pet, dunno what he wants with you, but when I’m done-”
Gritting his teeth, Scott scrambles against the increasing pressure on his throat and rib cage, throwing his entire weight against Sabretooth while his icy hands grappled in the mud, looking for something, anything. As Sabretooth leans in, drool dripping from his incisors, Scott’s fingertips graze a rounded edge of plastic. Jerking forward in one last burst of adrenaline, Scott grips what he now realizes was his fishing bucket- how the hell it got here he didn’t have time to analyze- and turns, landing a solid, and wet, slam against Sabretooth’s face. “I don’t know who Jimmy is,” Scott spits out venomously, “but he’s gotta be better than you.”
Scuttering away, Scott heaves himself to his feet, narrowly avoiding Sabretooth’s claws once again. “And just for the record jackass,” He adds, lifting his glasses for another well-timed blast, “you’re the animal here.” Ignoring the man’s pained snarl, Scott books it, throwing open the cabin door just as a heady, piercing war cry fills the air. Scott shudders, slamming the door shut and leaning against it weakly. Something in him aches at the sound, the howling thunder of rage and suffering seeming to tug at his very core.
Palms shaking, Scott wipes his face, allowing himself a single moment of respite. “Keep it together Scotty,” he murmurs to himself, footsteps edging along the wall. Crouching, he peeks his head over the window, only to stare in shock. There, rolling in the dirt, is Sabretooth, and what Scott can only describe as tarzan’s built-like-a-tank cousin. A heavy body, he was stocky and broad, and in the shadows of the oncoming night his dark hair seemed intangible had it not been for the flashes of lightning over his snarling face. Scott watches, breath caught in his throat, as something glints in the white light of the storm.
Scott shuffles back, out of view of the window. slowly making his way towards the kitchenette, still laden with supplies. “Radio, radio, radio” Scott mutters to himself, pack in hand, “knife, flares,” ever the boy scout, the leather pouches had already contained several multi tools, fire starter, and a flashlight. They did not however, contain claw proof body armor, or a lick of common sense, Scott thought wryly. Slipping his visor on, he smiles grimly as, pack in hand, he throws open the door. A glance shows that Sabretooth has his savior, Jimmy, Scott reminds himself, pinned in the mud and bleeding like a stuck pig. Well, that wouldn’t do. Whistling sharply, Scott waves, “Hey big guy, over here,” He calls out. Two heads jerk in his direction, and Scott takes careful aim.
Sabretooth goes flying with a howl of agony. The other mutant, Jimmy, a feral if he was anything like Sabretooth, watches him, enraptured. Scott ignored the man for the moment, to busy charting a mental course. He needs to get Sabretooth as far away from here as possible. Taking the man down wouldn’t simply be fighting his claws and healing factor, it would also be fighting the elements and the distance between Scott, the fork in the road, and the small town of innocent people only a short drive away. A quick glance at his dark haired companion gives Scott pause. Maybe, he thinks, just a few of those variables might work in his favor. “Sonovua- you’re gonna pay for that one, pretty boy,” Sabretooth emerges from the shroud of trees, face twisted into a viscous scowl, “And when I’m done not even Jimmy’s gonna want ya.”
Scott glances at the feral in question, who is crouching, muscles taught, and staring Sabretooth down with a vengeance. The man hadn’t spoken to him at all. Curious. Gaze flicking back to Sabretooth, who’s splashing up rain from his full tilt charge, Scott taps the side of his visor with a grin that was all teeth. There’s a bright flash of red and another howl of pain. A tip of Scott’s head shows the dark-haired feral once again watching, but whatever rage he harbored seemed safely directed away from Scott. “Follow me,” Scott tells the man, pointing at the dense cluster of trees, “I think I know how to get our hungry friend as far away as possible,” and then without hesitation, Scott lets loose another blast. Purely for the sake of getting sabretooth’s attention, he thinks, the fact that it caused the man pain was just a bonus. “Gotta catch me first, asshole,” Scott calls out.
And as Sabretooth gets up to charge again, Scott turns left, away from the fork and the sleepy little town, and towards the whipping treeline.
======================================================================================
Scott’s running again. Hank will be pleased at how much cardio work he’s had lately, although Scott thinks he will be less pleased about what prompted it. In his own defense, he hasn’t gotten clawed to pieces yet, small victories and such. Beneath the din of the storm Scott can hear the two ferals crashing into the underbrush behind him, occasionally interspersed with viscous snarls, the wrenching of bark, and an oddly metallic twang. Ducking beneath a familiar crop of trees, Scott skirts the edges of their world-weary roots. If he had timed this properly, and if Sabretooth was to far into his own hunger, then maybe he could finally pin the man down.
Glancing over his shoulder, Scott let’s his visor flash in warning, and gives Sabretooth a pointed finger. Petty, he knows, so sue him. “That all you got,” Scott calls out, counting the trees ahead of him now, as they edged towards the treeline once more, “I thought you liked the chase!” There is a snarl, and a thunderous calamity of hands and feet, running with a burst of speed-
Scott jumps, then turns immediately, feel scrambling in the mud as the ground gives way behind him. He can only hope his newfound friend hadn’t gotten caught to. Peering into the edge of the pit, Scott can see Sabretooth, pierced and sloughing crimson in the rain. If Scott looks closely enough, he can see the man’s muscles spasming, the flesh attempting to stitch itself back together but unable to rid itself of the heavy wooden protrusions. As Sabretooth spits curses and perverse promises at him, Scott looks up, searching for the dark-haired feral he was sure had been following them.
And promptly loses all breath.
The man stands on the other side of the pit, dark hair slick with rain, and panting breath visible in the cold air. Shorter, Scott can see now, veins bulging along his stocky body and the silver of his claws flashing as if the heat of lightning embodied. Scott can’t see his eyes, but knows they are dark by the contrast between his flesh and face. They are mercurial, gazing at him with such wonder, such knowing, full of a soul deep kind of pain that would make any man cry.
Full of something, Scott thinks, that might be a little bit like loneliness.
The moment is broken by the shifting of earth as Sabretooth claws himself out of what would have been a grave to anyone else. He’s still bleeding, Scott can see the muscles dancing in a horrifying jiggle as the man’s body knits itself back together. The pain that was no doubt rippling across his torso from nearly ripping his body apart second only to his insatiable hunger. “I’m done playing nice with you boy,” Victor hisses, spittle flying, as Scott gazes down at him blank-faced, “there ain’t gonna be anything left when I get my hands on-”
Silently, Scott releases another blast.
Sabretooth screams, falling back into the pit, body singed. He flails, gripping the edge of the pit and clawing his still bleeding body out, fingers nearly touching the edge of Scott’s boot. Scott’s gaze moves away from Sabretooth, to the man he’d called Jimmy. Jimmy, who is once again staring Sabretooth down with a deep, burning rage. Jimmy, who was leaping right into the pit, dragging Sabretooth down in a mess of flailing hands and howls, and who is now far to close to the other feral for Scott not to blast him by accident.
Considering this for a moment, and hoping the man has some form of healing factor himself, Scott turns, and heads down to the treeline once more. They’ll follow, he knows, soon enough.
======================================================================================
He emerges at the river, swelling with rain and heaving in a tumultuous rocking of rapids and death. It’s wide, just on the shy end of swimming across on a good day. Today, Scott decides, is not a good day. “Alright, man with the plan Scotty, so what’s the plan,” Scott has the odd thought to ask Steve Rogers if he’d ever trademarked that phrase considering how much it would have made him in merchandising, which is followed swiftly by the realization that he can’t even see the bottom of the cascading water, only the riverbank and trees on the other side. “Fuck,” Scott says, because this is the plan and Jean very much is going to kill him if she has to fish his sorry ass out of a river.” Alright, let’s hope he still wants to play Tom and Jerry.”
As he makes his way towards the heaving rapids, a blood chilling howl reverberates, triumphant. Sabretooth, gleeful even in carnage, comes galloping out of the trees in a mess of blood and viscera. Scott curses, a tight feeling in his chest at the thought of the dark-haired feral he’d left behind. Turning, Scott pushes his way into the river, slammed with a heavy rush of water. As Sabretooth cackles, Scott sucks in a lungful of air, now caught in the middle of the rapids. Balanced delicately between several large stones to keep him in place, he grits his teeth and sets his gaze on Sabretooth’s racing form, rage bubbling under his skin.
One hand to his visor, Scott thinks of those mercurial eyes and that pained, lonely howl. “Come on big guy,” Scott murmurs, tempted to dial up to 11, just because. Just because this man deserved it, and the image of those dark eyes flashed in his mind once more, “just a little closer.” Trailing off, Scott’s body sways, slammed by the weighty water once more, fingers stuttering from the cold. Coughing wetly, he looks up just as a body comes crashing through the treeline, and something leaps in his throat at the sight of those claws glinting dangerously beneath the boom of lightning and thunder. But his dark haired companion is to late, and Sabretooth is too close, and Scott stands precariously in the swelling river, chilled to the bone.
When Sabretooth leaps, Scott lets loose a heavy blast, just as the dark-haired Jimmy leaps to sink his claws into Sabretooth’s gut.
“No!” Scott watches them go down, dragged beneath the roiling water. Blood floods the water, churning and frothing in a slew of wet, slick death. All at once Scott moves, quivering limbs diving beneath the surface. Everything is red, and Scott has never cursed his limited vision more. He surfaces, nearly knocked down by the gulf of water, and sucks in lungfuls of air. There, floating down the river is Sabretooth, and a few feet away, the dark haired man. “Take my hand,” Scott calls out, but the man is floating listlessly, sinking beneath the water. Scott isn’t even sure if he’s awake enough to hear. Come on, take my-” Another heavy swell, and Scott falls, scrambling into the water. He crashes against a heavy boulder, breath knocked from his lungs, fingers gripping the slick surface like God’s truth. Heaving himself forward, he works his arm around his newfound companion, nearly toppling over at the unexpected weightt
Jesus, he’d known the man was heavy, but still. A push has his shoulder under Jimmy, and Scott strains his head up, attempting to clear the water. “Work with me here,” Scott tells the man, jostling him once more, “come on, stay awake.” It seems to work, the stocky feral glancing at him, eyes wide and chest heaving. “That’s it-” Scott’s attempt to sooth the man fails, as another swell in the rapids nearly sends them back under. But the man seems to understand, and wraps his arm like a steel band about Scott’s ribs. Whatever those claws are made of, the man is heavy, and while that isn’t ideal, it also means that the frothing water cannot knock the feral down, either through physics or sheer force of will.
Either way, the feral gets with the program swiftly, and together, with one foot in front of the other, they drag each other up the edge of the river bank on trembling legs. They collapse, coughing damply and sucking in lungfuls of shaky air. Scott kneels in the mud, muscles past the point of exhaustion. A glance shows his stocky companion on his back, eyes closed but chest rising, reassuring him just a little. With Sabretooth gone, down the river and through the woods, and hopefully not ending up at Grandma’s house, Scott can take a closer look at the man at his side, eyeing the silver chain curiously. Slowly reaching out, Scott fingers the dog tags, turning them over in his hand. One side reads, “Wolverine huh?” Scott murmurs, tracing the letters with his chilled fingers, “I guess I better say thanks for saving me.”
Just as he’s about to turn the dog tags over, a large palm covers his own, cradling it with surprising gentleness to a stocky chest. Surprised, Scott glances at the man’s face, only to find him staring with dark, knowing eyes. Breath catching, Scott says nothing, only able to return the gentle squeeze as something warm unfurls in his chest. Hello, Scott thinks with a strange sense of absurdity, but a smile nonetheless, I’ve been waiting for you.