The great stone beast seemed to fill the sky, blotting out the sun; it was larger and louder than any bear, and its gleaming fangs whipped above it like a constantly gnashing mouth. Lungs burning, Cypress dove desperately into a pile of underbrush — but the sound was everywhere at once, and as the hulking monstrosity dipped lower, whipping rocks and dirt into his eyes, he burst free. A stinging in his right haunch convinced him that he was about to die — and the knowledge of that caused him to reel; it was dizzying, heady, and he fell to the ground with a stuttered yelp that he was too disoriented to really follow through with. He tumbled to a skidding halt, long limbs flopping like a discarded rag doll beneath the thundering wheels of a speeding truck, a thin whine trickling from between his tightly clenched teeth. Instinctively he struggled to his feet, but he was down again in an instant.

Footsteps. He heard them dimly, but it was like being underwater. His body twitched at every sound, head jerking up and off the ground, but — ah, fuck — everything was so damn heavy. He just wanted to sleep. “Lemme — sleepin’ — Alya, you — ” he slurred, blood trickling from cuts on his lips and nose and mingling with the saliva that began pooling beneath his chin and cheek. She wouldn’t let him, though. Every time he started to drop off, he thought of those dogs and how they’d nearly gotten him, nearly tricked him into thinking Alya wasn’t there, had never been there — but she was right here. Right here.

He became distantly aware that something was happening. Someone was talking. The voice went on for a long while, and he didn’t understand any of it. “Specimen 3382, approximately one to two year old intact male black-phase wolf. White chest patch. Poor condition, BCS 2-3/9, tachycardic and febrile, likely due to, oh, I don’t know, being shot with a dart from a fucking helicopter.” Laughter. High-pitched. Cypress’ ears gave a vigorous twitch.

“Scarring on all four limbs,” the voice murmured, spidery tendrils closing over one sleep-slack foreleg. “Appear to be abrasive wounds rather than deep lacerations or punctures.”

Stop that, Cypress thought with no small measure of irritation.

“Heavy scarring on left side of muzz — ”

I said, stop that.

From somewhere deep within the sea of black goo, the sedated wolf broke surface. He couldn’t hear the voice anymore — not that he’d been able to understand any of the jargon in the first place — but the white-pink spider-tendrils were touching his face now and peeling back his eyes and putting stuff in them and he was going to bite them if they didn’t stop it —

“Oh, shit! SHOOT HIM AGAIN, SHOOTHIMSHOOTHIMSHOOTHIM, JESUS FUCK — ”

---

When the wolf roused later, he was in a highly undignified state — urine soaked his hindquarters and blood and saliva had frozen upon his mouth and cheek. Moving gingerly, he staggered to his feet and nosed his way to a nearby stream to clean himself up. It wasn’t the wisest decision, perhaps, in the bitter winter cold; but he smelled like something he instinctively didn’t like. It stood out against the scent of everything around him, and he kicked his rollicking pace into a trot to put distance between himself and the Bad Place. When he was finally free of it, he set about rolling in whatever foliage he could find — and when he knocked against a tree with a very solid-sounding thwack! he froze. Flopping down he set about scratching at his neck with his hind leg, his movements getting more and more frantic when he realized he could not get the damn thing off. In vain, he began rubbing it against the tree.