title; No questions asked
author; Spirited Wolfie
email; spirited_wolfie@hotmail.com
rating; PG
summary; eh, its only short, just read it! (i *hate* these things!)

Disclaimer; they aren't mine. And I don't see any possibility of them ever being mine. Ah well.
I don't know if I particularly like this fic, but thought I'd put it up and see what everyone else thought. Hmm.


Shalimar awoke with a start as the loud crack of thunder sounded above their island retreat; their Sanctuary.

Snarling softly to herself, she sighed. Storms always unsettled her; it was a part of the animal instincts she had gained from her mutation. Thanks to the same instincts, she'd also known the storm was coming, and so had been on edge and not sleeping properly the last few days. This all combined to form one very unhappy feral.

Dragging herself out of her bed, she glanced at the clock. Two am. Dressing, she moved quietly through the corridors of the vast building, with the intention of doing some vigorous training in the hopes of wearing herself out enough to sleep through the storm. Even if it didn't work, it would at least be something to keep her mind occupied. She breathed deeply; she could practically smell the electricity in the air, the fresh scent of the rain as it fell all around them. Suppressing a shudder as another crack of thunder sounded above, she continued on her way.

Padding silently past the bedrooms of her team-mates, her 'pack' as she sometimes thought of them, she sub-consciously registered their soft, deep breathing, indicating they were asleep. She'd passed through to the corridor leading to the main living area before she realised something was amiss. Tracing her path back the way she had come, she paused outside each doorway, listening intently. Reaching Emmas' door, she realised the source of her disquiet. There were no sounds coming from the room before her. Fighting an irrational fear that Emma had somehow died in her sleep without the Sanctuarys' computers being alerted, she began to continue her walk before quickly turning back and softly opening the door to Emmas' bedroom. Peering in, she could see nor sense any presence within the room. Sighing with relief, she continued her journey towards the living area. Emma had probably awoken with the storm, and was most likely reading in the room with the pool, her favourite place to relax.

Heading in that direction, hoping to find the company of her friend, she paused suddenly. The hackles on the back of her neck rose, her feral senses suddenly alive. Listening intently, she heard it again. A scream. Faint, barely detectable even with her enhanced feral hearing. A scream filled with such pain and despair that Shalimar dreaded to think what the cause of it might be. Without realising it she was already moving towards the source of the sound. She heard it again, closer, and began to run as with horror she realised that it was Emma who was screaming. Pausing briefly, she frantically tried to localise the sound.

Running up a flight of stairs, she found the doorway leading to the outside, the surface of the island. It was well concealed on both sides, and rarely used. Yanking it open, she ran through.

Peering through the driving rain, she could just make out a figure standing on the edge of the natural platform, part of the cliff face onto which the doorway had opened. Carefully running forwards, so as not to slip, she drew closer to the figure. She could finally see that it was Emma, wearing only her night-shirt, soaked through to the skin. As Shalimar watched, she screamed again, then wrapped her arms around herself and fell to her knees, her body wracked by violent, uncontrollable sobs.

Coming up behind her, Shalimar knelt down and wrapped her arms around her, rocking her back and forth like a child. Emma leaned into the embrace, her sobs shaking the two of them as they sat.

As her sobs died out, she began to shiver, her body soaked and unprotected against the rain and wind. Lifting her up, Shalimar carried her back to her room, stripped and dried her, then put a fresh shirt on her and laid her in bed. After a moments hesitation, she curled up behind her, laying an arm across her chest, and held her tight.

In the morning, she was gone. No questions were asked, no answers were given. And every time there was a storm, the pattern repeated. No questions asked.


end. sigh.