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Current Location: US 34, Western Iowa

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It starts the usual way: A flash, a bang, a person standing, disoriented, near a long stretch of deserted road.

But this man falls to his knees-

(thousands of voices; screaming, crying in his head; anger and despair and everything in between, and he can’t fight, can’t ignore, can’t resist them; stop, stop, Goddess why won’t it STOP)

-and clutches his head, letting loose an agonized shout of surprise.

Then it's over, and it's like it never was.

Jamie lowers his hands, noticing in a detached manner that short strands of blond hair come away in his fingers, and sits back on his haunches, blinking. The last thing he remembers is laughing at a joke -- a bad one, with three tavern wenches and a statue -- and climbing a ladder to get at the apples high in an Olau tree. His shirt still smells like the orchard: sun and fruit and green, growing things. Had he fallen? Is this a fevered hallucination brought on by his broken body and healing magic gone wrong? Grace never could get the hang of it. She’s probably given him an extra thumb.

No. All’s right with that.

Digging his fingers into the earth beside the road, he watches it sift back to the ground. It's chunky and rough, but not dry. Even so, it's clearly not the smooth, dark soil of Olau. Jamie sniffs his hand, frowns and pulls himself to his feet. The road crests a hill to the west. Maybe there's something on the other side to explain what's happened; maybe not. Nothing to do, he supposes, but to start walking.

He'll get back to the pain (voices) in his head later. When the mood strikes.

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Still glowering, Eleanor nods her agreement.

She rubs irritably at the reddening area of skin where the branch whacked her—just above a tattoo of a heart with a dagger thrust through it—then works on finishing her smoke. She's in no hurry to move off.

"Maybe."

She certainly doesn't want to try getting through on foot at this point. Not after those random acts of aggression from the trees.

Expression softer, she glances back at him. "You think we should check it out? Did it look safe?"

"If I say yes, would it really make any difference here?" he says, not unkindly, eyes roaming over her face. "It looked like contact with people who might be able to explain. I'm willing to take the risk if you are."

The moment seems to call for reassurance of one sort or another, so he gives her side a gentle squeeze.

"Next time you light one of those, you might offer a pull to a lad who's had a hard day."

He smiles.

Without any real change in expression, Eleanor curls her free hand around his comforting grip, absently reciprocating the gesture. She also squints towards the village again. Unenlightened by the view, she shrugs.

"I'm game. If things go to shit, we've got my gun and whatever we can do with your pig sticker."

He'd seemed pretty adept with the sword once it had come into his possession, and if push comes to shove, she could use it too—firearms weren't the only weapons her parents schooled her in. After another lazy drag, she passes the last third of her cigarette back to him, trapped between her first and index fingers.

"Sorry," she says. "I know your sister smokes sometimes. Should've figured you did too."

"She does?" His eyebrows shoot up. He takes the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, examining it as he did the dirt earlier. "I've never known her to-

"Oh."

An alternate version of his sister is curiously more difficult to swallow than another of himself.

"I don't make a habit of it," he explains several seconds later. Done eyeing the smoking cylinder of tightly packed paper, he takes a drag and seems to savor the sensation. "What is he like? Your alternate Jamie?"

"I don't know him," Eleanor admits. "We didn't get to talk at the party, and before that I hadn't seen him since we were kids. He was kinda drunk, spent most of his time messing round in the lake with Grace and some other random chicks. They were all over him like a bad rash."

She gives another shrug.

"Happy-go-lucky? Bit of a ladies man? I dunno."

Jamie laughs out loud, but he neither confirms nor denies any such similarities. Smirking, he passes back the cigarette, which probably has one good drag left in it, and wipes his hands on his worn trousers.

"I'd much rather mess around on land than in water."

"Yeah?" Eleanor says, returning his smirk with interest.

"Good to know."

She takes a last hit off the smoldering butt, before crushing it out on the sole of her boot and depositing it in the tiny ashtray under the bike's front console. It's a tight squeeze—the little container is nearly overflowing already.

"I'm usually up for anything. Solid ground is fine. The odd knee-trembler in the shower can be a blast. And hot tub sex always rocks."

"I wouldn't know" is said.

I wouldn't mind trying it is implied, if his tone, warm eyes and cheeky smile are any indication.

"Ready?"

"Sure am," she verifies, looking very pleased with his reaction.

"Keep an eye out for any cut-throughs. Fuck knows where this trail is gonna lead us."

Without waiting for a reply, she slips the bike into gear and starts them motoring carefully down the pseudo-track once more.

Most of her attention is taken by the route ahead, and by the task of keeping the ride as obstacle free as possible. If there are any potential ways to the village, it's more than likely that she's going to miss them. So Jamie does need to keep watch.

And keep watch he does. Feeling oddly relaxed, Jamie turns his head back and forth, searching each side of the path for some sign of another route heading off into the trees. But the path stays straight and narrow, with no sign of a way to the village.

Narrower, he ammends silently. It looks as if it's getting harder and harder to navigate.

"Stop!" he cries suddenly, lifting a hand from her waist to point. "There's the village again."

Frowning, Jamie notices that the perspective looks just as it did before.

Eleanor doesn't need to be told twice. The trail is getting very claustrophobic. All manner of branches now criss-cross above it, often obstructing the bike's forward motion or necessitating ducking maneuvers to avoid them. And far too many well-girthed tree trunks are now within arm's length on either side. If they go much further they are going to have to fight to gain ground.

She brakes and drops the bike into neutral. "Good thing," she comments over the rumble of the engine. "We're running out of path."

Observing the view, she then comes to the same annoying conclusion as Jamie.

"Shit. We're in the same place. The damn trees sent us in a circle."

And there's still no way through.

"A circle." Incredulous, Jamie stares at one particularly menacing looking tree, then back at the village. "But how? We didn't-"

How doesn't matter. What matters is that in the few seconds he'd turned his head, a branch had ruffled his hair with a sharp Whoosh. It felt like a warning.

It felt too close for comfort.

"You're taunting us," he accuses coldly. "Why?"

Part of him truly expects an answer. Jamie has never felt anything but at home in the forest, and he's no longer amused by any of this.

Nor is Eleanor.

"Unless you wanna become part of the compost round here," she tells Jamie, "we probably shouldn't stay to find out."

The trees respond by looming closer still, their canopy screening off the last traces of sky above. And at ground level, underwood shifts and grows until the way forward is fully blocked for the bike. They are now surrounded.

"C'mon! Let's see if we can get through on foot. Might be our only chance."

Engine cut off, she hops out of the saddle and prepares to push the bike into the boscage between them and the village. She'll use it as a battering ram against the shrubbery if need be and worry about the tires later. But, she hopes it won't come to that.

It might.

As soon as they leave the rapidly dwindling clear space behind, the branches start moving. At first it's a mere hint of motion just out of their line of sight, but the further they go, the bolder the swipes become. The trees toy with them, pushing them on, wielding leaves that feel sharper than they should and flinging limbs into their path.

Soon it will be a full out attack.

"Mithros," Jamie mutters, ducking and weaving. He's curiously unwilling to use the sword for anything but a bit of a shield.

Slapping, whipping leaves become gnarled finger-like branch tips, clawing and stabbing at their skin and clothes. To Eleanor it's reminiscent of a certain nightmarish scene from her favorite fairy tale. But here and now it's all too real.

"Argh. Motherfucker!" she cries out as a particularly cruel limb scratches her forearm and draws blood. With both hands occupied on the bike's handlebars, she's pretty much defenseless against the onslaught. Thankfully though, she does still have her helmet on. She takes a moment to drop the mirrored visor in order to protect her face.

"For fuck's sake fight back!" she shouts to Jamie.

"Chop the bastards up or we're never gonna make it!"

Face set in an unhappy frown, Jamie ignores her, pushing into the blows and trying to keep them clear of Eleanor. His shirt and skin suffer for it.

He ignores her right up until spindly twigs grab his collar and send him spinning into the grasp of another tree, then slap his face like a giant hand, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth.

Grimly, Jamie lifts his sword, takes a deep breath and goes on the offensive. It's not pretty. He lacks his mother's talent. But it's knowledgeable -- as if he knows well in advance just what angle will do the most damage, so style doesn't matter much to him. Chopping, hacking and driving forward, quiet as the grave, he begins to make headway.

Not much, however.

Jamie's sword work doesn't critically wound any of the trees. It does serve to anger them though. Before long their attacks start to intensify and become even more violent. Eleanor takes a heavy clout to the helmet, and while she's off-balance, a spear-like branch follows up with a nasty jab into her upper thigh. She yelps again, and more blood flows, darkening the punctured denim below the point of impact.

That's the final straw.

Fuming, she leans the bike against her uninjured thigh and digs into the nearest pannier bag. From it she draws a can of hairspray and pops off the lid.

"Skewer me will you?" she yells at the forest.

Flicking her Zippo open, she sparks it and holds the flame up to the nozzle of the aerosol. One depressed button later, and a roaring cloud of fire jets away from the can.

She sends it in a sweeping arc (nowhere near Jamie) scorching and burning any branches that are within range.

"DON'T!" Jamie demands, trying to knock the zippo out of her hand. Beyond his ingrained fear of forest fires, whatever is in the can can't last forever, and they're surrounded.

The trees pull back long enough to beat their branches against the ground and each other, trying to extinguish the flames. But another line presses forward, clearly angry, whipping vines around in a renewed, deadly frenzy. They seem intent on destroying the humans through sheer size and force of numbers.

One such vine catches Jamie across the chest, tightens and yanks him up and over to a waiting cluster of shuddering branches. His flailing sword only serves to aggravate his captors, and as he disappears from sight, his yell suggests he's not being dealt with in a delicate fashion.

Eleanor ignores Jamie and his efforts and keeps up her frenzied pyrotechnic attack until the fuel is all spent. Being out of hairspray is something her mother would regret, but Eleanor doesn't particularly care. She doesn't have the luxury of immortality. She's fighting for her life here.

Sadly, no lasting damage is inflicted upon the trees.

"AJ!" she screams as he's dragged away.

There's nothing she can do for him. She can barely stand thanks to the painful wound in her leg, and she has no melee weapon to hand, so she has her work cut out fending off the new wave of branches that are attempting to bludgeon and stab her.

Then, to make matters worse, a mixture of brambles and goose grass snakes up and around her legs, tangling together and holding her in place with preternatural strength. Thorns prick through her jeans and into her skin, and it's not long before she's well and truly stuck, and at the mercy of the malevolent trees. Her only recourse now is to duck and cover next to the frame of her motorcycle and chorus Jamie's yells.

Lost in his agonizing prison of green, brown and gold, Jamie feels the unfamiliar weight of anger settle low in his bruised body. He breathes in short pants, forced to let the emotion take over so that he feels nothing more than heat when something stabs his shoulder and his arms and legs are steadily pulled apart like the trees mean to rip him to pieces. A dull roar finds its way up his throat, and he throws himself into the fight, slashing and struggling and oh so angry. The vines start to snap, dropping him several feet at a time.

His Da had called Alanna a beserker once (or twice). Now Jamie knows what he meant. What he doesn't realize is that this comes from his father.

A loud sound fails to penetrate the red haze clouding his thoughts. Abruptly, Jamie is dropped to the ground, landing hard on an exposed root before it sinks below the soil. He keeps fighting until he realizes there's nothing to strike.

"They can't touch you now," a musical voice says nearby, soothingly. Or maybe it's just pleasant, and so unlike anything Jamie is prepared to hear. "Come with us! We can see you safely away, but only if you come now. They won't be silent or still for long."

Blankly, chest heaving, Jamie turns to discover two men and a woman beside a large vehicle. All are dressed in green, all look hopeful and helpful. With the sight comes a sense of peace. He pushes back at it, tossing away the fierce emotion that had held him in its grips, and he sees the nearest man's forehead wrinkle, as if in confusion.

With a grunt, Jamie lurches forward and falls to his knees.

As the trees recede, a groaning Eleanor is revealed some yards away. She's crouching down and hunched over, with her cripplingly heavy bike leaning against one of her shoulders. She's taken a sound beating, resulting in several puncture wounds, lacerations and a wealth of bruises. But, thanks to the protection afforded by the bike and her helmet, the lashing timber wasn't fatal.

She peeks up when it becomes clear that the attack has ceased. She's not sure how or why it stopped, but she's not complaining. Judging it temporarily safe, she then removes her helmet and stands, visibly grimacing and favoring her injured leg.

The strangers are soon spotted, along with their flat-bed pickup truck. They're clearly here to help, so she starts making her hobbling way over to them with her bike.

"Hey! Are we safe?"

It's only when she gets closer that she notices Jamie's predicament. He doesn't look so hot.

"Yes," the woman answers. "Come quickly."

The last is directed at Jamie, who stands and makes it three steps before going stiff and pitching forward, completely unconscious.

He lands with a thud, face first in moss and decomposing leaves.

Once she's limped up to the gathering, Eleanor props her bike against the rear wheel of the truck and turns her attention to Jamie.

"Did he just... faint?" she inquires, already knowing the answer.

The unknown woman nods woodenly as her two male companions stoop and make preparations to lift Jamie from his resting place in the mulch. Eleanor rolls her eyes.

"Awesome."

She takes possession of his sword, shaking her head hopelessly all the while, and waits for the men to load him and her bike onto their vehicle.

"I'm Eleanor by the way, and Sleeping Beauty there is Jamie. Thanks for saving us."

"You're welcome," the woman replies, smiling cordially now. She's a redhead of average height and slender build. Not unattractive. Her age is hard to judge, Eleanor pegs her somewhere in her late thirties. "You're not the first people to have run foul of this forest," she continues, "and I'm sure you won't be the last."

She extends a hand towards Eleanor. "Emily."

As the blonde shakes, the guys pause in their work to introduce themselves as well.

"Dan," says the first. He's stocky and youthful. "Ethan," says the second. He's clearly the oldest of the group, and taller than Dan. They both have brown hair, tightly cropped in the former's case, longer and slightly receding in the latter's.

"Nice to meet you all," Eleanor returns, politely. They seem harmless enough.

"We should go," Emily then prompts, putting the men back on task.

Eleanor agrees. She swallows the many questions she has for these folks and lets Emily help her clamber aboard the truck bed next to the recumbent Jamie. Before long her bike is up there as well, and they're off and rolling towards the village (http://community.livejournal.com/shatterverse/181137.html?thread=12647825#t12647825).

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