She tried: TATTOO LSOP962
No matches found.
She picked up the bread and ripped out a hunk with her teeth.
FOREARM TATTOO NUMBERS
A collection of images filled the screen, arms skinny and bulky, pale and dark, covered with garish drawings or displaying small, tiny symbols on their wrists. Thirteens and Roman numerals, birthdates and geographical coordinates. The first year of peace, “1 T.E.,” was popular.
Jaw beginning to ache, Scarlet dropped the rest of the bread down on the plate and rubbed her palms into her eyes. Street fighter tattoos? Kidnapper tattoos? Mafia tattoos?
Who were these people?
She stood up and started a pot of coffee.
“Wolf,” she whispered to herself as the water began to percolate. She let the word linger, feeling it on her lips. To some, a wild beast, a predator, a nuisance. To others, a shy animal who was too often misunderstood by humanity.
An uneasiness still lingered in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t get the memory of him out of her head, nearly killing his opponent amid all those spectators, before running out into the fields like a man possessed. At the time, she’d believed that the howl she’d heard minutes later had been a true wolf prowling the farms—they certainly weren’t uncommon, not after the species protection act that had been enforced centuries ago—but her certainty was failing.
They call me Wolf at the fights.
She put her plate and the empty fry pan into the sink, running cool water over them while she scanned the fields’ swaying shadows through the window. Soon the farm would be filled with life—androids and workers and genetically enhanced honeybees.
She poured the coffee before it was finished, topping her mug with a splash of fresh milk, and sat back at the table.
WOLVES
An image of a gray wolf filled the screen, fangs bared, ears flattened. Snowflakes clung to its thick coat.
Scarlet dragged her finger across the screen, sending the picture away. The images that followed were more peaceful: wolves tumbling with their mates, cubs sleeping piled on top of one another, regal white-and-gray-pelted wolves creeping through autumn woods. She chose a link from one of the species preservation societies and scanned the text, pausing when she came to the section on howling.
WOLVES HOWL IN ORDER TO GAIN THE ATTENTION OF THEIR PACK OR SEND TERRITORIAL WARNINGS. LONE WOLVES WHO HAVE BECOME SEPARATED FROM THEIR PACK WILL HOWL IN ORDER TO FIND THEIR COMPANIONS. OFTEN, THE ALPHA MALE IS THE MOST AGGRESSIVE HOWLER OF THE PACK. HIS AGGRESSIVENESS CAN BE DETECTED IN HIS LOW-PITCHED, ROUGH HOWLS WHEN HE APPROACHES A STRANGER.
A chill shook Scarlet so hard her coffee splashed up over the rim of her mug. Cursing, she stood to grab a towel and mopped it up, annoyed at being spooked by a stupid article. Did she honestly think the crazy street fighter had been trying to communicate with his pack?
She threw the towel into the sink and grabbed the portscreen, skimming through the rest of the article before following a link about pack hierarchy.
WOLVES TRAVEL IN PACKS, GROUPS THAT RANGE FROM SIX TO FIFTEEN MEMBERS AND HAVE AN ESTABLISHED HIERARCHY. AT THE TOP OF THE SOCIAL STRUCTURE ARE THE ALPHA MALE AND ALPHA FEMALE, A MATED PAIR. THOUGH THEY ARE FREQUENTLY THE ONLY WOLVES IN THE PACK WHO WILL BREED AND PRODUCE A LITTER, ALL OTHER PACK MEMBERS ASSIST IN FEEDING AND RAISING THE PUPS.
MALES WILL ESTABLISH THEIR ALPHA RANK THROUGH RITUAL COMBAT: ONE WOLF MAY CHALLENGE ANOTHER, RESULTING IN A FIGHT THAT DETERMINES WHICH WOLF IS SUPERIOR. REPEATED VICTORIES WILL EARN RESPECT FOR THE MALE WOLF, AND ULTIMATELY DECIDE THE PACK LEADER.
THE NEXT STEP IN THE PACK HIERARCHY ARE THE BETA WOLVES, WHO OFTEN HUNT AND PROVIDE PROTECTION TO THE CUBS.
THE OMEGA WOLF IS THE LOWEST RANKING IN THE PACK. OFTEN TREATED AS A SCAPEGOAT, THE OMEGAS ARE OCCASIONALLY PICKED ON BY THE REST OF THE PACK. THIS CAN LEAD TO THE OMEGA DRIFTING TO THE EDGES OF THE PACK’S TERRITORY AND, ON OCCASION, LEAVING THE PACK ALTOGETHER.
A flurry of clucking startled Scarlet.
Setting the port on the counter, she peered out the window. Her stomach flipped.
The shadow of a man stretched across the yard, the gathered hens skittering away from him toward their coop.
As if sensing her, Wolf glanced up and spotted Scarlet in the window.
She spun away. Swallowing the rising panic, she ran into the foyer and snatched her grandmother’s shotgun from its corner beneath the stairs.
Wolf hadn’t moved by the time she’d thrown open the front door. The chickens were already growing familiar with the stranger, pecking around his feet in search of falling seed.
Scarlet settled the gun in her arms and released the safety.