TFS: Burnt Earth

Molly – 25 years ago

For ten years, I train with them. I do not shapeshift. I do not get any kind of elemental specialty. I never become the beast, though a beast was unquestionably unleashed in me when I became a Sumair. That beast is my addiction. It drives me like nothing else.

Time runs weirdly here. I’m convinced it’s the lack of sun and moon that bleeds the days together. An hour can pass. A year. It’s all the same. I sleep when I’m tired, for however long I’m tired, but besides that constant, there’s just the endless void eating my soul. It’s as hungry as the beast hibernating inside me.

My teammates don’t look at me like a teammate. Nor do I feel the bond they share with each other. I don’t even feel bonded to Tyler, who fucks off more than he fucks on during my training. The disconnect is undoubtedly due to my inability to shapeshift. My only constant is Connor. My connection to him is rock solid. He’s the single tether keeping me grounded. My solo tow line. Well, I toe lines, but that’s obviously not the same thing.

Asteria’s certain I’m merely a late shifter. Late shifter my ass. Geriatric shifter at this point. That’s the only explanation making sense because I have the same craving as all these other pricks, but I have no elemental abilities to compensate for it. It’s an unfair as fuck trade off.

It’s not all terrible. I enjoy the training immensely, even more so since they don’t hold back, which means I don’t have to. What I’ve gained in the conversion is enhanced endurance and supernatural healing ability. This comes in handy for the constant blood loss and broken limbs. The pit? That’s my happy place. Pound fucking or getting pound fucked gives me the same sense of accomplishment. I’ll take either seven ways from Sunday. And I do. Fuck yeah, do I ever.

I’ve also gained some freedom. I’m permitted excursions outside Sheelin. This decreases, if not eliminates, my disdain for confinement. The flip side is my cravings become severe immediately upon departure. Seems Sheelin has me more on lockdown than I realized. Just more shit on my already overloaded shit sandwich. Not delicious, in case you were wondering.

When we leave Sheelin to practise, I watch the others in their beast forms, spending my time surveying every movement they make. They’re giant bear dogs with frothing jaws strong enough to crush brick. High as horses and wide as hippos, without the flab. They’re more wolf than dog. More polar than panda. They’re vicious and absolutely glorious. I can’t wait to be like them, chewing through every throat in proximity. While they rest, I lie in the grass, thankful for the freedom if not the shapeshifting, enjoying the fresh air offered to me through my annoyingly humanesque lungs.

They watched me like a hawk at first, afraid I’d make an advantageous run for it. Hah. As if. I’m neither stupid enough to think I could get away nor filled with a desire to try. Outside the persistent craving, I’m not made for fish bowl living. I’m not that weak as fuck girl from the black and white films I continue to watch before sleeping. I can’t envision ever having been content in that life. I may never earn a participation trophy here, but I’d rather plant my ass on the bench than go back to that garbage. Such a fucking snooze fest.

I know I’ll never be as strong as my teammates, especially if I can’t invoke my inner beast, but I do have something they’ll never have. While they’re driven by orders, handed down in hierarchy, I’m driven to succeed, even beyond what’s dictated. I give no fucks who I step on to climb that ladder either.

When Tyler calls me to him for a meeting, I’m a smidge concerned he’s evicting me. Private sittings are rumoured to boast unfavourable outcomes. Cue one-way trip to the extermination room. I’m relieved when I see Connor and Phelan in the room with him. Phelan’s an obvious alpha. In animal form he’s as black as the night with a moonless sky. He doesn’t lead a team of his own because he failed all his anger management courses. His quick temper isn’t conducive to positive results. No one else wanted him on their team, for much the same reason. Solidarity for the win.

“You’ll be an auxiliary team,” Tyler declares. “You’ll handle multiple mission types, extending beyond the basic Scout parameters. Phelan’s your commander. All issues and concerns will be addressed through your commander. All orders will be received through your commander.”

I lift a brow. What a fucking team of misfits. The boy who couldn’t, the girl who wouldn’t, and our angry alpha. It definitely feels like we’re being set up to fail. I stifle a giggle when I look over at Phelan, who’s white-knuckling his chair. As an auxiliary team, we lack the elevated skillset specific designations offer. Phelan clearly thinks it’s an indication of his ineptitude. Maybe it is, but I like the idea of branching out into multiple areas. It’ll give me an opportunity to explore the many facets of the Sentry.

“Any questions?”

“No, Sir,” Connor reports first, like a good little soldier. Twat.

“No, Sir,” Phelan adds through gritted teeth. Cuntface. Yeah, he has this dimpled chin thing happening. I reckon it resembles piss flaps, so I call him Cuntface. Behind his back but also to his face. His cuntface.

“I have a question.” I smile at Phelan when he eyeballs me in an I-want-to-throttle-you-for-opening-your-mouth sort of way. Fuck him. This douche knows my sauce shooter has no safety. It’s basically my whole jam.

“Ask it,” Tyler offers.

“When do we get our first mission?”

Tyler smirks, Phelan takes in a giant breath through his nose, and Connor leans forward excitedly in his chair. See that, Commander Cuntface? Two against one. Eat shit, fucker.

“Go see the Archives, Phelan,” Tyler orders him. “They’ll find you something to do.”

“Not that I’m complaining about leading a team,” Phelan begins, “but I thought there had to be four members.”

“Are you questioning my decision, Phelan?”

Uh oh. Cuntface is about to get his balls tweaked.

“No, Sir,” he backpedals quickly.

“Then you’re excused.”

We quickly file out, and much like Connor, I’m a bundle of excitement-filled nerves. Phelan’s a bundle of nerves too, though none of his are excited. His discomfort pleases me immensely. Guess what? Cuntface solidary for the win. Hell yeah! Mission party of three. I am so here for this.

“We just watch,” Phelan repeats. “This is a scouting mission.”

We’re in some dust-filled Nevada town, on our first mission. It’s to observe a local girl who presumably is a Solathair in transition. She’s only sixteen and small for her age. Her element is air. She’s using it to coerce butterflies into a dance over her head. Fucking adorable.

Scouting missions are to survey people just coming into their powers to see what they’re capable of and whether or not we feel they’ll be a threat to the Tribunal or a welcome addition to the empire they’ve created. Worthy candidates are inducted, while problem children become dinner. The concept is fairly easy to appreciate.

What no one explains to me is the importance of keeping my distance from the candidate. I’m not prepared for the uncontrollable urge to bridge the distance gap. My instincts take over.

I don’t listen to Phelan when he orders me to stay put in our position behind the tall trees keeping us hidden. She’s alone. I’m not afraid of anyone seeing us, least of all her. There’s nothing threatening about her. She’s categorically harmless as fuck.

You know who isn’t harmless as fuck? This girl!

The minute she spots me, it’s all over. There’s nothing that can stop me. Not Phelan’s angry command, nor Connor’s weak pleas. A horrible rumbling begins in my stomach, a growl echoing outward and shaking every one of my bones loose. They move inside my skin, swelling and exploding me from the inside out. I feel no pain, not like the time Randy ripped my arm from the socket and beat me unconscious with it. No, there’s no pain. There’s only unbridled fucking desire.

It happens too fast. I’m running. I’m running impossibly fast toward the terrified girl, who has no chance to flee. Before she can stand, I’m on her. My hands are not hands. They’ve become massive claws. I’m slashing at her neck and chest, slurping up the delicious blood spilling out of her tiny body. In that blood is the most glorious of reprieves. It tastes bitter, like rolling sour candy around my tongue, but I suck in every ounce of energy she has, swallowing it down with bits of her blood and skin. I’m ravenous, and small as she is, I know she isn’t big enough to sate the hunger consuming my conscience.

When she has nothing left to give, I sever her head from her body in a single swipe. I tower above her, this used up thing, and I’m more powerful than I’ve ever been in my entire life. I own every last bit of her essence. I claimed it as my own. I’m fucking proud. I succeeded. Her soul washes through me in reward for my ultimate accomplishment, filling the hollow expanse. I was starving, and she fed me, but I’m still hungry. No matter how much I feed, it’ll never be enough.

Then something’s gripping my neck, hurling me across the field. My body contorts again. I watch as the claws become fingernails. I look up at the sky, the clouds dancing patterns behind the scattering butterflies. As my lips curl up into the most content of smiles, Phelan leans down and punches me in the face, knocking me out cold.