TFS: Burnt Earth

Molly – 15 years ago

Phelan hasn’t yet reprimanded me over the eyelids, and it’s been over two weeks. He even delivered the news of our next mission with a contact lens already created. If his newest torture tactic is to make me paranoid, he’s succeeding triumphantly. I’m dizzy from completely circles to keep my back from any lengthy exposure. While fairly confident he won’t stab me there, one can never be too careful. You know what’s important? Trust. Rates right up there with respect. Neither of which I have for Commander Cuntface.

I lift a brow. “In the field so soon?”

“Apparently, the two months we spent on the last one was faster than they anticipated.” He shrugs. “Review the information and meet me in twenty-four hours for prep in the Rec Room.”

“Yes, Sir,” I affirm sarcastically, throwing in a mock salute to seal my fate. Go big or go home, right? Look, I can’t help myself. Probably would help if I actually wanted to help myself. I don’t, in case you were wondering.

His eye twitches, but he says nothing.

I pop in the contact lens. It’s easier this time, only taking four tries. Woo! Mental fist pump for progress. Some of us work better without an audience. Me. I’m that someone.

The file is small yet informative. Bradley Thomas is a repeat offender. Actually, it’s his second strike. That’s the mission. We’re to deliver him warning number two. Bradley was a singer/songwriter hopeful before transitioning into an Air Solathair. The attention he received prior to his elevated Solathair status was a resounding boo. He played the guitar okay but was tone deaf as fuck. When he transitioned, he brought his music with him. Fucker figured out how to nail the notes too. Really upped his game. Impressive improvement, in my humble opinion.

Problem is, his new human form has no teeth. Instead, there are strings, and when he sings, the force of his voice vibrates the strings, providing an awe-inspiring guitar solo performance. This, in itself, isn’t an issue. It’s weird as fuck but not technically an issue. The issue is some of us work better with an audience. Brad? He’s that someone. Busking has become a rather nasty habit he refuses to break. You want to jam out in private? Very fucking best. You do that shit in public? You get a Sentry slap.

There’s no rule about being completely hidden from public exposure if you do your thing in human form and don’t receive exponential notoriety. Let’s face it, busking isn’t exactly winning him any music awards. During the Strike One intervention, the team offered Brad a slew of alternatives so he could continue busking. Safe compromises to keep him doing what he loves. He agreed to one. All the fuckstick has to do is hold a damn guitar. That’s all. Will he do that? Fuck no. He stubbornly refuses to separate the mouth play from the equation. Much like my own trigger happy sauce shooter, his is fixing to get him in serious trouble.

We arrive in New Orleans, and honestly, with everything else happening on Bourbon Street, Brad’s busking seems the least flamboyant of the entertainment venues. In fact, I think he’s made a wise choice. Like always, the Tribunal disagrees.

Phelan joins the crowd in front of Brad, while Connor and I peek around a building so our presence doesn’t cause a disturbance bigger than our freakshow target. Those rainbow lights? They really fuck with surveillance capabilities. Someone ought to sort that shit out.

Yeah, guess who isn’t holding a guitar? Brad isn’t holding a guitar. The crowd is memorized by his performance. Easy to see why. He riffs the highs and whammies the lows. Dude really has amazing showmanship. When he finishes his song, he bows gracefully. People start throwing change toward him, cheering for encores. Sad fact, there will be no encores for Brad. Not even one. He knows this. He gathers up his earnings, following alongside Phelan to where we are. Light parades ensue. He leaves the flood gates open for longer than most Solathairs, liking the spotlight a tad too much to cut it off right away. If he were an Earth Solathair, I’d have been all over that like a barrel of landing stone candy. Tempted to have a go anyway, if we’re throwing all our cards on the table. What exactly happens when you ingest the wrong element? How much is too much to survive?

“They sent you again?” His irritation is directed at Phelan, and Phelan is not amused. “Little Big Man looking to steal my spotlight. Figures. You gonna rip out my strings again?”

Phelan grunts. “Are you stopping this nonsense, or should we just bring you with us now?”

Brad seems shocked by the suggestion. “And disappoint my audience?”

Right, trying not to judge here, but his shock is misplaced, no? He has bigger things to worry about than his fans. His continued existence, for instance.

“What’ll it take, Brad?” Phelan barters.

“I use the money for good,” he counters. “I give it to a local charity for bullied kids.”

Connor intervenes, “It’s great you do that, and I know it helps the kids. Don’t you want to keep helping those kids?”

Brad eyes him warily. “You know I do.”

“If we take you back, you can’t help those kids anymore.”

Brad frowns. “No, I guess not.”

“But you can keep helping them, and you can keep busking. You just have to hold a guitar and stop with the musical mouth bit.”

“That’s not unreasonable,” he acknowledges.

“That’s also been suggested previously,” Phelan reminds him.

“You and those other jerks didn’t word it that way,” Brad claims.

“So, you’ll do it?” Connor asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” Brad caves.

Connor’s a naïve little boy. Fucking sunshine and roses. I don’t have the heart to tell him Brad will be on the Strike Three list soon. Possibly even before we arrive back in Sheelin.

“You know what’ll happen if you do it again?” Phelan wants to make sure the outcome is clear.

“I do,” Brad confirms.

We leave without so much as a single drop of blood being spilled.

“What’s wrong, Molly?” Connor prods, once we’ve returned to Sheelin.

“Disappointed,” I snipe.

“Why?” he wonders. “This is all going so well.”

“Thought this shit would be a fuckton bloodier.”

He grimaces. Whew, it’s just a level one. Nothing major. “You’re always so dark.”

“You’re always so light,” I volley.

“The force requires balance,” Phelan grumbles, pushing past us.

Connor lifts a curious brow. “What do you suppose he is? He’s not the grey to our black and white.”

I scoff. “Easy answer. That fucker’s Pamplona bull run red.”