TFS: Burnt Earth

Molly – 10 years ago

Right, so it’s been five years. I’ll do a quick recap for the back row nappers. Phelan’s still a Cuntface. Fun fact, he’s toeing a line of his own lately. The berserk bus line. Only a matter of time before he gets picked up. I can’t wait. Connor’s still a rainbows and roses twat. He took an aging hiatus for a few years. Apparently, he made some agreement with Sheelin to teach me a hard lesson. You know what? Fuck them both. The hardness of my head meets and exceeds all hard lesson prospects. Assholes. I beat the ever living fuck out of Connor as compensation. Felt some minor guilt for shoving his extracted ulna through his kidney. Hey, he earned it. Plus, he healed, so calm down. Reckon I’m not incapable of learning some lessons in the right circumstances. Not making my brother bleed is good as any for personal improvement. I didn’t stay mad at Sheelin for long. No point. She’s a bigger bitch than me times a million.

My Sentry life started with Butterfly Brunch, who had no chance against me. She was my first unsanctioned kill. There were others, but she was the beginning of it all for me. I think of Blink Boy fondly, who teleported every time he blinked. He eventually learned he could teleport more than himself, which earned him a Strike Two and subsequent Strike Three. Fucking delicious is what he was. Phelan stopped letting me hold the extractor after that.

Oh, fuck. That reminds me of something. Time out on the relays for a hot minute. You know how I was threatening to guzzle down Oliver? Yeah, I did try that shit once, with Fire Solathair juice. Worst month of my life, and I only had a thimble full. Not even shot glass size! Nothing would stay in my body. Nothing. My throat was a flamethrower. So was my asshole. Like, it was probably the worst sickness I’ve ever experienced. Another hard lesson. One I did learn from. Good job, me.

Anyway, back to it. Who could forget Bradley Thomas, aka Busker Brad? Weirdly, he kept to his word about staying low profile, saving himself from Strike Three. Thank fuck. Connor really needed a win. Oblivious Oliver got exterminated, but we let his daughter survive. She’s growing up fine, as resilient children do. Some day she’ll get married and have a bunch of idiot kids. She’ll live out the life Oliver always wanted for himself. Fuck, that’s what kids do. Bleed you fucking dry to live the life you always wanted. So glad I dodged that bullet. Connor especially likes keeping tabs on her situation. His persistent naivety is exhausting. Yeah, those were the originals. The beginning.

We’ve gone on countless missions since then, some for scouting, some for exterminating (those are my favourite), and some for general rule reminders. Those rules might as well be tattooed in my brain. I know them all by heart. I also know people will break them anyway. That’s the way of things. It’s why the Tribunal is necessary in the first place. People can’t be trusted to make their own decisions. They always botch it when they do. Myself included.

Okay, so we’re all caught up with the exception of why we’re here now. Team member number four. He’s supposedly going to even our odd asses out. It’s time to turn our fucked up triangle into a square.

When we first learned about Brody, we learned patience would be required. Kid was only fifteen. Connor wanted to convert him right away. I understood. It’s like part of him wanted someone else to be the same age as him so he could stop fighting the addiction. He wouldn’t be the youngest any more. That wasn’t what the Tribunal wanted, so it couldn’t happen. Ever the assholes.

You’ll never believe where we’re Scouting our recruit! KrazyPants Kristoph’s island. He’s a serious nut bar. If my lady bits weren’t twisted around Tyler’s tether, I might even be crushing on this crazy cunt. Every year, for five years, we get to come and enjoy his hospitality.

Hotel Happy has been converted into Crack Cat Clinic. He’s taken to cat therapy as a social outlet. He fancies himself a cat whisperer, and he’s turned his ramshackle building into an office, where invisible people pay him money to speak sense to their cats. Yes, you read that right. Cats. As if those unruly assholes will listen to anyone.

He wears the same plaid polyester suit every day, and since wearing glasses gives a faux sense of intelligence, he makes sure to comply, except his glasses are recycled 3D movie plastic with the screens popped out. No one tells him any different. They also don’t explain to him the open door policy applies only to the local strays. No one’s technically paying him for anything. He isn’t hurting anyone, and no one’s getting guided into the volcano. Concessions are required to maintain this armistice.

KrazyPants is the only Solathair the constant mobility requirement doesn’t apply to. He owns the island, so he controls the traffic. Instead of him being the fresh face, he brings the fresh faces to him. Fucking genius, for a total basket case. Always new tourists. Every season. All new but one. Our fourth. Little Surfer Shanley.

The archives are adamant. Brody Shanley is meant to become an Earth Sumair. He won’t be just any Sentry Scout either. He’s destined to be the first water-glider in a millennium. Big britches to fill.

“This year’s the year,” I inform Kristoph.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll be sorry to see him go.”

“I figured as much,” I offer. “That’s why I’m telling you in person.”

“Can I submit a formal request for a replacement?”

“You gonna miss me, Buddy?”

“The kid,” he clarifies. “I’ve always felt a tad responsible for him. I might or might not have killed his parents.”

“What the hell, Kris! You killed his parents?” I snipe. “That’s a little cold for a fire elemental, don’t you think?”

“I said I might or might not have. I was being literal.”

This mission to scout our scout has been a smidge different than the rest. We’ve connected with the recruit, got to know him, and given him a chance to get to know us. We’ve planted the conversion seed early on. It’s something he’s looking forward to. All lies. We’ve lied right out our asses to him. It’s what the Archives ordered.

“Are you ready for the real thing?” I prod Brody, who’s looking out at the water when we approach him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he confirms.

“Come on then,” I encourage him. “Stagnation doesn’t suit you.”

He follows us willingly, weirdly excited about trotting off to his doom. Unfortunately, the Archives are wrong. Brody isn’t the prodigal water-glider. Instead, he becomes a land-walker like the rest of us. Tyler’s reaction is to have all the Scholars killed. Asteria sets quickly to the task of replacing them, but the strain on our leaders is palpable. Things have changed in Sheelin. Those changes aren’t for the greater good. Paranoia runs rampant, and there’s obvious dissension in the troops. Ironically, that dissension works wonders for our team, which rises above all the others in hierarchy, despite our lunatic leader who’s right on his way to the berserk bus. Maybe even because of him. He takes risks regularly that aren’t well planned or coordinated. The next ten years will be my happiest Sentry times, rife with chaos and anarchy.