I wake up hungering for books.

My mind spins dizzily in tightening circles, like a bee zipping about a meadow, but there is nothing to draw my mind into ordered thought. Eventually I grip the paper and read through an article on the side, featuring a certain Damien... I've analyzed the nature of our current quest several times but there's nothing I can draw from the syntax of the article, besides the obvious--whoever wrote it is not in the slightest condemning of all the people who want this child dead. In fact, the more critical sections of the article focus heavily on the potential harm of the "eugenics", which I've discerned from context clues are the ability to somehow make perfect people. I suppose normally you get average people, which would explain erratic and negative behavior we've experienced thus far, but it also casts doubt on the entire article, because our group is far from "eugenic". I would go as far to call us "fairly below average", perhaps even "a dangerous band of hooligans". I can not imagine anyone deliberately seeking such as a result.

They also never mentioned shapeshifting ability in the article.

Amidst the red flags waving at the edge of my vision, it dawns on me that the rest of the paper is irrelevant to our situation, but more importantly, I can hardly make heads or tails of it. I make comprehending it a goal and slip it back into one of the bags, softly taking in the aroma of paper. It sets my heart aflutter, as it so often does, but it is marred by dirt and even the slightest hint of human odor. For being decidedly not human (some of us more decidedly than others), we sure smell like your average putrid teenagers on the run.

Not that I have much for comparison.

I place the paper down, embarrassed by my own errant sentimentality, and stop by my girls. Adaline and Trace lie side by side, whispering under their breath, as they so often do. It's peculiar how much time they spend together, though I've attributed it to how diminutive they are in comparison to the rest of the group. With a few exceptions, this is how it goes in the rest of the group--like attracts like. The same is true of humans, but their exceptions are families.

(It would be hard for me to impart how unbelievably fascinating this is.)

Red taps my shoulder, slightly, and I swing around. "Is there--may I help--apologies, let me compose myself. What may I assist you with, Red?"

He merely smiles and sits down next to me. "Actually, I was wondering if you could read to me." He gestures to the newspaper. "I have some difficulties with literary endeavors."

I blink, drawing the paper closer to my chest. "You want me to read to you?"

Red dips his head. "...Yes." Raising an eyebrow, he asks, "I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

I try to suppress the shrill cry of joy rising in my throat. "You're not interrupting anything at all! Here, sit down..." I situate him against the tree, and he falls right against the bark, perplexed, and I spread the newspaper wide as it can go. Clearing my throat, I begin, "Damien Andrews, age 8, recently became the youngest person to hit a C7."

"What?" Red asks.

"It's a note." I explain. "Alex said so."

"A what?" Red asks.

I look to Red. "It's a pitch. For example, if you hum--" I demonstrate. "That's one. I believe. I don't think it's entirely relevant for our purposes."
"Alright," Red says. "Can you continue, then?"

"While his abilities as a child prodigy are impressive, many are more interested to the child's supposed origins. Already, the Andrews are contending with several accusations of being involved with Chordate Industries. The company, which filed for bankruptcy eight years ago before quietly closing down, was the target of dozens of lawsuits for nearly a decade. Many of these involved violation of human rights and..."

Red stops me. "Angel, I don't understand help of this. What's a 'lawsuit'?"

I shrug. "Haven't the slightest. I know bankruptcy is bad, though. It means you don't have the green paper. Money."

Red's eyebrows furrow. "Are we bankrupt?"
I haven't the slightest, as the colloquial term 'broke' comes to mind, but I have no idea if 'broke' is a regional dialect used amongst the youth or a serious term and I don't have Alex's phone on hand to check. Furthermore, I'm unclear on the specifics of an 'industry', let alone what a 'lawsuit' is. However, 'violation' is definitely negative, so they were up to something bad, but if it's only human rights they're concerned with, perhaps we're not involved at all. I've been pondering how much of this could be coincidence, but it is not words but Damien Andrews's smiling face that I return to. The mop of brown hair is drawn back and his chin is slightly stronger, but even in the grainy, colorless newspaper depiction, my heart burns with conviction.

I know too much to be making petty assumptions without evidence.

"Angel." Red gently taps my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm working something out," I say. "But I don't have everything in a row."

"Like dozens of rocks in a river, too far apart to jump between." Red says.

My eyes widen and my heart quickens. What an absolutely perfect combination of words. "Yes." The newspaper is still in my hands. "D-do you want me to continue?"

"Of course, Angel. Thank you for being patient with me." Red says, folding his hands.

I pick up, "... issues regarding privacy of the employees, many of whom were accused of criminal activity despite otherwise clean records."

"Criminals."

"Bad people." I explain.

"How do they tell?"
"I haven't the slightest."
"I hope we're not criminals." Red says, lifting a hand to his face. "See, this is why human society gives me a headache. Who's supposed to keep track of all this?"

I shrug, holding back torrents of information about the density of human culture, how it all ties together into this perfect culmination of rules and regulations. I could list as many things that I do know as things I don't, but to be honest, even housing is a new, joyful experience for me. Everything has so many tiny things to figure out... I flare the newspaper again. "So, essentially, it's a bad place full of bad people, and they deal with geno-gen-- Alex says they deal with these threads that you can make people out of."

"You make people out of thread?" Red asks, surveying his coat. "Like clothing?"

"It's a special material." I say.

"What are we made out of?" Red stands, holding the tree. "I can feel the Earth tilting right now. This is--"

"Incredible." I breathe.

"I was going to say awful." he tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze. "I need to lie down. We can finish this some other time... was there anything else of interest on there?"

"Nothing you'd find interesting." I say, folding the newspaper back up. "But we could... continue this some other time, if you'd like?"

Red and I hold each other's gaze.

"If you'd like, Angel. Admittedly I'm curious, but I also think I could go to Alex with the rest of this. I know you're very busy with Addie and Trace." Red says.

I look around. Adaline and Trace are nowhere to be found, and I can't detect the faint giggling in the woods that usually accompanies their endeavors to escape my presence (really, girls, why must you be so obstinate). "Oh! They would appear to be missing." I give a slight laugh. "I really should get on that."

"Alright. We're having a meeting today," Red adds. "Just to cue you in."

"By we, do you mean you, or you and Dylan, or all of us?" I ask, already scanning the clearing while attempting friendly eye contact and a smile.

"Somewhere between those last two. I want you and Elle involved, but I'd prefer not to have the middle kids involved. Ack, that sounds awful when I say it out loud... you don't think they'll take it personally, do you?"

"No, no, I'm sure it's no problem." I mutter. "I really should go get my girls now. Have a good day!" I bolt out of the clearing and shift into something faster, taking the form of a bear before ditching it and going straight into the form of a smaller bird. My eyes dart through the trees, but as I break through the canopy they're nowhere to be found and the trees below offer an unyielding greenness. My mind races fast as my wings as I plummet back down and shift a shrew just at the last moment. My limbs are numb and taxed, but my nose detects the slightest presence, foreign to a shrew but more familiar to me than anything. It is flowers combined with a chill absence, summer and winter walking alongside each other.

I follow this a short ways, shrew heart pounding violently against my chest and shrew nose distracted by the thousands of other smells littering the clearing. The forest has hundreds of trails to follow, likely thousands of life forms in variations of size, and the shrew knows more than any human could catalog. There's a plant a few steps that way that's ripe for eating, dead matter under the curved leaf but not the one that is decaying itself, and the warning scents of predators from a few days back--those are everywhere.The sheer sensory input of most animals enough to overwhelm anyone, though most of us have yet to suffer ill effects. Even the pain from earlier diminishes rapidly, until the weight of four successive shifts is little more than a dull ache on the way out. All of this, of course, is trivial, since I am trying to utilize it as a weapon for one specific purpose, and said purpose is close at hand.

A road stands between me and the other half of the forest, a dirt river marked less by the recess in the dirt (not that it isn't visible, it is tremendously apparent someone has stirred the natural order) but instead a group of people wandering past. Two older humans, one male and one female, walk with two smaller humans, who are smiling and talking. It is so much noise that the shrew can barely process it, and my heart continues to accelerate.

My own body is disquieting here. I'm less of a presence than any of the real fauna here, practically a ghost.

The shrew's body is tight around me. With a gasp, I change back, clutching my stomach as I return to the comforts of my sweater and my hair returns to its normal, blonde coloration. I am just out of side, crouching in the brush, and this reminds me of Mimsy, which is... disgusting. I step into a standing position, brush myself off, and meander onto the road, straightening myself up as I approach the family.

With the kindest tone I can coax out of my tightening vocal chords, I ask, "Ma'am, have you seen two children pass this way recently? One of them is taller and lighter, and the other is shorter, has dark hair, and looks somewhat as if she's about to burn something down? I would really appreciate if you could help me locate them, I'm in a bit of a predicament right now." There is no response, which I attribute in part to how long I've rambled, and I play it off with a hollow laugh.

They stand in silence, their smiles little more than bared teeth. Discomfort is rife on the air, more prevalent than even the scent of the trees. "No, we haven't." says the woman, holding the child closer to herself. A mother, I realize. This is strikingly different than how maternal animals work. I'd read much on mothers, and even seen a few myself, but it is always the rarest of treats to catch one. Her clothing is tight, her gaze stern, and she has the slightest bit of red across her lips. This is one of the many things, along with especially long hair, that discerns human mothers. "Excuse me, where are your parents?"

"I am of sufficient age to hike on my own, but assuredly they're close enough at hand that there's no need for it to elicit concern." I say.

The woman's eyes narrow. "Are you lost?"

"I'm... not." I state. "I already said--" The air tightens. My face burns red. I haven't the slightest protocol for this scenario, and given the dubious nature of this encounter, it is unclear if what happens next will have consequence on future endeavors. I find myself up against the tree, the bark's intricate patterns against one hand, and then I run for it into the wood. I need no animal senses to hear the noise I'm making, the constant slam of my feet against the leaf clutter, which fades out as I slow myself down to a crawl. I scan the area for other noises, clutching my midsection to try to coax my breath out of my body, but my legs seethe with pain from sudden exertion. "Angel," I say to myself, between breaths, "Is that any way to act around people?"
What an awful mess.

I take in a deep breath, and shift again. It takes an enormous amount of strength to stretch my body out, as I'm not adapted to it as Elle is. My hair lengthens and I pull out the circle of plastic I'd been keeping inside it, which I'd seen humans do on occasion to keep it out of their face... people, Angel, don't be so cold... and I mess up my features slightly, for good measure, trying to slim myself down without wearing out the hips.

I take the path as soon as I see it and saunter down with renewed confidence. Inwardly I'm kicking myself in the leg. The family is still there, further down the path, but one of them has a phone like Alex's out and they're all looking to the woods with abject concern.

"Yes, we saw a girl... run into the woods." The woman says to her phone, which strikes me as a silly thing to do.

I step out, chest heaving beneath this glamoured second skin, and stop in what I hope is a non-threatening posture a body's length away from them. The woman, who is clutching her phone, does not lower it but instead her mouth drops into an expression akin to a fish's. I begin, "You saw my daughter? She's fine, she only... she has some problems socializing."

"What the hell is going on here?" asks the father.

I move a hand to my face. Did I somehow mess up my features when I shifted? Do I too much resemble my normal form to be taken seriously as a second person? There's something here I'm not getting.

The woman sputters into her phone, "Excuse me, police, there's this... I think we're being aggressed--I don't know-- its nose is slanted to the side, I don't know what's going on, I think it's some kind of cryptid, please don't hang up."

I silently curse myself. This already fell well outside my repertoire of powers and yet I ran into it without question, which has most assuredly lead the group into a situation with high risk. This is exactly the kind of scenario that I, being one of the older kids, am especially meant not only to avoid but prevent, and my heart stings. The trees close in and the woman's voice picks up, panicked, but not because I've moved forwards. Instead, a slack figure comes from the bushes, almost human but with plush skin and a curtain of hair, along with crystalline deposits up and down its body. The figure raises its hand, which has only stumps for fingers, and the phone clips out of her hand and out of existence.

The woman screeches and the family bolts for it, the children crying. I yell something near incoherent after them, struggling for words, but they are past fear and we are past the point at which the situation could be salvaged. The figure turns back to me, its mouthless, eyeless face still expressing, through its unorthodox expression, some kind of great mirth, and I hear the wind whistling through its hair like dozens of voices. Reflected back in the crystal is me, over and over again, but its not this altered version but myself. I find my eyes are wet as I change back to meet its expectations, and the fear rising in my body like floodwater spills over.

"Change back." I demand. "Now."

Adaline springs out of the woods, turning from a rabbit to a small girl defensively in front of Trace, who shifts off her Veritas with a cold glance. "She was trying to help! It was m-m-my... it was m-m-my-y-y... I didn't want you to get hurt." Her big pale eyes team up with water, and I brush the tears out of my own. This is where the mother holds the children and informs them they'll be fine, but my arms are locked back, tight with fear and rage.

"Dears, you two are in so much trouble."
"You were in trouble. I wanted to help." Trace says, helping Adaline up. Her eyes glimmering with cold, refractive light, she adds, "I didn't have to."

I open my mouth. "Well, see here--" I begin, the honey in my voice souring into something crueller. "We have to tell Red."

Red is out of the woods just as fast, Mimsy springing by his side, her white fur bouncing in the wind. She looks up to him, then to me, her cat eyes rife with human malice beneath their sheen of indifference. Another wave of hatred fills me, but Red lets her up onto his arm. "Mimsy heard a commotion out here." He strokes her. "Thanks for filling me in, Mimsy. I'm glad we're on speaking terms again."

I quiver. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Red says. "It's a little mistake."

"The humans. We tipped someone off about us." I insist.

"No, you didn't." Red says, and I hear his voice rise, the slightest shard of something much more sinister beneath his own honeyed facade. Slowly, he brings his hand up, and for a second I see the brightest of lights, my respect for him blazing out into a fear deeper than any body and any mind.