"You guys are in so much trouble," Red says, for the fourth time, pacing so hard the grass is crying out for mercy. I watch it crumple beneath his shoe, springing up only to get the ruthless slam of his boot again (why so angry?), and he continues, "I can't believe you almost had a Veritas fight on the roof. In public. Out of all the stupid things you could possibly do, and mind you, there are plenty--"

Damien nods, attentively. Gillian has her head down so far she can't even see him or the grass. Mary spits, "We didn't. We almost got into our Veritas and then you found and stopped us." Mary's always weird about how she emphasizes words. Not only are her peaks and valleys so intense it feels like I'm being slammed against the floor and ceiling in alternating succession, but she's always possessive. It makes her a lot more interesting to listen to, but you do have to tune out everything she's saying.

Kali, who is leaning into a tree, says, "We all know you want to try something. Knowing you're too incompetent to do it does not immediately absolve you of sin."

"Sin," I say. Sin is one of those words we've had around for a while, but we can't trace it back to anything. I'm still not entirely sure what it means, but the darkness the word brings with

it fills the air like smoke.

"Shut up, Alex." Mary snipes. She's making the crazy eyes again.

Red tips his glasses at us, as if he has to remove them to process what we're saying. I mean, removing them would make his vision more blurry, but he still does it every time he's upset. I don't even think he realizes it. He pushes them back up into place with a long exhale. "Listen. If you're not going to pay attention to me, I'm not going to speak any more. Is that clear? Get to bed."

We're out in the woods, so 'bed' could be anywhere, as long as it isn't anywhere in the neighborhood of 'desirable'. My neck is already blistering with pain thinking about rocks and lumpy ground, but Mary, Gillian, and a trembling Damien are already situating themselves in a corner. Mary moves away from Gillian, grabbing Damien and dragging him like a limp piece of meat to another tree, where she thrusts him to the ground.

I sit next to Gillian, listening to her breath. Gillian snores, but she growl-snores. It makes me feel safer, because no one is dumb enough to fuck with her, except Mary. "You asleep?" I ask.

She grumbles. "I almost let her get the best of me there." Gillian's voice is devoid of inflections. She says things straight across, like an ash line drawn across concrete. There is no color or variation, but it's also dependable. Gillian's easy like that.

"But you didn't." I tell her.

"Course," she says, folding further over and away from me. "I don't have much of an option."

I frown, but there's nothing I can say to reassure her, so I just put my hand on her shoulder. Her body is cold as stone.

We fall asleep human.

I grab my phone next morning, because we're still close to people, and begin flicking around. This should be more fun than it is, but I always at least appreciate that this is mine. No one else has really figured out how screens work, and I'm the one who can stick my finger into the spikes on the charger and start a current. I have half my hand against the charger, a steady current flowing in between me and it, and it and the phone. The buzz fills my head like a conversation.

Hello, world.

Gillian and Mary are behind me, both of them over one of my shoulders. I turn around, grasping the log, and ask, "What's happening, ladies?" (I like drawing out the ha in happening. It makes it a lot more fun.)

"We're leaving." Mary says, then drops five bags on me. "Thanks for doing our chores, Alex."

Yes, Mary, they are your chores. "I'd say you're welcome, but you're not, so I won't." I fasten the bags to my sides and hold them up rigidly. "Who am I?"

"Dylan!" laughs Mary.

"Dylan," Gillian says, a second slower.

"Problem?" asks Dylan, leaning over.

"Mary's standing right here." Gillian says, the oppressive calm which follows one of Gillian's jokes hanging in the air for too long, like thunder on a rainless night.

"No." I clarify, clicking my phone off. "Just carrying these bags. I love bags and making myself useful, you know..."

"Whatever you say." Dylan grins, revealing several sharpened canines that are less friendly than the statement. He's like a wolf inviting rabbits in for dinner. He whistles as he joins the older kids (the leaders, the herders, the professional funkillers). I purse my own lips, but I'm not any good at whistling. I can't come up with a melody to stick to. I need it down somewhere if I'm going to mess with it...

"Alex? Can you come here?" I turn around, all my bags clashing against my side. Angel is waving to me from the back of the group. She has the 'I'm being nice so you'll be less upset when I ask you for something unreasonable' smile on right now. "It's urgent."

I slip my phone into my pocket, then move my other hand in, and walk over with a shrug. "What's the problem, now?"

"Age... and hair." She steeples her hands. "I need you to goggle it."

Internally, I crescendo into a swell of loud, static-filled noise, unlike anything found in nature. My body is an ocean of whyyy in all the means humans ever created to say it. Outwardly, I say, "Hair turns white when you get older."

"No, not both of those things in conjunction! I apologize, that was an unclear query. I need to know how age works, and then, if you can manage it, I would also perhaps like to research the function of hair on human identity."

I can manage it.

"Angel, if hair turns white when you get old, does that make you super old?" asks Trace.

"I have pale hair. Mimsy has pale hair." adds Adaline.

Angel closes her eyes, running a hand through her hair. "Clea-a-arly that isn't right." (She smiles, laughs a little, nervous.) "Now, can you two leave us alone? I just need you two to entertain yourself while the big kids are talking."

"Big kids," Trace whispers. Both words shiver on the air.

"(Sorry.)" Adaline isn't whispering, but she just can't project. I think her voice is trapped in her throat somewhere. (I think about this when she coughs... what are you trying to get out of yourself, little girl?) "(Come on, Trace, we should go.)"

Angel is watching me with eyes widened and that white-tooth smile like the one my Veritas has. We don't share the same mania, but she's definitely a little too excited about this.

I pull out my phone with a long, reluctant wave of my hand, entering letters while I watch Trace and Adaline leave out of the corner of my eye. Quietly, I remain disappointed in their inevitable betrayal-- there is no greater torture than being left alone with momma bear.

"So?"

I look back up to her. "Everyone's hair is different. It goes white with age, but white and blonde aren't the same thing. Your hair is blonde." I enter 'white hair, young', scroll down, get something about smoking and more big words. "Mimsy doesn't smoke."

"Yes?" Angel asks. "Does that... have to do with anything?"

I want to click my phone shut. "It's nothing, 'pologies. Anyways, uh, anything about age?"

"Height?"

"People shrink, but everyone grows to different sizes to begin with." This is kind of a 'duh' thing. Sometimes Angel gets 'duh' things really fast, but sometimes she never gets them. Sometimes she does the Mary thing where she'll start reeling out complicated explanations for things that aren't based on anything, and Damien and the girls just kind of nod (okay, so maybe I nod too, but just so they'll stop). "Anything else?"

Angel's mouth opens, closes, she moves her fingers between each other.

Elle's fingernails tap her shoulder and Angel flinches, looking at the taller girl's curled lip and eye knives. (They're not real knives, but I'd rather be stabbed than deal with Elle.)

"Were you done?" Elle asks.

Angel smiles and tilts her head a little. "Oh, just about! Alex has been very informative. Thanks, dear!"

'Dear'. Only Angel uses 'dear', which should be enough to tell you what dear means... the silent, oppressive degradation of your dignity.

"I need him." Elle says.

The screaming begins again, going from whyyy to a solid ahhhh. "What?"

"You're not doing anything." Elle says, eyes cold. I can feel my heart descending all the way to my stomach.

"Guess not!" I say.

She points to a few bags in the corner, the last on the ground. We're leaving early today for sure. "This is your food." she says.

"Actually, it's for the whole group."

Elle glares. "Those chips are disgusting and covered in grease."

I place my hand against my heart. "Elle. You hurt me."

"I have not touched you, nor do I intend to." she says, looking at the chips again. Her face twists slightly, eyes narrowed to slits of condensed fury. "Do not force my hand."

She folds her arms against each other and walks off, leaving Angel and I facing each other. Angel has the kinda-scared smile going on, like well, okay.

"Bye," I say, bolting for it.

"Aleeeeex!"

Electricity prickles up my arms. "Oh my--" (Okay, full disclosure, don't know what goes after this, but I've heard people say it when they're angry.)

Mary, who is gripping Damien in a loving, tender chokehold, waves me over. She's at the edge of the group, far away from Red, Kali, and Dylan, who are doing Red, Kali, and Dylan things (and Mimsy is there). She smirks when she sees me. "So I need your screenbox?"

"Where's Gillian?" I ask.

"In the woods, killing something." Mary says. "I killed something earlier, so I don't have to do anything else. Screenbox. Now."

I get my phone. "What do you want?"

"Where's the closest place with people?" she asks, leaning over at my screen.

I pull up the map. "There's another city a mile from here."

"And we're approaching it?" she asks.

"Not quickly."

"W-ell, that might be because someone can only travel in human form!" Mary says, casting an indignant glare towards Red's group.

"They can hear you," says Damien, insistently.

"Is that all?" I ask, burning up.

Mary's eyes flick towards Damien, a thin slit of white showing as her smile widens. "We need you to cover for us." She holds a distressed Damien a little closer.

"Cover?" I ask.

"We're leaving."

"You were serious last night." I state.

"It's just a quick little trip," says Damien.

"It's for our own good, y'know. Get air, do something, I don't know, I don't have a plan, but I feel like leaving. So. Where's that city?"

"There's no we. There's never been a we." I say, then, against my will. "North. Forwards, to the left. Follow the roads."

"Thanks," Mary says, and she turns into a falcon. Damien becomes a swift and follows her, already lagging behind.

She's done this before. I tell myself this behind a grimace, try to flick through things, but my finger is shaking. Gillian should be here to handle them. The older kids should be more vigilant.

The world turns behind me, and I keep up the buzz, but electricity is rising on my sides.

I receive a swift punch to the back exactly when I expect it, and the tree hits me in the face (you idiot!) before I hit the ground, crackling with startled lightning.

"You didn't stop them." Gillian grumbles.

I turn around. "What was I supposed to do?"

Gillian's eyes narrow.

"I just gave them directions."

"That's as bad as being complicit."

"You never stop her either."

"I keep a handle on her." Gillian snarls, her dragon showing through the skin.

"No, you go along with her, watch her, goad her on... you make her worse. She does bad things because she knows it'll make you angry! She wants you to be upset. She thrives on it. I just don't care. Why and how am I supposed to when I'm just--"

Gillian is still staring down at me.

"Red can fix things," I say. "It's fine... it's... it's fine."

She exhales. "Can't be angry at the weapon."

Yeah, that's why we're still friends. It's the one thing we have in common.

(So dead.)