When Wings Burn

8 | TATE

"She was waking up," Scout explains quietly as we enter base, sheltered by thick walls and dirt floors.

"Parent?" I question, picturing another human in the house.

Scout nods. "Mother I'd guess. No father, but it's hard to know. No photos around the house."

We enter the closest common room and six sets of eyes look up. It's not abnormal for sleep to take lower priority in our kind. We're strong creatures, and don't require it as humans do. Scout and I nod in acknowledgment.

Chase, who is my least-favorite comrade, gets up from leaning against the wall and crosses his arms.

"Where've you been?"

"Bit of scouting around," I say shortly. Chase is built strong and broad. He's fuelled by a defiant hate for humans. He lacks the compassion I so admire in Scout, but is one of our most valuable fighters. I've been training and competing with him since childhood, but never bonded. Arrogance has always underwhelmed me.

"Scouting with Scout," says Ryle, standing also, grinning at the similarity. Ryle's a transfer from another base, and has only been with us for a few months. She's willowy with dark hair and eyes, but she smiles a lot, so we've all warmed to her quickly.

"We're going to do the early watch," she explains, nodding at Chase, who's still looking us over skeptically.

"Come sit," one of the others says, motioning us over.

"Mm," I nod, looking at Scout. It's not often we turn down the prospect of good conversation, but there is a lot to think about before we meet with The Alpha in a few hours.

"Another time," Scout says cheerfully. I'm thankful for his easygoing nature. Anything he says sounds like a favor.

"Work to do," he adds, nodding at Chase and Ryle. "Places to be."

We leave before the others can follow and beeline for our private quarters.

"It's just the girl and her mother then," I say when we're in the seclusion of my room.

"Girl?" Scout asks, and I realize I haven't told him. "How old?"

I shrug. "Teenager."

"Oh. Well, I don't know about you," Scout stretches back lazily, "but in my opinion, the probability of them being human," he connects his finger and thumb in a circle, "is zero."

I laugh for a moment before I realize that his features are settled and convinced.

"You're serious," I contend, still calming myself. "They're the lease supernatural kind I've ever seen."

My voice grows aggravated at the end, as if I have a reason to be personally offended by Scout's assumption.

"I agree," Scout's eyeing me carefully, unsure about where my next move will come from. "But I've been around humans enough to know. And they weren't the same."

He catches me here. He's right. While the girl and her mother are certainly not our kind, humans carry a very distinct atmosphere. A tasteless aura that hangs over them poignantly. Now I realize why the girl made me so curious. She lacks that same impression.

"But not supernatural?" I question. I don't understand it. There are only two kinds. Natural and supernatural. No more.

"Well," Scout shakes his head in confusion, "it doesn't seem like it."

We're quiet for a moment. If we don't have an answer for The Alpha tomorrow morning, it reflects badly on us, despite the irregularity of the circumstance. There is no shame in any information, no matter how little, but we do our best to exceed and at this point, it feels we haven't. The situation itself is worrying enough. An isolated family. Thunderbirds. Atmospheric confusion. The recipe does not add up well. And for us, that could potentially mean danger. And though we are no strangers to battle, we do not indulge in the action.

"I say," Scout finally intrudes, "that there is something unusual happening. A glitch in the system. Someone's playing games."

I feel momentarily cold. Games are never a good indication in our world. Lives are always lost. We're an ordered race, and irregularity is never greeted with warmth.

"One thing's sure," Scout leans against his open palms as if his statement holds little weight, "the thunderbirds are moving and that means war."