After a late night in medbay, morning patrol came too early. Still sipping a mug of caf-blend, I staggered into the pre-lift room and fumbled for a canteen and other supplies that clipped to my belt without slowing me down. We didn’t have our own — no sense in wasting them when someone died on or off base — but everything was sterilized before cycling out to the next mage or shifter.

“You can’t take that,” an officer said. 

He stood at the door to the lift deck, clipboard in hand even though everything he could possibly need was on his comp. Yeah, humans were asswipes, but they were the ones with power, so… I drained my caf and set the mug on a cart with several others. And I kept my eyes down while I did it.

See — I can be taught.

Once past the gatekeeper, Avon and I jogged toward our assigned lift. It was smaller than the one we’d ridden yesterday, with a single row of seats and five-point harnesses to keep us in place. We’d need them; this size lift rode like a bucking devil. Tracer and his shifters were already inside, but 21 — or whoever Tracer’d picked — was missing. With a grunt and a jerk of his chin, Tracer welcomed us, and we strapped in, leaving the only open seat between Tracer and me.

Then A’s stupid head peeked in the lift hatch, and green eyes darted around like a mouse on steroids. 

I bared my teeth, tense and ready for a fight, and Avon rested a hand on my knee in a wordless command to calm down.

A half-turned and 21 popped into the lift, propelled by the hand that yanked him to a halt. He spun to face A, who gestured like a maniac.

“It’s fine.” Grinning, 21 waved at the squad. “I’m sure they’ll take good care of me.” He shooed A away. “Get going.”

Clearly, he had no issues interpreting the asshole.

21 flopped into the last seat and, after Tracer prompted him, fumbled with his safety harness, dropping a wrist comp in the process. It clattered on the metal floor, and I unstrapped to snatch it. The lift lurched, taking off before I was back in my seat, and Avon grabbed my arm as I scrambled to re-secure myself. Tracer slammed an arm across 21, locking him in place, and the puppy gasped and clutched at the seat when the lift rattled and its motor howled.

By the time my harness was in place, the ride had steadied enough for Tracer to relax a bit; I weaseled 21’s straps around the leader’s arm and tugged them tight. Then, finally, I grabbed the headset mounted to the wall above me and slipped it on, drowning out the noisy lift. Tracer got his in place, then sorted 21 out.

“You’re late,” Tracer said once everyone was on-mic.

“Sorry! I couldn’t figure out how — ah!” 21 fumbled in his lab, then scanned the lift floor. “I lost it!”

“This?” Avon handed over the wrist comp. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“It’s got pokey bits.” 21 turned the comp over, revealing the charge prongs.

“Yeah.” I rolled his wrist over. “They go in your — Oh.” Smooth, unblemished skin confounded my expectations. I prodded, feeling for a synthskin cover over the port. The rough ride could have hidden something, but it wasn’t likely. “Maybe it’s on your other arm.” I reached for his right wrist, knowing that I wouldn’t find anything; the humans always put our ports on the left wrist.

Tracer and Avon watched unhappily. 

“Where did you say you’re from?” Tracer sounded calm, but the way his team stiffened put him to the lie.

“Not around here. That’s what A says. And—”

“We need something more specific.” Tracer leaned against his harness to give 21 a hard look that was, with the seating, more of a side-eye.

I couldn’t blame him for his question, even as I wanted to tell him to back off. All shifters and mages had power ports fused on their fourth hatching anniversary — though we weren’t encouraged to keep track of such things. Humans didn’t get ports, of course; their wrist comps ran on batteries. Rumor — a bare whisper on the breeze, that no one started and now one repeated — held that Rican mages didn’t have ports, or wrist comps. But no one got past the firewalls, so…

“I-I don’t know.” 21 couldn’t meet his eyes, shrinking like a puppy that expected a blow. “We were somewhere else. Then we were here.”

A long, drawn-out not-silence filled the lift, and my teeth rattled as the ride grew choppier.

“Nevermind,” I said, unwilling to leave him hanging. “Put it in your pouch for now. We’ll figure something out later.” Something that didn’t involve getting a port installed. I’d screamed myself hoarse for three days when mine was installed. Or at least anytime I’d been conscious.

A chime through the headsets presaged a shift in the lift’s motion that rattled us like beans in a can. Then we thumped to the ground and the doors popped.

Sim was clear of his harness first, shoving the doors open further and checking the area before jumping out. The squad followed and we ran to the edges of the 50-foot burnt clearing. Just in time, too — the lift’s doors slammed shut, because those hydraulics were always in good repair, and took off with a backwash that tumbled 21 into the greenery.

Welcome back to the green hell.

With our link back online, I could feel Avon helping 21 to his feet and I assessed the clearing while I waited for the feedback to settle. The plants had begun encroaching over the old burn, but hadn’t yet gotten so far that I needed to fix it. 

Which was a shame, because that would have been the most interesting part of the day.

Instead, we trudged off and swept to the west and north before circling back to the patrol point. Then we waited on our asses until the lift deigned to show up. 

Through it all, 21. Never. Shut. Up. Questions, comments, and stories — A this and 20 that — it seemed like if he could breathe, he had something to say about it. 

It was nearly dark when we got back to base, and A waited in the post-lift area, buzzing like he’d mainlined triple-strength caf-blend.

Because a hyperactive asshole was better than just an asshole, right? I sneered as I dumped my gear for cleaning and stepped into the showers. They weren’t as fancy as the ones in the dorm area, which had shampoo and soap dispensers. These squirted a mist of harsh lye-based soap — you’ll only forget to close your eyes once — then hosed it off with skin-smarting water pressure. It didn’t encourage lingering. I hurried out, grabbing a towel and a fresh set of grey fatigues in basically my size.

A tried to pull 21 away before he stripped, and Tracer stopped him.

“Showers aren’t optional unless you’re bleeding.”

A’s green eyes darted around the room, not resting anywhere, and his mouth opened and closed like he was trying to catch bugs.

“Hey. What’s so important it can’t wait until 21’s clean?” Avon, still damp from the showers, stepped in to help.

“The medico, sir.” A jittered in place, then pulled in air until I was ready to take bets on when his lungs would explode. It burst out in a word vomit that put 21’s chatter to shame. “Themedicowantedhimanhouragoandsaidhewastocomestraightawayandnottakeanydetoursbecauseshedidn’tcareifhestarvedhewasgoingtogethisdosebeforesheclockedoutandifwekeptherlate—” 

“Woah woah woah.” Tracer held up his hands, still stained from the plants we’d fought. “Stop.” He began to scrub his face but stopped with a grimace. “Look, less than a minute and he’s through the shower.” He shoved 21 in that direction. “Grab him some fatigues. Then run if it’s so important.”

The wrist comp clattered across the floor when 21 shoved his pants down, and Avon scooped it up.

“Meet us in the mess hall once you’re done.” He waved the comp over his shoulder as he walked back to get dressed. “We need to figure this thing out.”

21 was out of the shower, hopping into the pants A handed him while the cloth stuck to his damp skin. He was still tugging on the shirt when A, carrying his boots, dragged him out the door.

“Did you have to invite him?” I slumped against the wall, waiting for Avon to sort himself out, and kept my voice low enough the shifters could pretend they didn’t hear.

“Who?” Avon laced his boots.

“A is for asshole. Duh.” I thumped my head backward. “Can’t we skip?” My stomach snarled its opinion.

“Ah, no.” Avon stood and stretched. “Hunger strikes aren’t tolerated.”

“What is?” I grumbled. “Fine. Hurry up so we can eat before they skate out of medbay.”

Dinner was a mixed bag. When 21 showed up, A was nowhere to be seen. But two squads had fallen that day, and the humans were pulling the next class of scouts out of training three months early. And we didn’t get the comp to work.

***

The second day of patrols was as tedious as the first, though 21 questions branched out a bit. He hung off Vista’s attempts to explain how she could be bigger as a bear than she was normally. He dogged the twin wolves’ steps, prying for answers about where their tails came from, and did it feel weird? Sim was next, but he wouldn’t give 21 any satisfaction, keeping silent no matter how many questions 21 came up with.

Tracer was an easier target.

“What did you shift into?” 21 waved his hands. “It was kinda like Eve and Nye, but not really.”

“A Saluki.” Tracer’s lips curled up, but his eyes stayed focused on the green hell. “It’s like a wolf but not really, pup.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Wolves are the ancestors of my form, if you go far enough back. Humans domesticated them and created breeds for specific tasks. Salukis were a breed before the Cataclysm.” Tracer shrugged. “Hell, humans might still breed them somewhere. They wouldn’t tell us.”

“Why not?”

“Need to know, pup. If we don’t need to know — or they don’t think we need to know — we don’t hear it.” His face darkened at the reminder, and Vista bumped his shoulder.

“Ah.” 21 nodded sagely. “There are fleas on the dog.” He frowned. “What’s a dog?”

The affronted look on Tracer’s face was priceless, and I wished I could have immortalized it. Instead, I did what I do best — I threw flames on the pyre.

“A Saluki.” I grinned and ignored Avon’s urge toward caution. “A Saluki's a dog.” I rushed on, knowing what 21’s next question would be. “And fleas are nasty little blood-sucking bugs.”

“Blood-sucking?” 21’s eyes went wide. “How do they do that?”

“By bi—”

“What do you mean, there’re fleas on the dog?” Tracer demanded. “How the hell do you jump from ‘need to know’ to fleas?”

“It’s about importance, right?” 21 glanced from me to Tracer. “If you’re important, they tell you things. Whenever they won’t tell me something, A says ‘there are fleas on the dog.’ But,” he continued as his face fell, “I don’t really know what that means. Does that mean I’m not important?”

Flames wreathed around my right hand and I considered the damage I could do with my collar locked. Not enough, really, but if there was a big incursion, A’s new squad might get assigned. Then I could— 

Avon ended that line of thought, drowning it in a wash of stillness, and the fire flickered, dying. 21’s next question startled me enough that I dropped the magic.

“How do you do that? Do you think I could learn?”

The puppy wanted to learn about mages? I smirked. He’d come to the right mage.

***

In the darkness, Avon moved against me. I groaned, flesh plumping, and rubbed back. Warm fingers tugged at the waistband of my fatigues, and I tried not to whimper in anticipation. We didn’t usually… but I’d been so stressed lately, and sometimes you just needed someone else’s hand. Even if you were bonded so close it was as good as yours.

The door whooshed open and the automatic lights came up. We sprang apart; Avon toward the door while I rolled away, frantically tucking myself behind my zipper.

“Hey, guys!” 21’s smile faded as the door hissed shut. “Were you, uh, doing something together?”

“Yes!” My cheeks burned.

“Oh.” He blinked, face falling. “I’ll come back later then.”

“Like a kicked puppy,” I muttered, and Avon relaxed back on the rumpled sheets. Louder, I said, “No, it’s fine. It’s…” I checked my wrist comp. “It’s after midnight. What are you doing up?”

“I have trouble sleeping after an injection. A usually helps, but 20’s…” 21 shuffled his feet and shrugged.

Avon frowned, and I knew we’d be having a talk with 20 in the morning. He wasn’t on our team, but 21 cared about the fucked up bastard.

“So you came here to…?” Avon asked.

“I was going to ask you something.” 21 frowned. “But it took awhile… I guess I forgot what.” He nibbled a thumbnail, then looked between Avon and me. “What were you doing?”

Groaning, I pulled a threadbare pillow over my face. Trust that was what the excitable puppy remembered for longer than 30 seconds.

“Just letting off steam.” Avon shrugged, and the bed creaked under our weight.

“Why?”

“It feels good, sometimes.” Avon’s diplomacy deserved awards, but had no one explained sex to 21? I peeked from beneath the pillow, studying the boy. “Do you ever…?” 

Nope — no awards earned, I decided, and threw the pillow at Avon.

“I don’t think so.” 21 half-turned. “I can ask A, though.”

“No!” I sat up, and 21 stopped before the door opened. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Maybe 20 then?”

“Maybe not?” I scrubbed my hands across my face while Avon laughed silently around the pillow. “Or at least not until morning.”

“You’re probably too young,” Avon said, setting the pillow to the side. He was asking without asking — again — how old 21 was. I burned for the answer even as I knew it was, as Avon had said, too young.

Children shouldn’t fight wars.

“That’s probably it.” 21 grinned like a fool. “Even with the accelerated growth, I only came out of the pod nine—”

“Accelerated growth?” Avon sat up, wholly focused. This was new, even in 21’s stream of endless newness. Uneasiness balled like a rock in my gut.

“Yeah,” 21 started rambling. “A said we came out of the womb pod, all slimy and gross, and the doctor was mad because there were two of us, and that threw off his calculations. Then into the growth chamber and out we popped.” He waved a hand at his grown body, then tipped his head to the side and looked at Avon. “How long have you been out of the growth chamber?” 

“We? Was that you and A?” Avon ignored 21’s question in favor of his own. “And 20?”

21 scratched his head and smiled before answering. “A said 20 got accelerated to about 18 years like me, except he’s been out longer.”

I ground my teeth. If I heard ‘A said’ once more, I’d burn something. There had to be a way to wean 21 away from his dependency on that asshole.

“But A’s been in lots,” 21 continued, oblivious to how close I was to exploding. “She’s been accelerated to sixty—” 

“She?” The rage in my voice stopped 21, and Avon gripped my knee; an urge toward caution I couldn’t heed.

“Yeah?” 21 licked his lips. “But it doesn’t matter, right? A said—” 

In a flash, I was off the bed, out the door, and halfway down the hall. I knew where 21’s room was, and knew he shared it with 20 and A. Just like Avon and I shared. Just like the shifter teams shared. I’d chosen not to go there; mages and shifters didn’t mix, and 21, whatever he was, wasn’t a mage.

But it didn’t matter, because he should be, once I got him free of that bitch’s manipulations.

I burst through their door, triggering the automatic lights. 20 groaned and tugged the thin sheet over his head on the farthest bunk. A lay on her stomach, feet at the bed’s head, and a flattened pillow wadded beneath her chest. One arm disappeared under her stomach.

Whatever she was doing, it wasn’t sleeping. 

“You’re a girl.” Flames flickered across my knuckles as Avon and 21 skidded into the room. My collar pulsed, but I ignored the warning.

For once her restless eyes weren’t trying to look everywhere at once, though it’s possible my rage provided sufficient incentive this time.

“Yes, sir?” A asked, green eyes flitting between Avon and me.

“What’s it matter? Is there a difference?” 21 asked, drawing A’s focus.

Just. 

Like. 

Always.

20 snickered and pulled the sheet tighter, and I repressed an urge to burn the fabric. I wasn’t mad at him.

“Yes.” A nodded decisively. “The plumbing. You have an outie.” She shrugged one shoulder. “This one has an innie.”

I choked on air and spit, coughing and sputtering while Avon patted my back.

“That’s it?” Disappointment coated 21’s face.

“Well…” With a tipped head, A considered her answer. “You can empty your bladder standing up and not make too much of a mess. This one doesn’t have dangly bits to get caught if there’s no clothes.”

“That’s… No… That’s not right.” I buried my face in my flame-free hands.

“It’s not?” Confusion laced 20’s tone. 

“It is…” Avon choked down a laugh. “Technically it’s correct.” He snickered and cleared his throat. “Based on evidence presented, 21 is an… outie and can pee standing up. A is an innie and… doesn’t have… dangly bits.” He broke, laughing until he had to wrap his arms around his aching gut. 

My ache? All in the head, and I tamped down a twinge of… not sympathy, but… I shook my head. They were just so fucking clueless.

“Bed. Everyone. It’s nearly one and patrols start early.” Shoving a bewildered 21 toward his bunk, I hauled Avon from the room. The light dimmed as the door slid shut, leaving the newcomers in darkness while we stood in the bright hall. It’d been three days since they arrived, and my head hadn’t stopped spinning.

“Shut up.” I glared at Avon’s mirth-filled face. “Just… shut up.”