Prologue - Conscious

It’s been a while since I had gotten away from the camp. It’s grown quickly since my arrival. Seems like I see a new face every day. I feel like I’ve been needing to hunt for food more than I should be. All these different appetites are starting to crowd the reserves they keep. Someone outta make a farm.

"MOO-" POP!

That makes the final cow for me.

I wipe my hands on the wrap of my shirt, stacking the meat and leather where it belongs. Everything neat, organized. That little bit of order calms me. I don’t take more than I need, but lately, I feel like I’ve been carrying the burden of feeding more mouths than mine.

The walk back is quiet. The axe drags beside me, iron head bumping against the dirt path, leaving its mark. It reminds me of where I stand, knowing that I can swing whenever I want.

When I reach the outskirts, I can already hear them before I see anything.

"Put it over here! No, not like that, it’ll fall!"

"Then you do it yourself!"

"Don’t start, I already said I’m helping."

Their voices bleed together into noise. Squabbling over nothing. Like a bunch of rabid animals.

The camp comes into view. Bigger than the last time I saw it. Tents and shacks patched together, torches standing crooked in the ground. A mess trying to look like a community.

I walk into it without changing my pace.

A figure steps toward me, lanky and bent slightly at the shoulders, balancing a plate with both hands. Blue hair hangs loose over their forehead, but what catches me is the faint blue glow of their eyes behind it. Monster.

Their voice comes out soft.

"For your hard work!"

They lift the plate toward me. A cake, carefully made, sweet and soft around the edges.

I stop just long enough to look at it.

Like I owe them anything.

"Keep it," I say flatly.

Their glow flickers. They bow their head and, with a low warble, retreat quickly into the crowd, clutching the plate like it means something.

What a waste. They burn through sugar, eggs, grain. For what? A sweet smile? A thank you? They don’t even know how much work goes into the food they indiscriminately use. And worse, they think kindness means something to me. It doesn’t. It disgusts me.

They laugh somewhere to my right. Someone pulls a prank, judging by the yelp and the chasing footsteps. I don’t look. I don’t care.

Then another voice cuts sharper, closer. "Oi, James."

I stop. A taller figure steps into my path - feathers tucked behind their ears, pink hair brushing the frame of their glasses. They tug on their gloves with quick snaps, a grin plastered across their face like they know something no one else does.

"Got a second?" they say, leaning in, their smile loud enough to echo. "Need some string. Planning a tripwire in someone’s house. Gonna be hilarious."

I look at them once, their feathers shifting with the tilt of their head, the glint on their lenses catching the sunlight. My answer is short.

"Later."

Their grin only stretches wider. They laugh under their breath and move on, already finding someone else to bother.

I keep walking. My hand flexes on the haft of my axe. Flowers underfoot snap and crush. Nobody notices.

These people. All these things. They’re not like me. They never will be.

I hear another voice.

"Thanks again, really. Don’t know what we’d do without you."

"Oh, yeah, it’s no problem." "Easy for you to say, you’re 90% legs!"

The only other human, carrying wood for one of them. His shoulders bent under the weight, his smile easy. Useful. That’s all they see in him. They’ll use him until he breaks.

Monsters. Every one of them. Wearing human voices, human shapes, pretending they belong. Fraudulent.

I reach my door. The noise dims when I shut it behind me. I toss what I’d gathered into the barrel and sit on the bed. The conversations outside press faintly through the walls, laughter threading between arguments.

"Where’s Cowcifer?"

"Uh. Was that the one with a lead?"

"You ate him didn’t you…"

My eye twitches. I stare at the torch across from me, watching the fire shift. My thoughts steady into words. I can feel something surfacing underneath.

"They’re not human," I mutter.

I watch the torch longer. Counting the flickers. One, two, three, four. The longer I stare, the more certain I feel. Did it always burn that brightly?

After dusk finally settles, and the commotion is asleep, I stand up, take the torch from the wall, and without a second thought, drop it to the floor.

The flames catch quick, spreading fast and climbing the walls. I stand there and watch.

I don’t care about the smoke. I don’t care about the heat. The house was only wood, cloth, and noise. Replaceable. Fragile.

The fire grows, but I don’t flinch. I stand in it because I can. Because I choose to. That’s what separates me from them. They survive by hiding in a pack. I survive by knowing I don’t need it.

A flame licks at my shoe. I stomp it out and keep walking out the door.

"They’re not human."

I’m sick of this. Sick of being surrounded by animals pretending to be people. They chatter, they laugh, they trade scraps of kindness like it means something. But they can’t feel the way I feel. They don’t understand strength, control, discipline. They treat me like a work horse, something to haul their weight, while knowing - knowing - I’m better than them.

I don’t need any special talents. I don’t need wings, claws, or some trick of magic to make me stand out. I don’t need inhuman features to survive. Everything I am, everything I’ve built, comes from my own flesh and blood. My own will. That’s more than they’ll ever have. They lean on what they were given, while I’ve taken everything with my own bare hands. That’s the difference. That’s why I’ll always be above them.

They think they know suffering. They think they understand control. But they don’t. Not like this. Not like me. I’ll give them something to suffer for.

The roof collapses.

"I am."