Set in the middle of the apocalypse.

Warning: it’s a bit dreary (It’s set in the middle of an apocalypse), and involves discussion of violence and violent death.

In the wreckage of a building, someone screamed.

Tasha pulled her hood up and kept walking.

She could help them. She and Arden had been helping people, and then someone had grabbed Arden. They’d tried to get him away, but the grabber had a gun, and all they had was…

She looked down at her fingers. They seemed to flicker: fingertips, claws, fingertips, claws. One claw was ripped clean off, and both fingertip and claw looked bloody.

She’d tried to help someone else, after she’d lost Arden. She’d lost control of her illusion-thingy for just a moment, just a heartbeat, and her would-be rescuee had flipped out. She’d gotten them mostly-unburied anyway, because she was trying hard not to be a monster.

Monster. Tasha looked back down at her claws. She’d watched another teenager like her – just another girl, maybe fifteen – start panicking when one of the invaders started throwing some sort of fireballs. It was panic-worthy, Tasha had to admit. The first one she’d seen shooting lightning from their fingertips had freaked her out.

And, just like had happened when Tasha saw the lightning lady, the girl’s body started changing. Horns, tail, and the girl was screaming in pain. That stuff hurt.

But Tasha had been in the wreck of her classroom, alone. This girl had been in the middle of a crowd of humans.

Humans. They’d killed her in seconds, beaten a girl to death while she was scared and confused. Humans.

The scream sounded in the wreckage again. Tasha hesitated. She couldn’t save them.

She couldn’t not save them.

She was trying hard not to be a monster.

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