Nora Walker, a psychic vampire, is conscripted into a task-force of supernatural legends that care more for themselves than the cataclysmic threat they face...
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As the sun rose and the shadows shrank, the task-force prophesied to defend Melbourne from an ambiguous supernatural enemy decided to sit on their asses and talk about their feelings.
"You know," I began, scuffing the dewy lawn with the toe of my running shoe. "If I wanted group therapy I'd crash the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on my street."
Jerome rolled his eyes, but I was being serious. They had a great tea and biscuit table that was almost as refreshing as the spiral of negative emotions.
Waters pointed at a gap in the circle. "It's either this or you do cross-country laps."
I sat down immediately.
The City Beta proceeded with the robotic confidence of an NPC offering someone a scripted quest. "In the coming weeks we're going to have face an enemy the likes of which we've never seen. Our survival will depend on our ability to cooperate and communicate effectively."
Jerome nodded his agreement. "That's why the first stage of training is getting to know each other. Werewolves don't usually need to bother with team-building exercises, because we can communicate our thoughts and feelings telepathically, but you guys can't do that. So we'll have to start from scratch."
Waters brandished a roll of toilet paper he'd stuffed in his jacket. "I'm going to pass this around. One at a time, you'll take the amount of paper squares you'd need to get the job done." He took seven sheets, which made sense, if his shits were proportionate to the rest of his Herculean body. Jerome, who was quite large himself but was still dwarfed by Waters' proximity, took a modest six.
The next person in line was a thin, pasty girl, whose face was partially shrouded by a curtain of silver hair. The metallic sheen in her hair was the only hint of vibrancy about her person; even the purple smudges under her eyes were dull, and her blue eyes were so glassy I started wondering if she'd quietly passed away while staring into space.
Jerome had to wave the toilet roll in front of her face before she realised it was her turn. It seemed like a great effort for her to rip off a few sheets before passing it on to Seth, who claimed a minimalistic four. When it was Holden's turn, he deliberated for an agonisingly long time before settling on six. Ruben also took four before passing it on to me.
I looked at the roll. Then I looked back at the task force. They were all watching me, waiting expectantly for me to participate in their stupid game. Honestly, I'd been threatened with a public lashing and conscripted for this?
Pulling a face, I grabbed the roll, speared it on two fingers and pulled at the paper until it all unravelled on the ground, shrivelling where it soaked up the dew.
Jerome curled his lip with an upper-class finesse. "Really?"
"What?" I asked, feigning innocence. "I'm a shitty person."
Holden burst out laughing. He was quick to humour, I realised then; the confirmation and familiarity of that quality attracted the full brunt of my attention. I found myself staring at him directly and unabashedly, acknowledging him as a secondary character instead of an extra in the movie of my life.
