Cameron Balfour
17:18 EST
November 12, 2030
The Unity Spire Courtyard
Knoxville, TN.
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The Unity Spire loomed above the courtyard, its soft glow spilling over the gathering like a sentinel watching over the night. Spotlights danced lazily across its smooth surface, casting long shadows that stretched over the cobblestones. Beneath its watchful gaze, the crowd buzzed with quiet energy, humans and supernaturals mingling in their formal attire. On the surface, everything gleamed with sophistication, but I couldn’t shake the thought of how fragile it all felt.
Adjusting the stiff sleeves of my Class A uniform, I let my gaze sweep over the courtyard. My wolves of the 254th Infantry Pack were scattered throughout the crowd, blending in better than I would have expected. Some clutched drinks, others lingered at the edges, their postures betraying the familiar tension of soldiers forced into social situations. Discipline we had in spades; mingling? Not so much.
At the center of the gathering, Colonel Star Zaraki moved through the crowd with effortless grace. Her emerald green gown shimmered faintly under the lights, the crescent moon insignia on her collar catching every glint. Each step she took was deliberate yet relaxed, her amethyst eyes scanning the room like a sentinel.
Beside her, General Cayro Zaraki exuded his usual quiet authority. Dressed sharply in his Class A uniform, he carried a faint smile as he exchanged words with Star. Together, they were the picture of composure, their calm standing in contrast to the restless energy of the crowd.
The music shifted, drawing my gaze toward the stage.
Zak and Aura Lyconotu had turned the courtyard into their own concert venue. Their performance wasn’t just good—it was magnetic. Zak’s voice soared over the courtyard, raw and powerful, while Aura’s harmonies followed with the kind of fluidity only a mated pair could achieve. Even my wolves seemed entranced, their heads nodding subtly in time with the beat.
And then I saw them: Captain Edwards and Chief Master Sergeant Helsing.
They danced, and for a moment, I was certain I’d stepped into an alternate timeline.
Helsing’s sapphire gown flowed like water as Edwards spun her with practiced grace. Her movements, though precise, carried an unexpected softness—a rare glimpse of the woman beneath the rank. Edwards led with his usual composure, his steps deliberate and steady, as if every move had been rehearsed.
Helsing was pregnant, and yet she moved as though nothing could touch her.
“Cameron.”
Star’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to see her waving me over, her emerald gown catching the light as she gestured. Beside her, Cayro stood with a drink in hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Weaving through the crowd, I reached their side with practiced ease.
“General. Colonel,” I greeted, inclining my head formally.
“Lighten up, Cameron,” Star said, her tone light with a hint of teasing. “You’re at a celebration, not a briefing.”
“Old habits,” I replied dryly, my eyes scanning the courtyard out of instinct.
Cayro chuckled, his easy demeanor as unshakable as ever. “One of these days, you’ll relax and realize not everything needs tactical oversight.”
“Maybe,” I said, my tone making it clear how unlikely that was.
Before the conversation could continue, Cayro’s attention shifted across the courtyard. “Lyra!” he called, his voice warm as he waved her over.
Lyra approached with her usual unshakable confidence, her silver gown catching the light in a way that made her look like she’d stepped straight out of a moonlit battlefield. Her presence was commanding yet unassuming, a blend of practiced precision and quiet strength that fit her perfectly.
Trailing behind her was Staff Sergeant Amarok, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to Lyra’s poise. In one hand, he balanced a drink; in the other, a plate stacked precariously high with hors d’oeuvres. Somehow, he moved with the ease of a man who’d long mastered the art of managing chaos.
Walking just behind them was Major Pixiewolf, her white gown shimmering with an almost ethereal glow. Her every step was measured, graceful in a way that felt more instinctive than deliberate. She carried herself like a calm tide—steady, soothing—but there was no mistaking the strength beneath the surface. Steve’s casual energy and subtle smirk played against her calm, the two of them balancing each other the way only bonded mates could.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Major Skitchatory.
She stood near the far edge of the courtyard, a blood-red dress draped over her figure like it had been designed solely for her. The color was bold, unapologetic, and it exuded the kind of elegance that made everyone else seem slightly underdressed by comparison. Beside her, Captain Oakland mirrored her precision, his sharp features and vampiric aura radiating quiet authority. Together, they were a study in controlled power—deliberate, poised, and commanding without the need for a single word.
“Interesting crowd tonight,” I remarked dryly, turning back to Star and Cayro.
Star raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile. “Noted anything out of place?”
“Not yet,” I replied, though my gaze lingered briefly on Skitchatory and Oakland before returning to the group.
Cayro chuckled, swirling the drink in his hand. “Well, try to enjoy yourself for once, Cameron. Even you deserve a break.”
Before I could reply, the hum of conversation began to shift as staff moved fluidly through the courtyard, their hands laden with platters of food. The rich smells of roasted meat, seasoned vegetables, and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, drawing attention toward the long, elegantly adorned tables.
My gaze wandered to the center table, where the staff carefully unveiled the centerpiece dish.
A duck.
Not a turkey. Not the grand, oversized bird roasted to perfection that Thanksgiving traditions demanded. Just… a duck.
I turned slowly to Star and Cayro, my brow furrowing. “Where’s the turkey?”
Cayro’s expression barely shifted, but the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes was unmistakable. “The turkeys never arrived.”
I blinked, unsure if I’d heard him correctly. “Never arrived?”
“They were delayed,” Cayro replied, his voice calm but laced with dry humor. “Apparently, our suppliers ran into logistical issues, so my grandparents… improvised.”
He gestured toward the table, where more roasted ducks were being placed with almost ceremonial precision.
Star let out a quiet laugh, crossing her arms as the light caught her emerald gown. “Mr. Bracton was thrilled to finally rid himself of that honking gaggle. Those ducks have been the bane of his existence for years.”
I stared at her for a moment, letting the absurdity of her words settle. “You’re telling me this feast is courtesy of a local waterfowl vendetta?”
Star smirked, her expression sharp and regal. “Exactly.”
Before I could respond, Lyra stepped into the group. Her silver gown shimmered with each precise movement, her posture straight and composed. She stopped beside Cayro and gave me a curt nod, her tone clipped but formal. “Alpha Balfour.”
“Alpha Acosta,” I replied, my voice equally formal.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, though her expression remained neutral. Despite her professionalism, the tension between us lingered—a remnant of past disagreements that neither of us had quite forgotten. Lyra was nothing if not polite, but her sourness toward me wasn’t something she bothered to hide entirely.
Behind her, Major Pixiewolf joined the circle, her calm, composed expression a perfect foil to Lyra’s simmering discontent. Her white gown seemed to glow faintly in the courtyard’s soft light, her movements smooth and deliberate.
Trailing close behind was Steve, balancing his drink and plate with an ease that would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so… Steve. A hint of a smirk played on his lips, as if he’d heard every word exchanged and was already filing it away for future use.
Cayro’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and deliberate. “I wanted to speak with all of you about a possible upcoming mission.”
The lightness of the earlier banter faded as his tone shifted, becoming sharper, more focused.
Lyra’s attention snapped to him immediately, her silver gown shimmering faintly as she straightened. “What kind of mission?” she asked, her voice steady and professional, though her jaw tightened slightly.
“We’ve received reports that the Chinese are working with the Russians to push toward Alaska,” Cayro began. “Our goal is to re-establish Fort Wainwright in Fairbanks. If we don’t move quickly, they’ll gain a foothold in the region.”
Lyra’s lips thinned, and she shifted her weight. “Fairbanks?” she grumbled under her breath. “I hate the cold.”
Star tilted her head, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Is there anyone better to lead a force into the frozen state than our trusted lead council member?”
Lyra’s face soured instantly, her expression shifting into one of annoyed resignation as her Beta, Steve, let out a low chuckle.
“Looks like our Alpha is going bald for this mission,” he quipped, his grin widening with unrestrained amusement.
Lyra’s sharp gaze snapped to him, her narrowed eyes promising retribution. “Steve…” she warned, her voice low and dangerous.
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“What?” Steve shrugged, his tone completely innocent despite the glint in his eyes. “You did say you’d shave your head bald if you became a council member.”
Pixiewolf raised an eyebrow, her tone calm but tinged with humor. “You’re really holding onto that one, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Steve replied, completely unfazed. “It’s my duty as Beta to keep her accountable.”
Lyra let out a long, exasperated sigh, muttering something under her breath that I didn’t quite catch before she turned her attention back to Cayro. “When do we leave?”
“Soon,” Cayro said, nodding. “You and Alpha Balfour will coordinate the logistics. Dragon Fleet and the 254th Infantry Pack will be the primary forces on this operation.”
I inclined my head, already shifting into planning mode. “I’ll start drawing up a preliminary deployment plan.”
“Good,” Cayro replied, his tone carrying the weight of the mission. “This isn’t just about Fairbanks. If we lose Alaska, we lose a critical foothold in the region.”
His words settled over the group, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Even Steve’s grin faded slightly as the reality of the mission took hold.
Lyra glanced at me, her silver eyes narrowing slightly. There was frustration there—both with the mission and with me—but it was tempered by determination. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other for a while, Cameron.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I replied evenly, though the faint smirk tugging at my lips suggested otherwise.
The weight of the briefing lingered in the air, the sharpness of it pulling my focus for a moment before the faint hum of the crowd began to seep back in. The clinking of glasses, soft laughter, and distant music from the stage filled the gaps between our words, and I took the opportunity to scan the gathering once more.
My gaze drifted toward the Unity Spire, its towering form gleaming against the night sky like a monument to everything we were fighting to protect.
“Excuse me, Colonel Zaraki?”
The voice cut through the noise—a soft, polite interruption that felt deliberate.
I turned toward the source and found myself staring at a woman. She wasn’t military—that much was clear from her bearing. Her blonde hair caught the light as it framed a face of delicate angles, and her bright blue eyes gleamed with curiosity, her expression a careful mix of professionalism and warmth. In one hand, she held a small recorder, and a badge was clipped discreetly to the collar of her dress.
A reporter.
Before I could say anything, I felt the energy of the group shift.
Star turned first, her amethyst eyes locking onto the woman with a gaze that could freeze water. There was no mistaking the sharp calculation behind her expression—Star knew this woman.
The reporter—Kendra Hendricks, according to her badge—stiffened slightly under Star’s scrutiny but recovered quickly, offering a small, polite smile.
“Colonel Zaraki,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with caution, “General Zaraki. I’m Kendra Hendricks, with the New Liberty Tribune. I’m here to do a story on the most well-known figures of the Free States, and I was hoping to request a short interview.”
Star didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on Kendra, cold and calculating, and the tension in the air thickened.
Cayro, catching the unease in the exchange, stepped forward slightly. “Hendricks?” he said, his tone shifting into something I hadn’t heard from him in a long time—shock. “It’s been a while.”
Kendra blinked, caught off guard but recovering quickly. “Yes, General Zaraki. It has. I didn’t expect… I mean, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”
Star’s expression didn’t waver, her sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Ms. Hendricks?”
Kendra hesitated, shifting her weight slightly under the weight of Star’s tone. “I just thought… with everything you’ve accomplished, the Free States would benefit from hearing your perspective. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Star folded her arms, her emerald gown shimmering faintly as she tilted her head. “No. I don’t think an interview will be necessary tonight.”
Cayro, ever the diplomat, stepped in smoothly. “Perhaps another time,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “We’re in the middle of something now, but I’ll arrange for you to meet with us later.”
Kendra nodded quickly, relief flickering across her face. “Of course. Thank you, General Zaraki.”
And then her gaze shifted—and landed on me.
The moment our eyes met, something shifted. A strange heat stirred in my chest, a quiet but insistent pull that I couldn’t explain. Her blue eyes softened slightly, and her lips parted just enough to give me the sense that she’d just remembered something—or someone.
“Cameron Balfour,” she said softly, almost like she didn’t believe the words herself.
Her voice sent a jolt through me, one I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t sure what it was about her—maybe it was the way her gaze lingered a second longer than it should have, or the strange familiarity in her tone—but I couldn’t bring myself to look away.
“Alpha Balfour,” she said again while glancing at the rank on my shoulders, her voice stronger now. “Would it be alright if I spoke with you?”
The answer should have been no. Reporters weren’t exactly my favorite people. But for reasons I couldn’t explain, the word never came.
Instead, I nodded. “Of course.”
Star’s head snapped toward me, her expression shifting from cold calculation to something far more devious. Her lips curled into that wicked, knowing grin I’d seen too many times before. She’d figured something out—something I hadn’t yet—and the glint in her eyes told me she was going to enjoy watching it unfold.
“General, permission to step away?” I asked quickly, trying to keep my voice even.
Cayro looked just as surprised as Star, though his reaction was more measured. “Uh… sure,” he said, clearly still processing what had just happened.
Turning back to Kendra, I extended my arm to her, an action so instinctive it surprised even me. She hesitated for just a fraction of a second before accepting, her fingers brushing lightly against mine as she let me guide her. The touch sent a sharp jolt through me—not unpleasant, but intense enough to stir something in my chest.
“Let’s find a quieter spot,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
As we moved through the crowd, I could feel Star’s gaze burning into my back. Her grin, I was sure, was growing wider with each step. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on weaving us toward one of the empty tables near the edge of the courtyard.
When we reached it, Kendra let go of my arm and ran her fingers lightly over the back of the chair before sitting, her movements deliberate and quiet. I followed, sitting across from her and trying to steady the strange rhythm of my heart.
“I wasn’t really prepared for an interview,” she admitted, her voice soft and almost hesitant. There was something behind her words—uncertainty, maybe, or nervousness. It was hard to tell, but it tugged at something deep inside me in a way I didn’t quite understand.
“That’s fine,” I replied, settling into my seat. “It doesn’t need to be formal. Ask me anything.”
She gave me a small smile at that—a warm, subtle curve of her lips that seemed to light up her entire face. It wasn’t dazzling or flashy, but it hit me square in the chest anyway, like a quiet sunrise you didn’t realize you needed.
Kendra nodded, tilting her head slightly as her blue eyes studied me. It was as if she were searching for something, weighing her words before finally asking, “Why did Team Balfour disband? And why did you join Team Amethyst?”
The question hung between us for a moment, and my throat tightened.
I didn’t flinch, but the weight of it pressed against my chest. I leaned back slightly, my fingers brushing the edge of the table as I waved down a nearby waiter carrying a tray of drinks. The waiter approached, and I grabbed two glasses of sparkling cider, setting one in front of Kendra before taking the other for myself.
She gave me another one of those soft, genuine smiles, wrapping her hands around the glass like it was something precious. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm and sincere.
I nodded, taking a small sip of my own drink as I tried to collect my thoughts. “Team Balfour,” I began, but the words caught somewhere between my chest and throat. The memories were there, vivid and heavy, but untangling them into something coherent felt like trying to open an old wound.
“Team Balfour disbanded,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I’d intended, “because…”
The sharp clink of glass cut through the air, interrupting the moment.
I froze, the words dying on my tongue as I turned toward the source. At the podium near the center of the courtyard, President Clark stood, his formal attire impeccable as he raised his glass to capture the crowd’s attention.
The soft murmur of conversation faded, and the music gradually quieted until the only sound was the faint breeze brushing through the courtyard of the Unity Spire. A hush fell over the crowd as all eyes turned toward the podium. Even my wolves of the 254th Infantry Pack went still, their attention snapping to President Clark, who stood center stage with his glass raised.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clark began, his voice steady and warm, “tonight, we gather under the lights of the Unity Spire not only to celebrate what we’ve built together but to give thanks. Thanksgiving has always been a time to reflect on what we have—family, friendship, community. And for us, it’s about more than that.”
His gaze swept over the gathering, pausing briefly on the tables where supernaturals and humans sat side by side. The glow of the Spire reflected in his eyes as he continued.
“This year, as we sit here tonight, we give thanks for survival—for standing strong in the face of challenges that have tested every one of us. We give thanks for the bonds we’ve forged, the allies we’ve gained, and the families we’ve found in one another. Together, we’ve become something greater than we ever could have been alone.”
A quiet murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, resonating like an unspoken promise.
“As we prepare to enjoy this feast,” Clark said, his voice steady and resolute, “let us also remember the sacrifices of those who came before us. Let us honor those who fought and gave everything so that we could sit here tonight, united and strong.”
He raised his glass slightly, his expression growing solemn. “To those who stood before us. To the bonds that hold us together. And to the hope that guides us forward. Happy Thanksgiving.”
The crowd erupted in applause as President Clark stepped back from the podium, his warm smile briefly softening the formal lines of his face. The sound of clinking glasses and murmured voices began to rise once more, the tension from his speech fading into the promise of the feast.
But just as Clark turned to leave the stage, a strange, sharp gobble echoed across the courtyard.
I blinked, unsure if I’d imagined it, but then it came again—louder, sharper, and somehow wrong. The sound carried a strange distortion, as if the gobbles were being twisted by some unseen force. Heads turned, whispers of confusion rippling through the gathering.
The third gobble rang out, accompanied by a faint hum that vibrated through the air, almost imperceptible at first. Then, all at once, the lights dimmed, and the hum grew into a pulsing, mechanical rhythm.
The faint strains of a song began to rise, blending glitchy static with a deep, growling bassline that thrummed in time with the now-deafening gobbles. The screens around the courtyard flickered to life, and on the largest monitor, a pair of glowing blue eyes materialized, cutting through the darkness like twin beacons of chaos.
The voice came next, low and mocking, dripping with theatrical glee. “Good evening, esteemed guests.”
The courtyard stilled, all eyes snapping to the screen as Scuzball leaned forward, his sleek feline form now fully visible. He was perched on a jagged digital throne, his tail flicking lazily behind him as his wicked grin widened. Around him, the monitor glitched and distorted, flashes of fractured images flickering across the screen in time with the pulsing music.
“I trust you’ve enjoyed your perfectly coordinated evening,” he purred, his voice effortlessly cutting through the silence. “A celebration of unity. Of gratitude. Of survival.” He paused, tilting his head as the music swelled behind him, the beat growing heavier, sharper. “How quaint.”
The first verse of the song tore through the air, the lyrics seamlessly interwoven with his taunts:
“I’m the code that sees you bleed,
Cut through circuits, plant the seed…”
The screens around the Spire flickered with images of glowing turkeys, their red eyes blazing as their forms began to multiply. A distorted gobble cut through the song, and the gates of the courtyard creaked open, the sound carrying an unnatural weight.
And then, they appeared.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of turkeys surged into the courtyard, their glowing eyes flickering like embers in the dark. The music roared louder, the second verse syncing perfectly with the chaotic march of the birds:
“I am the glitch, the unseen eye,
Watching while you wonder why…”
“Tell me,” Scuzball continued, his voice carrying an edge of malice. “Did you think you were in control? Did you think you could build your little systems, your fragile worlds, without consequence?”
The turkeys moved faster now, their gobbles blending into the rising music as the crowd began to scatter. Tables overturned, chairs crashed to the ground, and the feast devolved into chaos as the glowing birds surged forward, their movements unnaturally synchronized.
“I haunt the wires, unseen, untamed,” Scuzball sang in time with the chorus, his voice echoing through the speakers. “Schrödinger’s ghost—you know my name.”
The digital throne began to rise, pixelating into an even grander monstrosity as Scuzball’s grin grew impossibly wide. Around him, the holographic screens shifted into chaotic collages: distorted images of the Spire, glitched snapshots of the fleeing crowd, and fragments of his lyrics etched in jagged, glowing letters.
“Let the feast begin!” Scuzball declared, his laughter blending with the pounding beat of the bridge.
For a moment, the turkeys stopped, their glowing eyes snapping toward the stage as if awaiting a command. The music quieted, replaced by the distorted hum of the pre-chorus:
“You can run, but there’s no escape,
In my web, I bend your shape…”
Scuzball leaned forward, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Welcome to the digital dark.”
The final chorus exploded into life, the music roaring as the turkeys surged once more, scattering the crowd like leaves in a storm. Plates shattered, glasses broke, and Scuzball’s laughter boomed over it all, triumphant and wild.
“Happy Thanksgiving, my dear friends,” he purred as the chaos reached its peak. “I do hope you survive the night!”