Connor – 15 years ago

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“What’s the mission?” Molly asks eagerly.

It’s been years. It could’ve been decades for all I know. It’s an eternity, regardless. Sheelin’s bereft of anything denoting time inside her protective barrier. There are no clocks, watches, or calendars. No sun or moon. Time is endless, marching forward at a snail’s pace if that snail was of monster size like Sheelin.

“Are we scouting for pickup?” Molly pushes.

“It’s not a scouting mission,” Phelan states. “It’s a strike mission.”

“We don’t do strike missions,” I argue. Unsurprisingly, Molly perks right up. Fuck, this isn’t ending well.

“We do whatever missions get us back in the good graces of Tyler,” Phelan notes.

As an auxiliary team, we handle an array of mission types, from scouting to strike to extermination. Everything extra is handled by us.

“I don’t care what kind of mission it is,” Molly adds. “It’s fresh air.”

“Don’t screw this up,” Phelan threatens her.

“Any screw up will be on you,” she assures him. “I promise you that.”

Phelan places the departure stones on the floor around us, then we’re off. Thank fuck portal drops aren’t disorienting anymore. Talk about losing your sense of gravity. Utter weightlessness…and nothing. A black hole as empty as Molly’s metaphorical heart.

As the sun beats down from a clear, blue sky, it seems a shame we can’t stop to bask in its glory. “Where are we?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phelan dodges.

“It matters to me.”

“That makes it matter even less.”

I frown. Molly scowls. It doesn’t phase him.

“You two, go wait inside,” he directs us. “I have to get someone.”

Before we can ask who or where, he’s gone. Fortunately, there’s only one place to go. It’s a small building on the edge of what appears to be a small, island town.

“It’s a hotel,” Molly remarks.

“How can you tell?” I probe, as we walk closer. “It looks like a dilapidated building in need of tearing down.”

“Because it says so on the window sign.”

Ah, there it is on a white sheet of paper in sloppy handwriting. The sign reads ‘Hotel Happy’.

“I wonder if they accept air miles,” Molly jokes.

“Doubtful.”

“I wonder if they have those tiny bottles of shampoo,” she persists. “Or tiny soap!”

“The only tiny things I foresee are the creepy critter kind.”

She loses her motivation for lame humour when we step into the lobby. It’s full of dead people. No, not dead. They don’t stink of death and decay, but they certainly aren’t alive.

“What in the fresh hell?” she clips.

“I think we should wait outside,” I suggest.

“Phelan said to wait inside,” she reminds me.

I crinkle my nose in distaste. “Right.”

Molly walks up to one of the mannequins and pokes it. The small movement of her finger sends the body falling on its neighbour. Like dominoes, four lifeless shells fall over. The damn things are everywhere, filling all the chairs and couches in the lobby. There are at least twenty. They’re pliant, so they’re definitely alive people, or they were people at some point. No clue what they are now.

“They’re not dead.”

“They’re alive.” Molly pokes another one for good measure. “They’re breathing. Just. Really. Fucking. Slowly.”

“This isn’t right,” I caution. “We need to get out of here.”

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“I know who did this!” she chirps.

Before she can explain, I’m blinded by the entrance of a man from the room behind the hotel’s front desk, radiating with all the kaleidoscopic glory of an aurora borealis. The light show explodes in our direction. For a moment I’m coated with warmth more tempting than the sun. Then, as though he slapped me, the light retracts, and I’m reminded of what I can never take. The light show is a side effect of Solathair branding. It’s a sort of perpetually open wound indicating a food source for any Sumair in the vicinity, continuing until the Solathair turns off the display. I risk a glance at Molly. She’s an unhealthy combination of awe and animus.

“KrazyPants Kristoph Blackenwood,” she whispers.

“What did you just call me?” the man bellows.

I shudder. Fuck, her sloppy sauce shooter will get us killed.

“Phelan sent us,” I offer, trying to redirect.

“Oh he did, did he?” He lifts a brow. “Empty handed?”

“Yeah, he did. Sorry about that,” I apologize. “We can wait outside if you like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he exclaims cheerfully. “Welcome to Hotel Happy, the happiest hotel on earth. As you can see, we’re a little full up at the moment, but if you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll be happy to book your reservation.”

“R-r-reservation?” I stammer.

“You won’t find better accommodations anywhere. Just look at all my happy guests!” He points to the people behind us. When we don’t follow the direction of his finger, his tone hardens. “I said look!”

We turn quickly, and all the horrible faces wear a uniform grimace masquerading as a smile.

“Only happy customers at Hotel Happy!”

“The flying fuck are they?” Molly presses, unable to play along with his ruse.

“You people,” he complains. “Nothing is ever good enough. I work hard. I try to give you what you want. The thanks I get? Fresh towels! Fresh bedding! No thank you!”

As he starts to make his way from behind the desk, we try to back up, but the immobile bodies have become mysteriously mobile. It only takes me a moment to realize his hands are directing them, like a puppeteer with his marionettes.

“Just let us go. When Phelan gets here, he’ll explain everything.”

“But I’m hungry,” the man whines.

“You can’t eat us!” I baulk. “We’re not on the menu.”

Solathairs don’t eat Sumairs anyway. While we literally aren’t on the menu, that doesn’t guarantee he won’t try. He clearly isn’t running on all cylinders.

The bodies are circling us. We’ll have to fight our way through. Orders be damned. Orders aren’t meant to get us killed. Thankfully, before that happens, Phelan arrives. When he does, the man jumps up and down excitedly.

“Is she for me?”

Phelan nods. “All for you.”

The woman doesn’t want to be a gift. She kicks and thrashes. Of course, she’s no match for Phelan, who’s three times her size.

“I found her at the library,” Phelan continues.

The man takes in a deep, dramatic breath. “Smart brains are my favourite.”

I turn away when he takes her, focusing on Molly. Surprise, surprise, she doesn’t turn away. She watches every second with utter fascination. Her widened eyes are about to pop right out of her head. I can’t help myself. I risk another peek. Kristoph’s holding the woman’s head in his hands. He closes his eyes and begins funnelling energy with grotesque slurping sounds. It’s like he’s manoeuvring a milkshake through a straw. He doesn’t kill her. He turns her into a zombie juice box, leaving just enough facilities to ensure Sumair conversion, but not enough to maintain control over her body. Fucking whack job has created his own private puppet show. Hotel Happy.

“This is the sickest thing I’ve ever seen,” I mumble at the same exact time Molly says, “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He pushes the brain drained bitch toward us. “Did you want some?”

I hold up my hands to decline, Phelan laughs, and Molly considers it. Fuck, she’s thinking of increased food stock. There are a lot more humans to feed from than Solathairs.

When the man finishes slurping, he directs the body toward the others, where she easily slides between two zombie juice boxes sitting on the center couch.

“Would you like a room?” he coos.

Phelan shakes his head. “This is the last warning, Kristoph.”

He frowns.

“You know the rules.”

“I hate rules.”

“Then you need to explain why the rules should change, in a way the Tribunal will accept.”

“I need to rule the Tribunal!” Kristoph decides.

“Would you like to come back with us and volunteer?” Molly invites him. Fuck, she’s sincere too.

He frowns again. “I’d rather not.”

“You know what has to happen now,” Phelan admonishes him.

He sighs. “All my hard work for nothing.”

“All your hard work for nothing,” Molly commiserates.

“Can I put them in myself?”

“Sure thing,” Phelan agrees. This seems to please Kristoph. “As long as you promise never to do this again.”

“I promise!”

With that, he leaves Hotel Happy, the happiest hotelier in existence. His zombie juice boxes mindlessly follow him.

“Into the volcano!” Kristoph commands, with his lemmings in tow.

“He’s on strike two?” I prod.

Phelan lifts his chin in affirmation.

Molly weighs in, “Third time’s the charm?”

Phelan sniffs hard. “Next time he’ll be dealing with Tyler.”

“What the hell happened to him?”

Molly shrugs. “When your brain can’t retain any new information because it’s completely full, I reckon it just…explodes. Mind blown.”

“What’s his power?”

“He eats brains!” Molly muses.

“His element is fire,” Phelan corrects her. “He fries their brain cells while he feeds from them.”

“And you let him fucking live?” Molly snipes.

“You can’t kill a Solathair, Molly,” Phelan points out. “They aren’t tangible. They’re just energy. They take on the last form they remember, which is humanesque, but they’re never human again.”

“But I killed—”

“You killed a Solathair in transition,” he cuts her off.

She furrows her brow. “No one can kill a Solathair?”

“Shane can,” I advise her.

“Fire Supreme,” she reiterates. “Why doesn’t he just kill him?”

Phelan clenches his jaw. “Because that’s his brother.”

She gives me a look I’m neither comfortable with or sure what it means.

“Are we done here?” I volley, not wanting clarification.

“So done,” Phelan confirms.

“We’re not watching him throw them in the volcano?” Molly’s disappointed, for fuck’s sake.

“Don’t be daft, Molly,” Phelan barks. “He doesn’t throw them. He just tells them to jump in and they go.”

“Lame ass mission,” she grumbles.

“I thought you didn’t care what kind of mission it was,” Phelan fires back.

“At least it had a happy ending,” I claim.

“Not for the lemmings,” she mutters.