Connor

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Sheelin’s in a mood. Let me be clear. I’m not in any way complaining. It’s working to my advantage. When she’s brooding, she leans heavy on the side of silent treatment to get her point across. Sure, she’s always silent but she actively ignores us when she’s like this. The silence awards me freedom to begin my petition for support.

I’ve never really been one for directing traffic. I’m more a go along to get along sort of personality type, with an optimistic hope people will naturally navigate toward the light. You know, so they can see. What Molly’s taught me is sometimes the light is a fucking train barrelling toward you in the tunnel you’re stuck in. Other times, it’s a fucking bug zapper waiting to fry you. Light isn’t always right. I mean, this time it is, assuming we’re using Sheyla in the analogy as the light. Generally speaking, however, it’s dangerous to stare at the sun unless you like being blinded. No judgment, if that’s your thing. It’s just risky. Anyway, to succeed in my mission, Operation Defector Dominos, I need to embrace the grey. I need to show my peers I’m someone worth following. They need to fully understand what they’re walking into and away from. That’s the only way my conscience can handle it.

One thing I won’t do is pull the need to know card. I’m beyond over that bullshit. Total transparency only from now on. Either they’ll hear my plea and join me, or they won’t. I guess there’s always the possibility they handle me as a mutineer, but there’s no rule against running off at the mouth. Until we, or just me if no one else is on board, leave Sheelin, I’m not committing an infraction. Internal team issues like these are our own responsibility to settle. Expressing concerns to management will have no effect on our outcome or responsibilities. Our leaders want updates. While they want us to report on what we’re doing, they don’t want to be involved with us directly, even if our concerns are valid. Tattling won’t happen here. They won’t risk a one-way trip to the extermination room.

I have some things going in my favour. One, they’re all bored as fuck and hankering for some excitement since they’ve been grounded indefinitely. Two, they’re genuinely decent lads. The commanders? Not great. The team members, on the other hand, are just regular guys, who got sucked aboard this crazy train to avoid it running over them. The only one who came of their own volition was Brody, and the only reason he did was thanks to Phelan and Molly’s lies. Worth it. Objectively.

Let’s run through the roster. Len and Machk, the synchronized twins, are easy and not easy simultaneously. Where you get one, you get the other. All I have to do is gain one. Brenden and Liam, also brothers, are similarly easy and not easy simultaneously. Where you get one, you negate the other. My plan is to use reverse psychology on their asses. Their competitive nature will suck them right in. Takoda will be immediately on board. He flocks to where the most gossip is readily available. Keme? No brainer. We’re tight. Randy? Also, no brainer. He thinks Molly shits gold or something. He adores her as much as she abhors him. That’s over half. Collin and Rowtag…well, they’re next in line for the berserk bus. Not boarded yet, so I’m not counting them out. Debhlainn, Shila, and Chayton are wild cards. I just…don’t know. Have to cross my fingers and hope for the best when it comes to them.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As the petitioning gains traction, I realize Sheelin wasn’t doing as much ignoring as I initially thought. Yeah, she’s still mostly giving the silent treatment, but she isn’t actively ignoring anything. She upgrades from broody to bitchy. Turns out, bitchy Sheelin enjoys stirring shit. She shares with me helpful details otherwise locked behind closed doors. Details like how they’re planning to use Sheyla’s mom to incite her transition by killing said mom in front of her. Yeah, that’ll fucking do it. Fuck, these pricks are monsters.

That’s not all I learn though. Murphy, Asteria, and Tyler have a little side plan brewing. While Shane obviously has personal interests in Sheyla’s transition, the others have more general interests. They want Shane to fuck all the way off. They don’t give a single shit who replaces him so long as he gets gone. They’re so confident in this possibility they’re mapping out a new faction, Sinsear Court, where there will still be a Fire Supreme—Shane’s replacement—but there will also be a jury, prosecuting and defence attorneys, and a separate executioner because they all agree Sheyla will never concede to burning out any skulls. That majority agreement is why Sheyla’s remained on threat level yellow, despite the clear and present danger. The plan has merit. I like it. It’s one of the smarter things I’ve seen them coming up with. Not enough I won’t go ahead and fuck up their plans, yet I like it nonetheless.

Slowly, albeit surely, the Sentry team members start pledging their support. There are only three still on the fence: Collin, Rowtag, and Shila. Collin and Rowtag’s reasoning is sound. They know they’re in the berserk bus line. They don’t want to negatively impact our chances. I eventually win them over by being absolutely honest with them about how close I was to losing control, along with how Sheyla brought me out of it. While I’m careful not to overpromise in my campaign, even the prospect is appealing enough to gain allegiance. Shila caves shortly after. He’s not entirely with us. He just figures his chances are better outside Sheelin than inside once Tyler gets wind of our defection. Look, I’m not a supporter of peer pressure by any means. Thing is, he’s not wrong. Tyler will lose his shit. Not literally. Solathairs don’t expel anything, but his figurative shit will be lost in epic proportions. I’m almost disappointed I won’t get to witness his meltdown in person. Almost. Maybe Sheelin can snap a picture and snail mail it to me or something.

In the end, my rally boasts favourable results. I’ve got twelve defector dominos ready and raring to go. Fuck, I guess that makes me number thirteen. I hope to fuck it’s not unlucky.