The magi of Eastward Americana were a comfortable sort of folk. They valued consistency, predictability, order, and control. Magic in and of itself was considered a rather unrestrained element, but the Eastward magi had spent the last century perfecting what magic could and should be in an era of peace and prosperity. The magi were quite proud of this, of how their skills and strengths fit so neatly into organized categories with strategic purposes.  The Eastward magi—as they referred to themselves, the 20th century wizards of their time—were composed of three branches of magic that encompassed the care of their world and each other. There were the Sages, who, as far as they were concerned, were the eldest branch. As they were the most knowing and the wisest, it was only reasonable they should be the most ancient, though no one knew for sure. Only legends remained of Origin and the Ancient Days, and little fact. But Sages, with their foresight and influence over the mind, slid naturally into roles of leadership and education, although they were the fewest in number. The Thanes were a powerful force, both in number and capability. Their magic strengthened them, secured them, and destroyed others. They found themselves meeting the needs of Eastward as the militia, the security officers, and the strategists. They were defendants of Eastward until their dying breaths, although this had yet to play out due to the peace the land found itself in.  Next came the Sylvaar, who were in truth the most ancient and the greatest in number. They came from the forests across the sea not long after Origin and rooted themselves in the expansive, ever beautiful Americana. But now, in Eastward, they humbly lived out their days enjoying all manner of handy work and labor. From farming to healing, weather watching to crafting, the Sylvaar were grounded in their land, which seemingly underwent both change and unchange over hundreds of years.  And so you see, they made Eastward as orderly as they themselves were. Rows of homes painted in pastel colors, sidewalks with not a crack in them, white-washed fences framing blooming gardens, neatly plowed rows of farmland, and organized cities of brick and stone. The magi perhaps took for granted their harmony and prosperity. Some criticized their isolation from the rest of the world and disinterest in its affairs; but none could say they were not thriving. They had found their stride as a young country off the heels of independence. It was a most excellent time to be a magi, as any of them would tell you if you stopped them upon a cobblestone street.  But they had a problem. A small problem, granted—in the larger picture, as many a Sage would insist—but it was still a problem. It dwelt in Appalachia.  No one in Eastward liked to think much at all about what lurked in the Appalachian Highlands. Truly, it’d be more correct to say who dwelt in the mountains, but even that seemed too generous an acknowledgment for most. They were too disorderly, too unpredictable, and their magic was much too untidy. They were the only present threat to the magi. They were the topic brought up at every presidential election and every Haervest and Christmaesse supper.  They’re called Shifts; a grisly kind of people not quite considered magi but most certainly not devoid of magic. It was just that their magic seemed to have no place in Eastward, and no one knew what to do with them. What value did it add to have a Shift around, constantly changing their appearance? They had joined the other magi around Independence from Westward, but their lives under Westwardian rule were a long-lost memory, even to themselves who were always more concerned about the present than their past.  It wasn’t long before the new country of Eastward realized Shifts were volatile. Too volatile for their tastes. They were hot-headed, quick-tempered, passionate, and proud. Their magic reflected this. They relished how unnerved the other residents of Eastward were with their nasty tricks of impersonation and habits of shapeshifting at random. And it was all they could do. There was no other aspect to their magic. What good could magi like that do for Eastward?  The Shifts, though quite bad-tempered, were not stupid. They recognized the problem before any other branch of magi did. Conflict was born. The Sages sought resolution, but even they struggled to agree on how to find the Shifts a proper position in society. The Sylvaar wanted them gone, and the Thanes could not help but emphasize the threats the Shifts posed to Eastward. They could not be contained, nor could they be tracked. They could assume others’ identities, and, for all intents and purposes, they could completely disappear. How could they be held to the same standard as the rest of the magi? And God knows the Shifts had demonstrated little honor to uphold Eastward’s values.  The conflict persisted for nearly a decade until the remaining Shifts were finally rounded up and restricted into small communities, although many magi wanted them eradicated or sent out from Eastward entirely. Only the Sages showed grace and reminded the rest of the magi of the Shifts’ crucial participation in their Independence. Unfortunately, nothing is quite so simple as that, and that was far from the end of the Shifts.  They proved, in fact, to be quite problematic. However, they could also be adaptive and tenacious. They knew their magic held power that the others’ did not, and, before long, a select few magi came to the same conclusion. It was peculiar, to say the least, but the ability to become another would play a key role in the future of Eastward as leaders came and went and titans of industry rose up and crashed down again.  Behind it all were Shifts—impersonating and manipulating. Thanks to a handful of greedy and power-hungry magi, the Shifts had at long-last found their purpose in Eastward; and Eastward had to come to terms with the fact that their Shift problem was far from over.  It would’ve been easy to send the Thanes in and be rid of the Shifts once and for all, but the red tape surrounding a government-sanctioned genocide was astronomical and terribly bad for morale. The Sages ran an interesting study not long after the Shifts’ new role had been recognized by the public and learned that crime as a whole had gone downin Eastward. No one had any desire to offend those who had the resources and connections to hire a Shift. And you had to have connections to get one.  Thus, the Eastward magi straightened up even more, hoping a blameless life would keep them from drawing the attention of a Shift. And it seemed, the Sages’ study revealed, that having a handful of semi-controlled, professional criminals to handle their dirty work within society drew the average citizen away from petty crime.  A subject of great contention, even now, but the Shifts were allowed to stay in their bordered communities until someone had need of their services. It’s really quite reasonable then why the magi winced at the thought of Appalachia and the people who resided there. Would their Shift problem ever go away?  Not that the Shifts had much say in the matter. This sentiment was felt acutely by many Shifts but none more than the young who had yet to make it off the mountain for work, including Sybil.  She was an ordinary young woman, as Shifts tended to be, with wavy brown hair, honey-colored eyes, and an angular face. Her only unique features were the freckles that splashed across her cheeks. She was not unlovely. Her wide set eyes and pretty smile caught the admiration of more than one, but most would still consider her to be average. Her every memory was of this place, filled with her kin, within its Thaneish borders. It was all she knew, and, at seventeen, it would be another year or more before she would have the chance to know what else was out there.  She sat before a stone fireplace, long gone out, with a worn quilt drawn about her narrow shoulders. Frigid air blew in from cracks in the walls, and the old cabin creaked and groaned. It was the symphony to which she fell asleep most nights in these long winter months. She missed the cacophony of frogs, bugs, and birds that sang her to sleep in the summer. It could be quite boring being an underage Shift. You had to wait within the confines of the beorg (what they themselves called their mountain home) which was only a handful of acres. There was little to explore and little area to hunt or forage—a special tactic, no doubt, by the elites who managed the Shifts. It kept them dependent on their employment to Eastward, forcing a reliance on this employment just to bring food home. Outside of the thirteen roughly hewn, mostly dilapidated wood cabins the seventy or so Shifts shared, there were two outhouses, a storehouse, and a small gathering hall, which had recently been finished. One could only play tag or hide-and-seek in the woods so much as a child before it became very dull.  It could be quite interesting once training began. Aside from perfecting one’s shapeshifting capabilities, there was also a variety of other skills that needed mastering, which enabled them to perform crime at a higher level. Practicing with pistols, knives, and daggers, as well as wrestling and boxing with each other, proved entertaining, both to partake in and to observe. Sybil had once spent several hours practicing breaking into a safe that one Shift had smuggled back from a job.  And there were the stories. Stories of operations accomplished, of what life was like outside their borders, of what to expect, and what you needed to know about the magi.  So, it wasn’t all boring, and it was far from aimless, at least some of the time. But it was winter now, and no one felt like storytelling. There was little to do in the long dark days but sit around and stoke the meager fires.  Sybil stared into the dying embers. They needed more firewood badly, and she dreaded the task of bundling up to chop more when daylight came about. She’d love to pass the job off onto her brother, but he would be spending the morning at the gathering hall. It was Career Day today, and many magi would soon be arriving with needs to be met.  Perhaps that was the unique thing about Sybil. She and her brother Arthur were the only known blood relatives within their beorg. Most Shifts were dropped here between their first and second birthdays (when they typically exhibited signs of this unwanted magic) by the private managing firm of the Shift enterprises. Sybil and Art were dropped together, at six months and three years of age respectively. It caught the attention of the other Shifts at the time, but there was no way to know why or how this came to be. They were a fluke amongst their kin, and that was all there was to it.  Art believed there had to be some reason behind this abnormality, something special about the blood they shared, but neither of them held any specific theories. Sybil was starting to think that this blood relative thing was hurting her. Art was an exceptional Shift in many ways. He had great endurance in his work, able to full body shift for far longer than the rest of them with ease, atop being extremely adaptable.  Sybil, on the other hand, was not known for her shifting or fighting prowess, much to her dismay. Art reminded her she was three years younger than he and would get there with time and continued training. She could only hope. If she didn’t learn and master enough to garner attention from an employer, she’d find herself stuck in the beorg training new recruits, or worse, caring for the new drops.  Sybil shuddered at the thought. She knew it was hypocritical of her, considering someone had to keep her alive as a six-month-old Shift. Her eyes flitted to one of the sleeping figures on the lumpy, old mattress in the corner. Freida had raised both her and Art. She’d been good to them for so long, and Sybil deeply cared for her, even if she preferred not to admit it. But supervising toddlers and making sure they had something to eat was not the future for her. Sybil belonged off the mountain, or so she told herself as she practiced and trained as much as weather and time would allow. When she turned eighteen, she’d ensure there would be no excuse for anyone to not hire her.  “What are you doing awake?” A low voice asked.  Sybil jumped a little, consumed as she had been in her thoughts. She twisted to see her brother’s large figure lumbering towards her. Though he was only a shadow in the blackness of their cabin, she could picture his muscular frame, square chin, brown eyes, and close-cropped brown hair. He didn’t share her freckled face.  “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered truthfully.  Art lowered himself on the floor in front of her, mimicking her position by pulling his knees up and draping his arms over them. “Thinking about Career Day?” “Yeah.” “I know it’s hard on you when I go off for a while,” he said. It was hard on her, but she didn’t want to admit that to him. Art had always been successful in acquiring jobs, but in the last eight months, he’d been hired every single Career Day and been gone for not just a few days but for two to three weeks at a time. He never spoke about where he went or what he did. There was a code between employee and employer, obviously, but Sybil found his increasing absence more painful than she expected.  Art—and Freida, come to think of it—had been the only steady presences in her life. Art was the primary one who had been training her, and she knew under his tutelage she could excel as well. But, in the last months, they’d barely trained at all. He didn’t have the time to critique her shapeshifting, spar with her, or give her new tips about work away from their beorg. He’d be gone; he’d come back and crash hard, sleeping for several days straight; he’d wake just in time for the next Career Day.  There were others she could train with… Her mind wandered to tall, slim Xavier with his long hair and sharp gray eyes. But most paid her little mind, knowing she was Art’s sister, and steered clear.  “It is what it is,” she replied lamely.  “I wish I could tell you…” “It’s okay. I know the drill.” “You’ll be joining me soon. I know it. Before long, you’ll be eighteen, and employers will line up to hire you. I’ll vouch for you. Your resume will be more impressive than mine in no time,” Art said. Sybil rolled her eyes, “Yeah, right. I don’t exactly want to be hired just because you said I should. I want to be taken seriously because of my own skills.” “You will be.”  She scoffed. “Don’t lie to me, Art. You’ve never pulled your punches with me before; don’t start pandering to my feelings now.” “I’m not pandering to your feelings,” he said sharply. “And I’m not pulling my punches. You’re way more capable than you think you are. If you could just gain some confidence, you’d be a damn good Shift.”  “Oy, you two!” hissed a gravelly voice. Freida.  Art and Sybil glanced at her narrow figure, sitting up ominously in the bed.  “Hush up before you wake the rest of them!” Them, of course, referred to the five other kids who lived in their cabin: Joan, Roger, Dean, Nell, and Paul. They were all underage and under the general supervision of Freida, who had been retired from Shiftwork for eighteen years now.  Freida, Nell, and Joan slept on the solitary bed’s lumpy mattress, which was pushed into the far right corner. Sybil slept on a straw mat at the foot of the bed, and, on the opposite side of the room, only a few feet away from the girls’ bed, were two more pads on the floor. Paul and Roger shared one, and Dean and Art took the other.  “Save your chatter for the sun. I’m old, and I want to sleep.” “Sorry, Freida,” Art said. He looked back at Sybil, “Come on. We can talk more in the morning.”  Sybil nodded her head, but as she watched him soundlessly make his way through the cabin to his bed, she knew there would be no time to talk at all.  *** Morning came quickly. It seemed to Sybil that no sooner had she laid her head back down on her pallet that the first rays of sun broke through the single grimy window. She rubbed at her dry eyes and shivered. Art was already up and coaxing a fire back into the dead fireplace. He caught her looking at him. “You’ll have to get some more wood today, Syb,” he instructed. She didn’t respond except to tighten her hold on the thin blanket draped over her and pull it over her head.  “Now, now, up, you lot,” grunted Freida, nudging the two small, sleeping figures next to her in the bed before clambering out of it. At eighty-one, Freida was easily the oldest living Shift in the beorg. Her hair was iron gray and always tied back in a thick braid that hung down her bent frame with wisps about her wrinkled, weathered face. She was old, but she was a force to be reckoned with, complete with a foul tongue and keen insight. Her experience as a shapeshifter was unparalleled, but Freida was also the closest thing many Shifts had to a guardian. She garnered respect wherever she walked. And despite numerous injuries over the years and an achy back, she walked swiftly and surely.  Sybil felt a kick to her leg and emerged once more from her blanket. Freida had already pulled a worn flannel over her nightdress and was stepping into a brown skirt which she secured around her waist.  “Up now, or you’ll have no breakfast,” Freida ordered, moving to heat a pot of water over their fire.  “Do we have to go today?” Roger asked from his mat.  “Of course you’ll go today,” Freida snapped. “Show some loyalty to your kin, child.” “Besides, you learn a lot observing Career Days,” Art volunteered as he buttoned up his best pale jean shirt.  “They’re all the same,” Roger protested.  “You’ll go,” Freida said in a tone that confirmed the discussion was over and busied herself opening a can of beans. At her words, they dragged themselves from their beds and began to pull their clothes over their pajamas.  Outside of the beorg, on occasions like Career Day, it would’ve been right to dress in one’s Sunday best. But Shifts had no sacred Sundays and no best dress. Their garments were worn, patched, and frayed. With the winter temperatures, dressing consisted of layering on as many items as possible… and still being cold.  “Sybil, get the bread,” Freida ordered as she poured weak but scalding coffee into two tin mugs, one for herself and one for Sybil and Art to share. She drank from her cup immediately, not reacting at all to the steaming liquid reaching her tongue. That was Freida for you. It was as if she had no weakness. And if she did, she had suffered and persisted through it until only hardened scabs were left.  Sybil pulled a sweater over her head and reached under her pillow for the small handheld mirror. It was a cracked and somewhat useless excuse for a mirror, but it was all she had. She combed her hair with her fingers and swiftly swept it into a knot at her neck. “Stop ogling yourself, Syb. You look the same as the last time you checked,” Roger said, chucking a flannel at Dean. Both boys were in the throws of adolescence with gangly limbs, changing voices, and acne-peppered skin.  “I’m not ogling myself,” Sybil hissed, but she put the mirror back under her pallet. “The bread,” Freida reminded.  With a heavy sigh, Sybil crossed the cabin and rummaged through the solitary cabinet fastened to the cabin wall next to the fireplace. “There’s only two pieces left.” “Give ‘em to the young’uns,” Freida said, without looking up from her warming pot of beans.  Two delighted and dirty faces appeared at Sybil’s elbow. Paul and Nell. They greedily snatched the bread from her hands and began stuffing their mouths. Joan, straddling childhood and adolescence at twelve, looked longingly at the bread and dejectedly stuffed a leg into her trousers.  Each member of Sybil’s cabin had the same plainness to them that marked all Shifts, but their eyes were bright and their faces eager. As soon as the beans were heated, Freida doled the small portions onto tin plates, and the cabin mates scarfed them down.  Art passed on the coffee and let Sybil have the entire cup. She found this odd but didn’t say anything. She’d take what she could get to fill her stomach. Provisions were getting low this winter, and it was showing in the thin faces of Shifts all throughout the beorg.  “All right, let’s get to it,” said Art before the last bites had been swallowed. He stood by the door, waiting for everyone to line up before opening it to the cold, harsh air outside. Dean shrunk away, trying to slip back to his pallet; but Freida swatted him hard, and he braved the cold with the rest of them.  The sun was nearly high, and its light made the snow glisten. Icicles hung from the naked trees surrounding the beorg, their black shadows and silhouettes looming over them. Every slouchy, crooked cabin was coated in fresh fallen snow, and footprints dotted the ground leading from the cabin doors. Their breaths clouded around them, and their feet made crunching sounds as they crossed from their cabin past their neighbors’ cabins to the gathering hall in the center of the beorg.  Even in the most bitter weather, the Highlands were beautiful. While Sybil longed to go and see something—anything—else, she couldn’t ignore the beauty of the beorg. The weather could be harsh, but the land could also be fruitful and fragrant. Colorful.  The beorg was not large but not too small. There were about seventy Shifts residing at any given time, most between the ages of ten and forty. The cabins were the same—one room, made of log, and complete with a stone chimney. Several had front porches with rickety beams and slouching steps.  A gust of wind blew, and Sybil wrapped her arms around herself and ducked under Art’s arm into the gathering hall. A newer build, the hall was one of the few buildings that didn’t yet have holes or gaps in the walls for the air to pierce through. The fireplace was also larger and put out a decent amount of heat when lit. There were wooden benches where members sat for meetings and a long, narrow table neglected against a wall.  Some Shifts had beaten them to the hall and were already seated. More filed in behind them. They wore the same hard expressions, their mouths in grim lines and their eyes heavy. No one was very clean; Sybil couldn’t recall the last time she’d managed more than a sponge bath since the weather turned. The exception was a tall man in a dark navy blue suit, a long wool coat draped over his arm. Caught off guard, Sybil blinked a few times. She had never seen him before. He had neatly trimmed brownish-red hair and a perfectly shaped beard, not like the Shift men whose hair and beards hung long and greasy.  Sybil nudged Art, “Look over there. Who’s the suit?”  Art had already noticed him. He glanced sideways at Sybil before seating Joan, Nell, and the boys on a bench in the back of the room where underage Shifts observed Career Days. He took Sybil’s elbow and pulled her close. “I’ve never seen him before,” he mumbled. “Never been at a Career Day?” Repeat employers were very common. Art answered with a swift shake of his head. “And not only that… Look around. He’s the only one here.”  He was right. She’d been to many Career Days, and there were always multiple employers. The fewest she’d ever seen in one meeting was three. Always dressed well and always with lots of money. Most employers were jumpy and often seemed in a hurry to leave, just in case someone discovered they’d been here. But this man seemed to have an air of authority about him. A powerful confidence that took control of the room. He wasn’t reacting in the slightest to the numerous sets of eyes on him or whispers about him. “I’ll see you,” Art said, releasing her arm and making his way up front to sit with the other adult Shifts. “Come sit,” Freida said to Sybil, patting the bench next to her. “And don’t look so interested.” Sybil detected the slightest apprehension in Freida’s voice. It made her sound more cross than usual. “Who do you think he is?” Sybil asked quietly.  “Whoever he is, he’s nothing special. He’s just another employer, Sybil. Another one ready to take advantage of our skills and misfortune. They’re all the same. Best to remember that.”  But Sybil thought that he looked quite comfortable, like he had all the time in the world to be in the presence of a bunch of dirty criminals.