For your consideration: modern era fae being tagged with those anklets or a radio collar to track their movement and courts by human researchers, refusing to acknowledge that Hey Maybe These Are People And We Shouldn't Do That
Anon what did you DO, suddenly I have IDEAS
TWS: dehumanization, it as a pronoun, electrocution
"I've got movement in sector D-23."
"Petra, they’re fae. When are they not moving?”
Petra scowls and props her chin on one hand, squinting at the display from the trail cam embedded into a tree in the sector she’s tasked with monitoring today. Sure enough, the flickering brush soon parts to reveal the slope of creamy, black-and-tawn flecked wings and the slender, knobby joints of a fae’s body. It hops closer to the camera, digging those thick talons into the bark of the branch, and Petra can’t help startling backwards a little when a pointed face suddenly darts at the lens, snapping teeth close enough to crack over the mic that feeds ambient forest sounds into the bud lodged in Petra’s ear.
Frank glares irritably at her smothered yelp. “C’mon, it’s just a camera feed. Chill.”
“Fuck you. It’s attacking the camera.”
“They do that. ‘s why we have that contract for fae-proof glass. All the lenses are made of it, they can’t scratch em dark any more.”
Sure enough, the fae seems to get bored after a few swipes at the lens. Petra takes a few freeze-frames of sharp, lowered brows over honey-dark eyes half-hidden behind a fringe of dark hair, those strange slit pupils glass-pointed with frustrated intent. This one has feathers sweeping back from the base knuckles over the backs of its hands. They flare upwards when it fists or grips the branch, and she grabs some captures of that too. Possibly a threat display, she writes absently.
She pans the camera after it when it hops down. It must hear the mechanism, because it freezes, head swiveling up to glare back at the camera, then calls, a high, trilling sound that sends a shiver down Petra’s spine. Suddenly, she feels very small and very watched. She resists looking up, but she can’t keep her shoulders from hunching towards her ears. It’s instinct, deeper than thought. She’s prey, and the thing she’s watching is watching her back.