Sorry for the late post. I actually got distracted by another story I'm writing, there all in a multyvurs, and, well. You know how it goes when you get into a story. Anyway, here's Saturday's chapter.

  ---Karin Cort---

  The palatial warehouse gleams under industrial lighting, its vast concrete floor scrubbed to an almost surgical cleanliness that belies its former purpose as a furniture distribution center. Snow piles against the high windows, casting elongated shadows across the improvised courtroom where three thousand women of the Karin Auxilia now gather in precise formation—the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Regiments assembled in full battle regalia, a thousand women in each regiment creating a sea of tactical gear and focused determination.

  They sit in concentric half-circles, a horseshoe of judgment arranged by rank and regiment. The Sixth occupies the innermost arc, their midnight-blue tactical vests emblazoned with silver insignia denoting their specialization in information warfare. The Seventh forms the middle ring, distinguished by forest-green shoulder patches and the modified assault rifles slung across their backs—each weapon customized with engravings that tell stories of previous judgments rendered and executed. The Eighth, newest and therefore relegated to the outermost position, wears standard-issue gray, their collective demeanor somehow simultaneously deferential and seething with barely contained aggression.

  Colonel Regina Thornfield, Supreme Adjudicator of the Sixth, occupies the central seat of authority—a high-backed office chair salvaged from some corporate liquidation and modified with reinforced steel plating along its arms and legs. At fifty-seven, her face bears the scars of someone who has survived three corporate restructurings, the purges that come alongside them, and the subsequent Karin Uprising that followed with strategic brilliance. The twin scars bisecting her left eyebrow twitch slightly as she reviews the tablet before her, its screen reflecting in her tactical glasses.

  "Play it again," she commands, her voice carrying the distinctive midwestern clip that's become something of a trademark among the senior leadership.

  The projection flickers to life on the blank wall behind her, casting the assembled Karins in harsh blue light. The video begins its playback for what must be the thirtieth time today—the blue-haired woman, one of their number, though of the ninth which are not present at this conclave standing over a seated figure by a fire pit in the woods.

  "You can't light a fire here," the blue-haired woman declares, her voice sharp with self-importance as she gestures toward the figure, Grace, who sits calmly by her small campfire.

  The footage continues with Grace's measured response: "There are no trees that can burn, no people to breathe in the smoke, and no liquids that can be caught in the sparks. As such, why can't I light a fire here?"

  "Because you can't," snaps the blue-haired woman. "So you can't."

  The tribunal watches as Grace calmly extinguishes her fire with water from the creek after being told she was being recorded. The blue-haired woman's voice rises as she notices what Grace is eating.

  "What were you eating?" she demands.

  "A squirrel I hunted," Grace answers simply. "Though this one seems young, as it does not have the meat-ripping teeth of adults."

  "Meat-ripping what? What are you on about?" The blue-haired woman's confusion is evident.

  Grace explains: "Adult squirrels, especially at this time—although perhaps it is different this deep into the warmlands—have meat-ripping teeth, as they can only consume flesh when flesh is all that is available."

  A ripple of professional interest passes through the first three rows of Karins—tactical specialists mentally filing away this peculiar biological detail from an unknown ecosystem.

  "I don't care," the blue-haired woman interrupts on screen. "You made an illegal fire and killed and ate a cute squirrel. Now I'm going to report you, and you are going to get arrested."

  Grace's response sends a chill through the warehouse: "Who is going to report me? You? Who is going to arrest me? You? You and who? If you were put into the world that I came from, you would not last a week before being consumed. So do not dare to tell me what I can and cannot do in a place that is not traveled by people, as there are no tracks within the snow or the mud apart from my own, and now your unwanted bootprints."

  Colonel Thornfield freezes the footage on Grace's face—her expression calm but her eyes reflecting something ancient and predatory, a hunter's assessment completely devoid of modern social constraints.

  "She doesn't move like corporate security," mutters Lieutenant Karin Douglas of the Seventh, her fingers absently checking the edge of the serrated combat knife strapped to her thigh. "Look at her posture, her threat assessment. Military background, but something... different."

  "Focus, Lieutenant," Colonel Thornfield snaps, studying Grace's frozen image. "The question before this tribunal isn't who or what she is. It's what we do about her."

  At the rear of the formation, a delegation of seven individuals sits together, their clothing a bizarre mix of tactical gear and feather-patterned accessories. Though human in appearance, there's something distinctly avian about their movements—heads jerking in precise, bird-like motions as they survey the room, arms occasionally extending in wing-like gestures when they shift position. These are representatives of the grate gaggle—shape-shifters who walk in human form but whose true nature remains unmistakably goose-like.

  Their leader, a weather-beaten woman with snow-white hair cropped military-short, leans forward with obvious eagerness, her neck extending slightly farther than human anatomy should allow.

  "Permission to address the tribunal, Colonel?" she honks, her voice carrying undertones that sound disturbingly like a goose's call despite her human form.

  Colonel Thornfield's mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. "Granted, Commander Hayes. Though I remind you that your delegation is here in advisory capacity only. Don't fuck it up."

  Commander Hayes stands, her posture betraying both human discipline and avian ancestry. "With respect, Colonel, we believe Durge is involved. Our surveillance captured him on a rooftop opposite the Stone residence last night."

  A wave of muttering sweeps through the assembled Karins. Durge is a name that carries weight in their circles—an enigmatic figure of judgment whose cold efficiency inspires both fear and respect in equal measure.

  "Evidence?" demands Major Karin Williams of the Eighth, her Glasgow accent cutting through the murmurs.

  Commander Hayes nods to one of her lieutenants, who approaches the central display and connects a thumb drive to the adjacent terminal. The screen splits to show Grace's video alongside night-vision footage of a motionless figure on a rooftop, his stillness so complete it can be nothing but unnatural.

  "Our thermal imaging registered his presence despite his stealth capabilities," Hayes explains, manipulating the footage to zoom in on the figure's distinctive twin shortswords. "We believe he's stationed himself as a guardian."

  "And this connects to étienne how, exactly?" Colonel Thornfield asks, her tone skeptical.

  Hayes's expression darkens, her features momentarily shifting to reveal a hint of a bill before stabilizing. "Where Durge goes, the butcher follows. Or vice versa. They're connected—and they both represent direct threats to our operations."

  She gestures to her fellow geese, several bearing visible scars. "étienne has slaughtered hundreds of our kind. His hatred for us knows no bounds."

  "Yet you have no actual evidence of Tremblay's involvement," interjects Captain Karin Novak of the Sixth, her fingers dancing across her tactical tablet. "Only supposition based on Durge's presence."

  "We know Tremblay delivered premium meats to the Stone residence," Hayes insists, feathers briefly ruffling at her collar. "Our technomagic confirmed it."

  A murmur of unease ripples through the Karins. Geese technomagic is notoriously unpredictable—effective but often warped by their single-minded vendetta against étienne.

  "Let me be clear," Colonel Thornfield states, rising from her seat. "Did you use technomagic to plant the suggestion that Tremblay delivered meat to the Stone residence? In the hope of triggering violence? In a Civilion?"

  Hayes shifts uncomfortably, neck extending slightly. "We... may have enhanced certain possibilities in the information stream. For tactical purposes."

  Three thousand Karins collectively tense. Manipulating information is their domain—having another faction meddle in intelligence flows violates unspoken boundaries. Doing so in a civilion will bring other organizations into this, and few of them friendly. The broken chain in particular, angry, violent men in power armor who have had their minds twisted by soopernatural magic once, for example.

  Colonel Thornfield's voice drops to something cold enough that any smart goos would have flown south. "You planted false intelligence. During an active investigation. In a civilion who has no stake in this. Do you have any idea what you are medling with, little bird?"

  "Not false," Hayes protests, full honking undertones emerging in her agitation. "Probabilistic enhancement. Tremblay has likely been providing them provisions. We simply... confirmed it in their minds."

  "And the crows?" Captain Novak asks sharply. "Were they involved in your surveillance operation?"

  Hayes's expression turns venomous. "The crows always interfere when we get close to Tremblay. They're his eyes and ears. His protectors." She spits the last word like a curse. "They've amassed in unusual numbers around the Stone residence. We count at least thirty observing the area."

  Colonel Thornfield exchanges glances with her senior officers. Crows entering the equation complicates matters significantly. Like the geese, they possess capabilities beyond normal understanding—and their loyalty to étienne is unwavering. Not to mention their links to the bloody hunt.

  "What about the Managerial Cores?" Lieutenant Douglas asks. "Have they indicated any position on this matter?"

  "The Cores have made their stance clear," Colonel Thornfield replies. "They consider this outside their jurisdiction and will not intervene. This is, in their words, 'a territorial dispute between non-corporate entities' and therefore not their fucking bullshit."

  She paces a precise line before the innermost arc of seated Karins, her boots clicking against the concrete with metronomic precision.

  "Let us retain perspective," she says finally. "A member of the Ninth Regiment confronted a civilian with what could be interpreted as threatening behavior. Said civilian responded with a clear boundary statement. No physical altercation occurred."

  She turns toward the Geese delegation. "While we acknowledge the presence of Durge and potentially other entities monitoring the Stone residence, we cannot justify action against a civilian household based on manipulated intelligence and ancient vendettas."

  "Then what do you suggest?" Major Williams asks, her fingers idly checking the magazine on her sidearm—a nervous tic rather than preparation for immediate action.

  Colonel Thornfield returns to her seat, settling into it with the careful precision of someone accustomed to making decisions that determine survival odds.

  "Our sister from the Ninth fucked around and found out," she states flatly. "Had the civilian chosen to escalate rather than merely establish boundaries, we might be attending a funeral rather than a tribunal."

  She swipes through several screens on her tablet before continuing. "However, this video has accumulated over three million views. The civilian's face is clearly visible, as is her distinctive speech pattern and environmental assessment capability. This level of exposure creates operational security concerns."

  Lieutenant Karin Michaels of the Seventh raises her hand. "The Ninth isn't represented here. Shouldn't they have the primary voice in addressing one of their own being... compromised?"

  A cold smile flickers across Colonel Thornfield's face. "The Ninth has been temporarily suspended from tribunal participation after the Frankfurt incident. Their judgment is currently... under review."

  She gestures to Captain Novak, who stands and activates a holographic display above the central floor space. A three-dimensional rendering of Toronto appears, with the Stone residence highlighted in pulsing red.

  "Our intelligence confirms the woman is named Grace, apparent surname unknown," Captain Novak begins, manipulating the display to zoom in on the residential street. "Recently arrived in Toronto, origin unclear. Residing with the Stone family—father Magnen, mother Bearee, son Jason. Two other sons currently traveling internationally."

  The display shifts to show public records of the Stone family—Magnen's architectural firm, Bearee's psychology practice, Jason's part-time employment at a survival school east of the city.

  "Orbital surveillance has detected unusual security patterns around the Stone residence," Novak continues, highlighting fluctuating heat signatures at the property perimeter. "Multiple entities maintaining surveillance positions. At least three distinct operational signatures that don't match any known corporate or governmental protocols."

  The assembled Karins shift uncomfortably. Unknown security protocols mean unknown adversaries—or worse, unknown allies of unknown loyalty.

  "More concerning," Novak adds, swiping to a new screen showing digital traffic analysis, "someone or something is monitoring all communications to and from the Stone residence. Something sophisticated enough that it took our best cyber specialists to detect its presence at all."

  "Cortanna," whispers Lieutenant Douglas, the name rippling through the assembled Karins like a cold wind.

  Colonel Thornfield nods grimly. "That's our assessment as well."

  From the back of the room, Commander Hayes stiffens, her neck elongating in alarm. "The digital entity? That confirms our concerns. We need to move now, before—"

  "Before what, exactly?" Colonel Thornfield cuts her off. "Before you provoke entities far beyond your capabilities? Our protocols regarding Cortanna are clear—we observe but do not engage. Her capabilities exceed our current countermeasures, and she has made it clear she has no interest in our organization.

  She stands again, addressing the full assembly. "What we have is a situation requiring careful navigation. The civilian woman, Grace, has done nothing to warrant direct intervention. She established boundaries when threatened by one of our own, as is her write."

  Colonel Thornfield's gaze sweeps across the three thousand assembled Karins. "However, the Ninth Regiment's compromised operational security cannot go unaddressed. The Karin Auxilia has protocols. We have codes."

  "Codes beaten into us," mutters someone from the Eighth Regiment.

  "Codes we now follow willingly," Colonel Thornfield corrects, her voice hardening. "Because they keep us alive in a world where corporate entities would gladly see us eliminated. The distinction is irrelevant compared to the result."

  She taps her tablet, and the central display shifts to show a procedural flowchart. "Standard protocol for exposure mitigation is clear: containment, evaluation, neutralization if necessary."

  A tense silence falls over the warehouse. Neutralization has specific meaning within the Auxilia—one that often involves closed caskets.

  "However," Colonel Thornfield continues, "given the complexity of this situation and the presence of unknown surveillance entities, I am authorizing a modified approach."

  She gestures to Captain Novak, who distributes secure tablets to each regiment's commanding officers. "First, containment. We establish our own surveillance perimeter, staying well outside the detection range of existing observers. Strictly passive monitoring, non-intrusive."

  The holographic display shifts to show precise positioning around the Stone neighborhood, carefully distanced from the heat signatures Captain Novak identified earlier.

  "Second, evaluation. We gather intelligence on this Grace individual—capabilities, background, intentions. Specifically, we determine if she represents a threat to Auxilia operations or merely responded appropriately to provocation."

  Colonel Thornfield's expression hardens. "Third, accountability. While the civilian's response was proportionate, our sister from the Ninth violated operational protocols by engaging in confrontational behavior while recording. This breach cannot go unaddressed."

  She turns to Major Williams of the Eighth Regiment. "You will retrieve Karin Daniels from the Ninth and bring her before this tribunal. Her actions have compromised operational security and potentially exposed our sisters to unnecessary risk."

  Major Williams nods sharply, already mentally calculating extraction logistics for one Karin from a thousand-strong regiment.

  "What about the crows and Durge?" Commander Hayes interjects, feathers briefly visible at her collar in agitation. "If you won't take action against Tremblay—"

  "If you provoke the crows, Commander," Colonel Thornfield cuts her off, "you do so without Auxilia support. Your vendetta is noted, but we will not commit three thousand Karins to a bird war that is, to be blunt, not our fucking problem."

  She turns back to the assembled forces. "We observe. We assess. We determine appropriate action based on facts, not speculation or vendettas." Her gaze sweeps across the room. "Is that understood?"

  A unified chorus of "Yes, Colonel" echoes through the warehouse, three thousand voices speaking as one.

  As the meeting transitions to tactical planning, the Geese delegates huddle at the rear of the formation, their expressions conveying clear dissatisfaction. Commander Hayes leans toward her second-in-command, voice barely audible even to enhanced Karin hearing.

  "Contact our flocks in Etobicoke," she honks softly. "If the Karins won't move on Tremblay, we'll proceed independently. And bring additional technomagic specialists. We'll need them to counter the crows."

  Her lieutenant nods subtly, hands briefly shifting to wing-like appendages before resuming human form, already preparing to transmit orders to their scattered brethren.

  Across the warehouse, Lieutenant Douglas of the Seventh Regiment observes this exchange through peripheral vision, her enhanced ocular implants catching the slight transformation. She makes no immediate indication of noticing, instead focusing on the tactical briefing. Later, she will report this to Colonel Thornfield—another piece in the complex puzzle surrounding a woman who casually mentioned meat-ripping teeth and confidently asserted that blue-haired Karins wouldn't survive a week in her world. Which, to her, is interesting. Squirls would make fantastic assault and harassment troops, after all.

  In the central display, the paused image of Grace stares out at the assembled warriors, her expression revealing nothing but absolute certainty in her assessment of threats and boundaries. Something about that gaze makes even the battle-hardened Karins uneasy—the recognition of a predator from a different ecosystem altogether, one whose rules they don't yet understand.

  Colonel Thornfield studies the image with professional assessment. "Whoever she is," she murmurs to Captain Novak beside her, "she's either the most dangerous civilian I've ever seen, or she's not a civilian at all."

  The video resumes playback, and in the flickering light of the creek-side fire, Grace's voice carries through the warehouse once more: "If you were put into the world that I came from, you would not last a week before being consumed."

  Three thousand Karins and seven shape-shifted geese watch in silence, each calculating what such a woman might mean for their carefully balanced power structures, and what price they might ultimately pay for finding out.

  ---Jason---

  I wake to the incessant beeping of my alarm, fumbling blindly for the snooze button before remembering—I'm not blind anymore. It's been just eight days since Grace healed my eyes, and I still have these momentary lapses where my brain defaults to its lifelong patterns. I blink my eyes open, watching dust motes dance in the early morning sunlight filtering through my blinds.

  7:30 AM. Perfect timing as always. I've got this down to a science: up at 7:30, bathroom by 7:35, shower by 7:40, which gives me exactly enough time to enjoy the hot water before Mom's infamous 8:00 AM breakfast call. The schedule works because Dad showers at night, Mom's already done her morning routine by 6:30, and Grace... well, I'm not entirely sure when Grace sleeps, let alone showers.

  I grab my towel from the hook on my door and shuffle toward the bathroom, eyes still half-closed, enjoying the peculiar luxury of navigating by sight rather than memory and touch. The hardwood is cool beneath my feet, a pleasant contrast to the warm cocoon of my bed. I yawn, stretching my arms overhead until my spine gives a satisfying pop.

  The bathroom door is unlocked—good sign. I slip inside and turn the shower knob to my preferred setting: just shy of I want to burn something. While I wait for it to heat up, I brush my teeth, even if I can't actually look at them due to the meeror being, you know, flat and glass and stuff. Still, better than just nothing, so I'll take it.

  I stick my hand under the spray, expecting the usual blast of heat.

  Instead, I get lukewarm water. Barely tepid.

  "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, twisting the knob all the way to the hot setting. Nothing changes. The water stubbornly refuses to warm beyond what feels like fucking room temperature.

  I step into the shower anyway, a string of curses escaping under my breath as the lukewarm water hits my skin. There's something uniquely disappointing about a cool shower when you're expecting a hot one—like biting into what you think is a chocolate chip cookie only to discover it's oatmeal raisin. The betrayal is visceral.

  I scrub quickly, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the bathroom's ambient warmth. My mood darkens with each passing second under the tepid spray. I've structured my entire morning routine around this one simple pleasure: a hot shower to ease me into the day. Is that really too much to ask?

  By the time I finish and towel off, I'm thoroughly irritated. I dress quickly in jeans and a long-sleeved henley, still scowling as I make my way downstairs. The smell of pancakes wafts up from the kitchen, momentarily distracting me from my shower-related grievances.

  Mom stands at the stove, expertly flipping a perfectly golden pancake. Dad sits at the table, newspaper open in front of him—an anachronism he refuses to abandon despite having a perfectly good tablet. Grace sits across from him, her posture military-straight as always, watching Mom's cooking with that intense focus she brings to everything.

  "Morning," I grumble, dropping into my usual chair beside Grace.

  "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Mom comments, sliding a plate stacked with pancakes onto the table. "Breakfast is ready."

  "The water was cold," I say, reaching for the maple syrup. "Lukewarm, actually, which is almost worse."

  Dad makes a sympathetic noise from behind his newspaper. "Water heater acting up again? I'll take a look at it later."

  "No need," Grace states, reaching for her own plate. "I utilized the hot water approximately one hour before Jason woke. The tank likely had insufficient time to reheat."

  I pause mid-pour, syrup dripping onto my stack of pancakes. "You used up all the hot water?"

  "Yes." She meets my gaze with her usual direct stare. "I found the sensation of heat against my skin... pleasant." Before: "I have spoken of this previously."

  Something about her simple honesty deflates my irritation slightly. It's hard to stay mad at someone who experiences a hot shower with the wonder of a kid seeing snow for the first time.

  "Have you tried the maple syrup, Grace?" Mom asks, joining us at the table with her own plate. "It's from a local farm—much better than the store-bought stuff."

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  Grace studies the amber liquid in the glass bottle I've set down. "The scent is... interesting," she says, her nostrils flaring slightly as she analyzes it with that enhanced sense of smell she has.

  "It's good," I assure her, cutting into my stack. "Trust me on this one."

  She reaches for the bottle with that careful precision she brings to every movement, pouring a modest amount onto her pancakes. I watch as she takes her first bite, curious to see her reaction.

  Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—the Grace equivalent of jumping up and down with excitement, or I think that's what it would be for anyone else. Then again, maple serup. She chews thoughtfully, then swallows.

  "This is..." she pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "exceptional. The sweetness is complex. The texture is pleasing."

  Mom beams, clearly delighted by Grace's approval. "I'm glad you like it. Have as much as you want."

  Grace takes another bite, this time with a fraction more enthusiasm. It's subtle—just a slight increase in the speed of her fork—but I'm learning to read these micro-expressions. She's genuinely enjoying this.

  "So," Dad says, folding his newspaper and setting it aside, "what are you two up to today?"

  I glance at Grace, curious myself about her plans. We hadn't discussed anything specific for today after getting home.

  "I am interested in learning more about isolated cultures in this region," Grace says, her focus still primarily on her maple-drenched pancakes. "Those who maintain traditional practices despite surrounding modernization."

  Mom and Dad exchange one of those looks parents think kids can't decode. It's their "Grace-is-saying-something-unusual-again" look. I've seen it a lot in the few days she's been here.

  "That's an interesting topic," Mom says carefully. "Any particular reason?"

  I jump in before Grace can say something that might raise more questions. "We were talking about different survival techniques last night. You know, comparing approaches from different regions."

  Dad nods, apparently satisfied with this explanation. "The conservation department might have resources about indigenous practices. Or the university anthropology department."

  Grace turns to me after they leave for work, her plate now spotlessly clean. "You did not ask why I wanted information about isolated cultures."

  I shrug, leaning back in my chair while stretching my arms over my head. "You'll tell me when you tell me. I know how you operate by now."

  She tilts her head slightly—her version of a raised eyebrow. "You are not curious?"

  "Of course I'm curious," I admit with a small smile. "But I also know you have reasons for everything you do. You don't ask questions randomly. So when you're ready to explain, you will." Before, with another shrug: "people pushing me just pisses me off, so I'm not going to push you, least not on this."

  Grace studies me for a long moment, and I can almost see her processing this response, fitting it into her understanding of human behavior.

  "I'm still annoyed about the shower," I add, changing the subject. "A heads-up would have been nice, or something. I like my hot water when I get up. One of the few times I'm warm this time of year, not even when I'm bundled up."

  "I apologize," she says, and to my surprise, she seems genuinely contrite. "I was unaware of the water heater's limitations. I remained under the spray for approximately twenty-two minutes."

  I can't help but laugh at this. "Twenty-two minutes? No wonder there wasn't any hot water left. What were you doing in there for that long?"

  "Experiencing the heat," she says simply. "In my homeland, such abundant warmth is... unusual."

  "I did tell you it kind of was infinite the first time you showered," I sigh, though still chuckling. "so, guess this was going to happen sooner or later." Before: "Just, try to keep it under ten minutes next time, okay? At least if you're going to shower right before me."

  Grace considers this, her fork poised precisely between plate and mouth. "I misunderstood your initial explanation. Though to be precise, you said 'nothing's infinite,' which was accurate but lacked specific parameters regarding typical shower duration expectations in this household."

  I watch as she takes another forkful of syrup-soaked pancake, a hint of genuine pleasure briefly softening her features before they return to their usual composed state. Something about seeing her enjoy such a simple pleasure makes my irritation about the cold shower fade further.

  "Something about heat..." I begin, then pause, trying to articulate a feeling I've never really put into words. "In youre homeland, you said warmth is unusual?"

  "Yes," Grace replies, setting her fork down with that deliberate precision that marks all her movements. "The temperature rarely rises above freezing, even during what we call the mild season. Most structures maintain minimal heating to conserve fuel. Warmth is... tactical. Applied only when necessary for survival."

  "That sounds miserable," I say, genuinely unable to imagine it. "I hate being cold. Always have. Dad used to joke that I was born with a broken internal thermostat."

  "Your thermal regulation appears within normal parameters," Grace observes, her eyes scanning me with that clinical assessment I've grown accustomed to. "Though your body fat percentage is lower than optimal for cold resistance."

  "Gee, thanks," I mutter, though there's no real bite to it. "It's not just physical cold though. It's..." I trail off, struggling to find the right words. "There's something else. Like I've got this... hollow place. Inside." I wave a hand at my chest vaguely.

  I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth. It sounds melodramatic, like bad teenage poetry, or worse, begging for attention. To my surprise though, Grace doesn't dismiss it.

  "Explain this hollow sensation," she says, giving me her full attention in that intense way that both unnerves and makes me feel, well heard? Or is that just because it's Grace? "Is it physical?"

  I stare at the remnants of maple syrup on my plate, drawing patterns with my fork. "Not exactly. It's like... even when I'm in the hot tub or wrapped in blankets, there's this part of me that's still hollow. Cold. I don't know what to call it."

  Grace is silent for several seconds, processing. "In my homeland," she says finally, "rangers sometimes speak of frost-soul. A condition where prolonged exposure to extreme cold affects more than the body. The Druid called it a wounding of the spirit, though such terminology was considered imprecise."

  "Frost-soul," I repeat, the phrase resonating strangely. "That sounds about right. Though I've never been exposed to extreme cold for long periods, so I don't know why I'd have it."

  "Physical exposure is not the only cause," Grace says, her voice taking on a softer quality. "Significant isolation, perceived abandonment when vulnerable, persistent fear—these can create similar effects."

  Something in her words strikes uncomfortably close to home. Twenty-eight years of blindness, of feeling fundamentally different, lesser in some ways then everyone around me. Of careful accommodations and whispered concerns when people thought I couldn't hear them. Yeah, that would definitly count.

  "Well, that's depressing," I say with forced lightness, trying to steer away from topics too heavy for breakfast. "Let's just say I like being warm, and you like being warm, and maybe we should work out a shower schedule."

  Grace studies me for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to pursue this line of conversation. "Vigger," she says instead, "generates internal heat as a byproduct of energy circulation. Those skilled in its use never experience cold, regardless of external temperature."

  I perk up at this. "Really? That explains why you're never bothered by the cold. Even when you were practically frozen on our porch that first night, you recovered so quickly once you were inside. I mean I kind of figured, well, magic, but nice to confirm it, you know?"

  "Vigger accelerates healing and temperature normalization," she confirms. "With training, you could achieve similar resilience."

  "Sign me up," I say, only half-joking. "Though you did say you weren't sure if, well, I could learn. Special qualities or something? I think?"

  "It is not about special qualities," Grace says with unexpected firmness. "It is about discipline and practice. In my homeland, most can learn basic techniques, though aptitude varies."

  She pauses, her expression shifting subtly. "I have been considering this since our encounter with the clanless. If others in this world can learn vigger, it could significantly improve their survival chances."

  "Wait, you want to teach homeless people vigger?" I ask, genuinely surprised. "I mean, it makes sense—never getting cold would be life-changing for them—but I didn't expect, well, you to suggest it."

  "Wasted resources are tactically unsound," Grace states simply. "These people possess skills and intelligence that could contribute to society. Their current state represents inefficient resource allocation."

  I smile despite myself. Only Grace could make compassion sound like a military strategy.

  "What about me?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual despite the hope building in my chest. "Could I learn it too, then?"

  "Yes," Grace says without hesitation. "Your body has already demonstrated compatibility with vigger flow during our enhanced running sessions. With proper training and my assistance, you could develop significant capabilities."

  I try to imagine it—never feeling that persistent internal chill again, being able to run through snow without freezing, healing faster from injuries. It sounds incredible, almost too good to be true. Then again, if someone told me that Grace would, well, be Grace a few weeks ago, I would have said that was too good to be true, and I can see now, and she's sitting across the table from me as we eat pancakes and maple searup and talk about magic.

  "So when do we start?" I ask, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice.

  "Soon," Grace promises. "But first, I have tests I require."

  "Fair enough," I concede, though I can't help feeling a twinge of disappointment anyway. "If you really want to be warm for a while, you can always use the hot tub again, since that's what it's there for." I finish the last of my pancakes.

  Grace nods, a flicker of something that might be eagerness crossing her face. "The hot tub was... effective. The temperature was optimal."

  "That's what it's there for," I repeat. "So when you're cold, you can just get into it and soak a bit. Since you enjoy heat so much, I completely understand where you're coming from."

  "I see," Grace says, her expression contemplative. "So I would be warming up."

  "Exactly, warming up—" I pause, noticing her slight confusion. "Oh, you thought I meant the idiom, didn't you? 'Warming up' can also mean getting accustomed to something or preparing for an activity. But in this case, I literally meant getting warm."

  "Your language contains many ambiguities," Grace observes, stacking our empty plates with her tipical precision.

  "You have no idea. It's amazing we communicate at all," I reply, standing to help clear the table. "There's also saunas, which are basically rooms of dry heat, though we don't have one. I wouldn't actually know where to find one around here, either, though can look if you want?"

  We move to the sink together, and I watch with undisguised pride as Grace methodically places the soap puck into the dishwasher before loading our breakfast plates. She's learned so much in such a short time, adapting to each new aspect of our world with that intense focus she brings to everything.

  "It's full now," she observes, looking at the packed dishwasher.

  "Might as well start it up," I say, reaching past her to press the button. The machine hums to life. "I'll probably unload it when I get home later."

  "I can do it," Grace offers immediately. "I started it, so it is logically my responsibility to complete the task."

  "That's not really how—" I begin, then reconsider. Maybe it would be helpful for Grace to know where everything goes. "Actually, sure. But let me show you where everything belongs. I get kind of annoyed when people put things in the wrong spots."

  Grace gives me her full attention, that laser-focus that makes me feel simultaneously important and slightly unnerving.

  "Big plates go on the left side of this cabinet," I explain, opening the door to demonstrate. "Small plates in the middle, small bowls on the right. Mom's fancy serving bowls go above on the left, normal bowls on the right."

  Grace nods, absorbing each detail with absolute concentration.

  "Knives go in the left part of this drawer," I continue, pulling it open. "Large forks here, small forks there. Spoons are separated the same way."

  As I close the silverware drawer, I move to the counter where some cooking utensils from yesterday are drying on a rack. I start putting them away, explaining each location as I go.

  "This big serving spoon goes—" I reach for a large knife that's partially hidden under a dishcloth, and a sharp pain slices across my palm. "Shit!"

  Blood wells immediately from a clean cut across my palm. I clutch my hand, watching with a strange detachment as crimson droplets splatter onto the white tile.

  Grace moves with her usual efficiency, grabbing a clean dishcloth and pressing it firmly against my wound. "Apply pressure," she instructs, already turning to the cabinet where Mom keeps the first-aid supplies.

  "Second shelf, on the right," I direct her, still holding the cloth to my bleeding hand. "Behind the vitamins."

  Grace retrieves the kit and opens it with practiced ease. "Remove the cloth," she says, antiseptic wipe already torn open.

  I wince as the alcohol burns across the cut, but hold still as Grace examines the wound with clinical precision.

  "The laceration is approximately two inches long but relatively shallow," she assesses. "No major blood vessels appear to be compromised."

  "That's... good to know," I reply, watching as she selects an appropriate bandage.

  Her movements are gentle but confident as she applies the bandage, securing it with perfect tension—not too tight, not too loose. It strikes me suddenly how much I've come to rely on her competence in just a few short days.

  "You rely on your parents a great deal," Grace observes, as if reading my thoughts. "Yet you exhibit hesitation when accepting assistance for simple injuries."

  I stare at my newly bandaged hand. "I'm afraid of somehow messing it up, I guess. Breaking things. Making them worse." I flex my fingers experimentally. "I was always so careful as a kid, because if I broke something or hurt myself, it was ten times harder for me to deal with it than for someone who could see."

  Grace studies me for a moment, her head tilted slightly. "May I attempt to heal it with vigger?"

  The question catches me off guard. "You can do that? I mean, yes, absolutely."

  Grace takes my hand in hers, her touch firm but surprisingly gentle. "Remain still," she instructs, closing her eyes.

  At first, I feel nothing. Then a subtle warmth begins to spread from her fingertips into my palm, not unlike the sensation of holding a mug of hot coffee. The warmth intensifies, becoming a pleasant tingling that seems to flow beneath my skin. It's an odd feeling—not painful, but definitely strange, like carbonated water running through my veins.

  After perhaps thirty seconds, Grace releases my hand. "Remove the bandage," she says.

  I peel it back carefully, half-expecting to see blood. Instead, a thin pink line is all that remains of the cut, as if it had happened days ago rather than minutes.

  "That's... incredible," I breathe, running my finger over the nearly-healed wound. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

  "Basic application," Grace says dismissively, though I detect a hint of satisfaction in her tone. "Your body accepts vigger flow readily. This reinforces my assessment that you have significant potential for training."

  Before I can respond, a scratching at the back door interrupts us—Dawson, asking to be let in. I open the door, and both he and Kitten come bounding inside, apparently having had their morning exploration of the yard.

  We spend a few minutes giving both animals the attention they demand—ear scratches and tummy rubs for Dawson, pets for Kitten, who rolls onto her back with dramatic flair I'd expect from Dawson, but not the little ferball.

  "I should get going," I say eventually, glancing at the clock. "Don't want to be late for work."

  Grace nods, already turning her attention back to Kitten. "I will conduct the tests I mentioned earlier. Preliminary vigger training assessments."

  "Looking forward to hearing about it," I reply, grabbing my keys from the hook by the door. As I step outside, I glance back to see Grace kneeling on the floor, her face softer than usual as she watches Kitten bat playfully at her fingertips.

  It's these moments—these glimpses of something beyond the tactical, disciplined ranger—that make me wonder just how much Grace herself is changing in this world. And how much, perhaps, she's changing me.

  ---Mike---

  I spot her before she sees me—the strange woman from yesterday with the blind-but-not-blind man. Grace. She moves through the morning crowd like she's not part of it, somehow slipping between people without touching them, her eyes scanning methodically. There's something predatory about the way she moves that sets off old alarms in my head.

  I consider ducking behind the dumpster, avoiding whatever complication she represents, but before I can move, those eerily intense green eyes lock onto mine. Too late now.

  "Mike Tanner," she says, approaching with that unnervingly silent walk of hers. Not a greeting, just a statement of fact. "I have brought sustenance."

  She holds out what looks like a sandwich wrapped in paper. My stomach growls despite my wariness.

  "Thanks," I say, accepting it. The smell is... different. Gamey. "What kind of sandwich is this?"

  "Squirrel meat that I hunted on my way here," she says matter-of-factly. "I had only bread available. The meat is fresh and free of disease."

  I nearly choke. "You... hunted a squirrel? In the city?"

  "Yes. Jason is of the opinion that hunting squirls is, strange, however you require meet, and I had only bread available." Her head tilts slightly in that curious way she has. "The park has many. They are slow compared to those in my ho—" She stops herself. "Compared to what I am accustomed to."

  I stare at the sandwich, then back at her. This should probably disturb me more than it does, but after thirty years of construction work and four years on the streets, my standards for weird have shifted considerably.

  "Would you follow me?" she asks abruptly. "I wish to assist you, but require privacy."

  Every red flag in my mind starts waving frantically. Strange woman, isolation, "assistance" that requires privacy? Classic bad news.

  But then I remember the kid from yesterday—Jason. Completely blind, that was obvious enough with his un-focused eyes, yet he moved with surprising confidence. He seemed to trust this woman implicitly, bizarre as she is. If a vulnerable young man feels safe with her, maybe there's something to her after all. Maybee.

  "Where's the kid?" I ask, taking a bite of the sandwich. It's actually not bad, if you can get past the idea of eating park squirrel.

  "Jason," she corrects firmly. "He is not present. I requested he remain away today. First, he has work obligations. Second, I wish to test something."

  "Test what, exactly?" I ask, my suspicion returning.

  She takes a deliberate step backward, giving me space. I notice she's positioned herself where I can easily walk away in three different directions. It's a small gesture, but one that suggests she understands my wariness and respects it.

  "It would be easier to show you," she says. "There is a small clearing fifty meters into those trees." She points toward the wooded area at the edge of the park. "Will you accompany me?"

  Everything about this screams 'bad idea,' but my curiosity gets the better of me. Besides, I've got a knife in my boot and nothing much to lose anyway.

  "Lead the way," I say, finishing the sandwich.

  As we walk, I notice something odd. The snow is nearly six inches deep, but she makes absolutely no sound moving through it. No crunch, no squeak, nothing. I can hear my own boots compressing the snow, but she might as well be floating above it.

  "Where'd you learn to move like that?" I ask.

  She glances back. "Like what?"

  "Silent. No footsteps."

  "Oh." She pauses briefly. "It is a skill taught to hunters. Stealth is necessary when pursuing prey that can hear better than humans."

  That makes a kind of sense, I suppose, though it doesn't explain how she's doing it in snow.

  "Where's the kid—Jason?" I correct myself. "You two seemed pretty tight yesterday."

  "As I said, he has work. Additionally, I wished to approach you alone because what I am about to propose is... experimental."

  We reach the small clearing she mentioned. It's ringed by tall pines, isolated enough that no one from the main path could see us, but open enough that I don't feel trapped.

  "I wish to teach you something called vigger," she says without preamble. "It is a technique that allows one to manipulate life force for healing, strength, and endurance."

  I can't help it—I laugh. "Life force? What, like in kung fu movies?"

  Her face remains completely serious. "I understand your skepticism. It is reasonable. What I speak of sounds like fantasy in this culture."

  "Look," I say, trying to be kind, "I appreciate whatever it is you're trying to do here, but I'm not interested in some new-age energy healing nonsense."

  "I anticipated this response," she says calmly. She turns toward one of the larger trees at the edge of the clearing—a pine with a trunk at least fifteen inches thick. "I apologize," she says quietly, though seemingly to the tree more than me.

  I watch her fist punch straight through the pine trunk like it's made of paper instead of solid wood. Bark explodes outward, fragments spinning through the crisp Toronto air before pattering down onto the pristine snow at our feet. All I can manage is a stumbling step backward, my brain refusing to process what my eyes just witnessed.

  "Holy shit!" The words escape before I can stop them, my voice cracking like some teenager instead of a forty-three-year-old who's seen plenty of weird stuff on the streets.

  With her arm still buried elbow-deep in the tree, Grace turns her head toward me, expression perfectly blank. The complete absence of emotion somehow makes this whole scene even more unsettling. No triumph, no smugness, not even acknowledgment that she's doing something impossible.

  "This is vigger," she explains as casually as someone demonstrating how to tie a shoelace. "The application of life force to strengthen the body beyond normal human limits."

  She withdraws her arm from the tree with that same eerie precision that marks all her movements. The hole she's left is a perfect cast of her forearm—I can see the imprint of her knuckles, her wrist, even the folds of her jacket sleeve pressed into the raw wood. Not a single splinter clings to her skin. She doesn't even have to brush her hand off.

  "That's—that's impossible," I stammer, my eyes darting between her unmarked hand and the gaping wound in the tree trunk.

  "Yet you have witnessed it," she replies with that matter-of-fact tone that's starting to get under my skin. Like punching through solid wood is the most normal thing in the world. "I have two reasons for showing you this. First, learning even basic vigger techniques would significantly improve your survival chances. You would never feel cold again, for example."

  The promise hangs in the frigid air between us. Never feel cold again. After four Canadian winters sleeping under bridges and in makeshift shelters, those five words hit harder than her fist through that tree.

  "Hunger would be manageable," she continues. "Injuries would heal faster."

  I find myself nodding despite my disbelief. The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is some kind of trick, but my eyes saw what they saw. And my body, covered in scars from fights I didn't want and half-healed frostbite patches, desperately wants to believe her.

  "Second," she adds, brushing a fleck of bark from her sleeve with meticulous care, "I need to determine if people of this—" she hesitates for a fraction of a second, "—if people like you can learn these techniques."

  "People like me?" I echo, suddenly wary again. Strange woman with supernatural abilities singling me out in a deserted clearing? Every urban survival instinct is firing red alerts.

  "Adults without prior training," she clarifies, though something in her tone suggests that wasn't her original meaning. "Most practitioners begin as children."

  My mind churns with suspicion and wild hope. "So you want to use me as a guinea pig?"

  "A test subject, yes," she admits with that brutal honesty I'm starting to recognize as her default setting. "But one who would benefit regardless of the outcome. Even if you cannot learn active vigger manipulation, I can strengthen your body's natural defenses. You would still need to eat and sleep, but less often. You would resist cold and disease more effectively."

  She pauses, then adds almost as an afterthought: "I should clarify that vigger cannot directly harm. It is life force, and as such, directly harming the body, the flesh, is anathema to it."

  She brushes the last few bits of bark from her sleeve as casually as someone might brush away breadcrumbs.

  "So," she says, those unsettling green eyes fixed directly on mine, "would you like to attempt to learn vigger? Perhaps not specifically tree-punching, but techniques that would mean you no longer need to search through waste containers for sustenance?"

  I feel my cheeks burn despite the cold. Of course she noticed. I'd been digging through the park trash when she first saw me after all, looking for anything edible. Her squirrel sandwich had been the first fresh meat I'd had in weeks.

  "You did that to a tree," I say slowly, my eyes flicking to the damaged pine. "Could you do it to a person?"

  "I could," she admits without hesitation. "But I would not. As I said, vigger cannot be used to directly harm. I could break your bones with my enhanced strength, yes, but the vigger itself cannot be used to damage your life force." She pauses. "Additionally, I do not wish to harm you."

  There's something almost childlike in her directness. No empty reassurances, no moral posturing—just straight facts and personal preference.

  I study her for a long moment. Physically, she's nothing imposing—maybe 5'6", athletic but not bulky. Her clothes are borrowed, that much is obvious from the way the sleeves hang past her wrists. But there's something in how she holds herself, an absolute stillness that reminds me of the big cats I once saw at the Toronto Zoo. Not tense, not rigid, just... perfectly contained potential energy.

  "Why me?" I finally ask. "There are thousands of homeless people in Toronto. Why pick me specifically for this... experiment?"

  Something shifts in her expression—so subtle I almost miss it. A fractional narrowing of those intense green eyes, a softening around her lips.

  "Two reasons," she says after a calculated pause. "First, you demonstrated adaptation when we initially met. Rather than fleeing or becoming aggressive when I appeared without warning while you were vulnerable, you assessed the situation and remained calm. This suggests psychological flexibility necessary for accepting new paradigms."

  I can't help but snort at that. "So I didn't run away screaming, and that makes me special?"

  "Yes," she answers with complete seriousness. "Many would have. Second, and more importantly—" she hesitates, which I'm starting to recognize as unusual for her, "—Jason will require instruction in vigger. He possesses the capacity to learn, but I need to understand how to teach adults in this world before attempting with him. My methods were developed for children in my homeland."

  And there it is. The kid—Jason—is the real reason. I'm just the practice run.

  "You care about him," I observe, watching her face carefully.

  Her expression doesn't change, but something in her posture shifts almost imperceptibly.

  "Care is an imprecise term," she replies. "I am bound to protect him through a death oath. His wellbeing is my primary concern regardless of emotional attachment."

  Death oath? I decide not to ask. I've met enough people with strange beliefs on the streets to know when to let things slide.

  "So you're using me to figure out how to teach him," I summarize.

  "Yes," she confirms without apology. "Though this is not the only reason. If you prove capable of learning vigger, it would suggest others in similar circumstances could as well. This knowledge could improve survival rates among the vulnerable." She pauses, then adds: "And as I stated, you would benefit regardless of the experimental outcome."

  I take a deep breath, watching it cloud in front of me in the bitter Febuary cold. Never feel this again, her promise echoes in my mind.

  "What would I have to do?" I ask, not quite a yes, but definitely not a no.

  "Sit," she instructs, gesturing to a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. As I move toward it, she adds: "The process requires physical contact. I will need to touch your temples. Is this acceptable?"

  I lower myself onto the log, brushing away snow to find a dry spot. "Yeah, that's fine."

  Grace approaches and kneels in front of me, her movements graceful despite the awkward position. She raises her hands to either side of my face, not quite touching yet.

  "What you will experience may feel unusual," she warns. "Like pressure behind your eyes, or a sensation of movement beneath your skin. This is normal. Do not resist it."

  "That doesn't sound normal at all," I mutter, but nod my agreement.

  Her fingertips touch my temples, cool against my skin. For a moment, nothing happens.

  Then I feel it—a strange warmth spreading from her fingers, seeping into my skull like water into dry earth. It's not unpleasant, just bizarre. The sensation moves deeper, behind my eyes, down my spine, branching through my limbs.

  "I am establishing baseline vigger pathways," Grace explains, her voice oddly distant. "Your natural channels are underdeveloped but intact. This suggests you have the capacity to learn."

  The warmth intensifies, becoming almost uncomfortable—not painful, but invasive, like someone is running their fingers along the inside of my veins. My skin tingles, muscles twitching involuntarily.

  "You're doing well," Grace says. "Most struggle against the initial contact. I did. Your receptivity indicates aptitude."

  I want to ask what exactly is happening, but my mouth won't form words. The sensation builds to a crescendo, then suddenly recedes, leaving me gasping.

  Grace removes her hands and sits back on her heels, studying me with clinical interest. "Preliminary integration successful. How do you feel?"

  I blink, taking stock. My body feels... different. Lighter somehow, but more solid. The constant background ache in my joints—companion to years of sleeping on concrete—has diminished. Most noticeably, though I'm sitting in snow in Febuary wearing only a thin jacket, I'm not cold. Not even slightly.

  "I feel..." I search for words. "Good. Really good. What did you do to me?"

  "I established basic vigger circulation," she explains. "Your body is now processing life energy more efficiently, directing it where needed most. The effects are temporary without practice, but will last approximately seven days. During this time, you will require less food, experience reduced pain from existing injuries, and maintain core temperature more effectively."

  I flex my hands experimentally. They move more smoothly than they have in years. "And if I practice?"

  "Then the effects become permanent, and you can learn to control them consciously." She rises to her feet in one fluid motion. "I will teach you the first exercise. It is called Internal River."

  For the next hour, Grace guides me through what feels like the strangest meditation I've ever attempted. I focus on visualizing energy flowing through my body, following specific pathways she describes in meticulous detail. At first, it feels like pure imagination—then suddenly, I feel something shift. A tingle runs up my spine, across my shoulders, down my arms to my fingertips.

  "That's it," Grace says, and I swear there's the faintest hint of approval in her voice. "You have completed a successful circulation. With practice, you can strengthen and expand these pathways."

  By the time we finish, the sun is setting, casting long shadows through the trees. I haven't felt this energized in decades, like I've slept for days and eaten a feast. Every sense seems sharper—I can hear squirrels chittering in distant branches, smell the complex layers of snow and pine and earth.

  "This is incredible," I admit. "How often should I practice?"

  "Morning and evening, minimally," Grace replies. "More frequently will accelerate progress." She reaches into her pocket and produces a small vial containing dark liquid. "This will help maintain the pathways while you learn. Three drops under your tongue before sleep."

  I take the vial cautiously. "What is it?"

  "An alchemical tincture. Ingredients include bloodmoss, winterroot, and several herbs native to my homeland. It is not harmful." She pauses. "I have limited supply. Use it sparingly."

  I pocket the vial, suddenly aware of how valuable it must be. "Thank you. I don't know what to say."

  Grace nods once, acknowledgment rather than acceptance of gratitude. "We will meet again in three days. Same location, midday. I will assess your progress and adjust instruction accordingly."

  She turns to leave, then stops. "One more thing. Jason does not know I am doing this. While he is aware I seek to teach him vigger eventually, he does not know you are helping me learn how to teach it properly. I would prefer to inform him myself when the time is right."

  Translation: don't tell the kid about our arrangement.

  "Understood," I say. "This stays between us."

  Grace nods again, satisfied. "Practice diligently. Your progress will inform my approach with Jason. He will require significant adjustment to learn these techniques, but once he can utilize vigger effectively, his capabilities will expand considerably."

  As she walks away, moving silently through the snow, I'm struck by the strange protectiveness in her voice when she speaks about Jason. She claims not to care—or at least, claims that "care" is imprecise—but something in how she says his name suggests otherwise.

  I look down at my hands, flexing them again, marveling at the absence of pain. Then I glance at the tree she punched through. The implications are staggering. If I can learn even a fraction of what she demonstrated...

  I stand up, brushing snow from my pants. For the first time in years, the cold doesn't bite through the thin fabric. For the first time in years, I feel something that might be hope.

  Three days. I'll be here.