A weather-beaten chain-link fence enclosed about an acre of land, most of it covered in stacks of wooden pallets, old car parts, and assorted junk that might charitably be called "collections." In the center sat a vintage 1970s Airstream trailer, its aluminum exterior dulled by years of exposure but still recognizable in its distinctive egg-like shape.

  An abandoned house stood beside it on the left, windows boarded up.

  The task before us was daunting – clearing years of accumulated chaos to free the Airstream from its junkyard prison. My grandfather had been many things: a skilled carpenter, a hoarder of potentially useful materials, and completely immune to the concept of organization.

  I grabbed the edge of a pallet, splinters immediately threatening my palms. The wood groaned as I pulled, heavier than it looked, waterlogged from countless rainstorms. My muscles protested as I lugged it aside, then another.

  A few feet away, Nessy attacked her section of the debris field with feral determination. Her claws made quick work of tangled rope and wire, hefting pallets away at a ridiculous pace.

  On the opposite side of the clearing, Krysanthea worked just as effectively, moving junk aside with far too much ease.

  Where Nessy was all enthusiastic energy, Krysanthea was calculated precision, rapidly assessing each piece before removing it in the most effective way possible. She'd shed her ranger jacket in the heat, revealing more iridescent scales and large and tiny feathers catching sunlight in hypnotic patterns.

  An unspoken competition seemed to manifest between my companions, thicker than the dust we were kicking up. Each stolen glance, each grunt of effort carried the unmistakable tension.

  "You're slowing down, lizard," Nessy called, hefting a particularly large bin onto the growing discard pile. Her blue eyes glinted with challenge.

  Krysanthea didn't look up, but her tail swished once – a tell I was beginning to recognize as irritation. "Quality over quantity, dog," she replied, methodically extracting a metal pipe that had been serving as a crucial support beam for three other objects. The resulting cascade of junk cleared twice the space Nessy had managed with brute force.

  I paused, leaning against the Airstream's tarnished exterior to catch my breath.

  "Need a break?" Nessy asked.

  “Just for a bit,” I panted.

  “S’okay,” she commented. “Have a rest.”

  “Heh,” Kristi commented. “Guess immortality doesn’t make you stronger?”

  "You know maybe he wouldn’t need to rest as much if he didn’t kill himself yesterday to save us from you!" Nessy fired at the raptor.

  Krysanthea's amber eyes narrowed, her feathers going up slightly in a display of reptilian indignation. For a moment, I thought she might escalate the confrontation, but instead, she simply turned back to her task, attacking the junk pile with renewed vigor.

  I slid down to sit on a relatively clean patch of ground, my back against the Airstream's sun-warmed aluminum. Sweat trickled down my spine, the heat of the day wrapping around me like a physical presence. Overhead, clouds drifted lazily across the blue expanse of sky.

  In the meanwhile, the clearing became a battlefield of sorts, with Nessy and Krysanthea on opposite fronts, neither willing to concede an inch. They worked with almost manic intensity, flinging debris, untangling wires, dragging pallets and rusted metal away from the Airstream's perimeter. Each movement seemed an act to prove something unspoken between them.

  They were breathtaking in their efficiency—two apex predators displaying the full range of their physical capabilities. Time slipped by, measured only by the growing piles of discarded junk and the gradual clearing of space around the Airstream.

  Eventually, both women began to show signs of fatigue. Nessy's wide tongue lolled from her muzzle as she panted, her fur darkened with sweat where it wasn't covered by her now-filthy t-shirt. Krysanthea's breathing had quickened too, scales glistening with exertion, pointier tongue out.

  "I think that's enough space for the tow truck to get in," I called out, hoping to end their competition before one of them collapsed from heat exhaustion.

  “A bit more,” Kristi growled. “Wouldn't want the tow truck to get a puncture from this junk.”

  The girls seemed to be too caught in their private contest to stop. Nessy redoubled her efforts, dragging a heavy wooden crate with a determination that bordered on manic. Not to be outdone, Krysanthea attacked a particularly stubborn tangle of metal and wire.

  In another ten minutes the driveway was finally clear of debris.

  Panting hard, the raptor woman straightened. With a sharp, decisive motion, she pulled her white button-up shirt over her head, revealing a fitted dark tank top beneath. The garment clung to her form, highlighting the lean, powerful musculature beneath her scales.

  Her body was a study in elegant predatory design—strong shoulders and rather curvy chest tapering to a narrow waist. Unlike Nessy’s stomach floof, I spotted a serious six pack peeking out from under the tank top when she stretched.

  Nessy's ears flattened, her eyes narrowing to slits as she noticed me staring. I could almost hear the unspoken thought radiating from her: Really? This is what we're doing now?

  Krysanthea didn't acknowledge Nessy's glare. Instead, she tossed her discarded shirt onto a nearby stack of pallets and walked directly toward me, her movements almost ceremonial. She stopped a few feet away, her amber eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me acutely aware of my own heartbeat.

  "Let's check inside the RV," I suggested. "See if the Airstream is still habitable?"

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "A good idea," Krysanthea agreed. "We should ensure it's structurally sound before arranging transport."

  Nessy nodded, her tail giving a single, curt swish. "Yeah. Might be mold in there."

  The aluminum door creaked as I pulled it open, releasing a stale breath of trapped air—the exhale of a space long sealed and forgotten. I stepped inside, ducking slightly to clear the low threshold. The interior was dim, dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of light that penetrated through the grime-covered windows.

  My grandfather's Airstream was exactly as I remembered it—a time capsule of his life frozen in the moment of his passing. The narrow kitchenette with its outdated appliances, the small dining booth with its cracked vinyl seats, the murphy bed folded against the wall. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, but remarkably well preserved.

  Nessy and Krysanthea crowded in behind me, their tall bodies creating a bottleneck in the trailer's narrow entrance. The space, already small, shrunk further with their presence, forcing an unintended intimacy.

  "Smells like dust and old books," Nessy observed, her sensitive nose twitching slightly. "But no mold, surprisingly. This place has good bones."

  "The aluminum shell provides decent protection against the elements," Krysanthea agreed, her scaled hand running along the curved wall with something like appreciation. "These models were built to last."

  For another moment, the three of us stood in silence, absorbing the strange sensation of being in this preserved pocket of the past. My grandfather's possessions—a worn flannel shirt draped over a chair, a dog-eared paperback on the counter, a pair of reading glasses folded neatly beside a mug—created the eerie impression that he might return at any moment.

  Nessy stepped deeper into the space, her paws leaving clear imprints in the dust as she explored. She picked up the paperback, examining it with curious eyes. "Louis L'Amour," she read aloud. "Your grandfather had good taste in Westerns."

  "He read them constantly," I said, the memory surfacing with unexpected clarity. "Said they reminded him of a simpler time, when right and wrong were easier to distinguish."

  Krysanthea moved to the kitchenette, opening cabinets and glancing in. "These supplies will need to be inventoried and replaced," she noted.

  "What's that?" Nessy asked, pointing to a small wooden box tucked beneath the dining table's bench.

  I knelt to retrieve it, recognizing the hand-carved lid immediately. "It's his chess set," I said, running my fingers over the intricate pattern he had painstakingly whittled into the maple surface. "He taught me to play when I was eight."

  A strange emotion passed across Krysanthea's face—something soft and vulnerable that seemed out of place on her reptilian features. She stepped forward, her movements unusually hesitant.

  "May I see it?" she asked, her voice hushed.

  I handed her the box, watching as she cradled it with unexpected tenderness. Her scaled fingers traced the carved pattern with a familiarity that caught me off guard.

  “He challenged me using these…” She let out. "Every Sunday afternoon when I came over to hang out with… Alec. He said I had a natural talent for strategy." A small, sad smile curved her sharp snout.

  The revelation settled between us—this shared experience across different realities, different versions of ourselves. My grandfather had apparently been a constant in all of our lives, a fixed point in divergent timelines.

  "Alec… May I speak with you?" Kristi asked. "Alone?"

  Before I could respond, Nessy crowded my side, her presence warm and insistent. "Whatever you have to say to Alec, you can say in front of me."

  Krysanthea's jaw tightened, the tiny feathers at her throat bristling slightly. "This is between me and him."

  "There is no 'between' you and him," Nessy growled, her canines flashing in the sunlight.

  I raised my hand, taking on the mantle of mediator. "It's okay, Ness. Just go outside the RV for a bit. I'll talk with her."

  Betrayal flashed across Nessy's face, her ears flattening further. "But—"

  "Just for a bit," I assured her.

  After a moment of visible internal struggle, Nessy nodded stiffly and retreated toward the trailer's door, though not without casting a warning glance over her shoulder.

  When she was out of immediate earshot, Krysanthea shut the door with her tail and exhaled slowly, some of the tension visibly leaving her scaled shoulders. Up close, I could see the individual feathers that framed her face, each one a subtle gradient of greens and purples, creating a mesmerizing corona effect.

  "I owe you an apology," she said without preamble, her voice low and controlled. "Not for my duty to Ferguson, but for... projecting my feelings for another onto you."

  The admission seemed to cost her, each word emerging deliberately, as if extracted with great effort. Her claws flexed unconsciously at her sides.

  "I've been treating you as if you're him—my Alec—just... confused or changed somehow." She swallowed, the gesture strangely human against her reptilian features. "But you're not. You're someone new. Someone who deserves to be seen for who you are, not who I want you to be."

  The sincerity in her voice caught me off guard. I had expected continued suspicion, perhaps begrudging acceptance at best. This vulnerability was unexpected, shifting the terrain between us in ways I hadn't anticipated.

  "Thank you," I said simply, unsure how else to respond. “I appreciate that.”

  She nodded. "I still need to understand what you are though. That hasn't changed."

  "Of course."

  "But I promise to approach this as I would any other investigation—with objectivity and respect." Her scaled fingers reached out hesitantly, then stopped midair, retreating back to her side. "I won't... confuse the boundaries again. I’m not like… the husky.”

  The moment stretched between us, laden with things unsaid. In her eyes, I caught glimpses of grief still raw and unprocessed—the loss of someone she had loved, the disorienting reality of seeing his face on a stranger. Behind that grief lay questions I couldn't answer, hopes I couldn't fulfill.

  "When I look at you, I see... Shadows of him in your expressions, your mannerisms, your words. It makes it very hard to remember that you're not him." She swallowed, the scales at her throat rippling with the motion. "That he's gone."

  "What was he like?" I asked.

  “Just like you,” she said. “Quiet. Thoughtful. Daring. Unbelievably stupid at times. Supportive. Wonderful. Sweet.”

  She slipped into the seat, resting her chin on her hand and blinking rapidly, staring into the distance out through the window.

  "Sometimes he struggled with saying what he meant," she continued. "Would get tangled in his own thoughts, second-guessing himself. But when he wrote..." Her clawed finger traced an invisible pattern on the table. "When he wrote, it was like watching someone finally able to breathe without restriction. Most of our relationship was long distance as after high school I had basic, then field training… and then got assigned to Ferguson Valley as a ranger thanks to my dad’s meddling.”

  "What sort of things did he write?” I asked.

  “Online messages and paper letters. Poems, drawings of me. It was effing cute.”

  Her eyes sparked with tears at the edges and she blinked, clearing them.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "For what you've lost."

  “Lots of people lost their relatives and friends outside of Ferguson,” she said sharply. “And will lose each other unless I protect the valley. I wanted to go out to look for him right away like Nessy did, but I had a duty to secure this town, to keep it safe from Systemfall. I’ve always been the best at everything, it’s how I got this position. I’ve got the sharpest nose in town and can sense the ‘wrongness’ from pretty far. Thankfully, there’s only one road into town through the old tunnel. We barred it off with several iron gates… and other rangers are watching the entrance armed with guns 24/7 now on a rotating schedule.”

  “Did you encounter other system-changed people?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I killed them all.”

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