parents and pizzas

---Grace---

"With you?" The question emerges before I can analyze its tactical value. A hint of surprise breaks through my carefully maintained control.

"More for you," he clarifies, leaning against the wall with casual ease that contrasts my rigid posture. "Since, well, you seem rattled, and they say running helps with that?"

I catalog this suggestion, assessing its merit against my current physiological state. Elevated heart rate. Residual muscle tension. Lingering sensory hypervigilance. Running would optimize metabolic processes and potentially reset combat readiness parameters.

"You have never attempted this technique?" I ask, genuinely curious about his coping mechanisms. "Running to neutralize stress responses?"

Jason's lips twist into a self-deprecating grimace. "Not worth it. Would have to get someone to come with me, and it kind of defeats the purpose if you're with someone as opposed to being alone."

I consider his reasoning, finding unexpected logic in it. "I have experience with both methodologies," I acknowledge, my hands relaxing slightly at my sides. "Though I would prefer solitary engagement for this particular excursion."

His eyebrows raise slightly, and I realize my preference might appear as rejection. Tactical communication adjustment required.

"Not because your presence is unwelcome," I clarify, words coming faster than my usual measured pace. "There are... psychological processes that require isolation for optimal functioning. Concerns I must address without external observation potentially affecting assessment parameters." I stop, uncertain how to communicate this unfamiliar concept.

Jason's face softens into a grin that reaches his eyes. "Hold on a bit, I'll be back."

He disappears into his mother's office, and my enhanced hearing easily detects their conversation—Jason asking Bearee for directions to "Marclen Woods." I approach silently, positioning myself near the doorway without announcing my presence, a habit so ingrained I perform it without conscious decision.

"Thank you," I say when he emerges, causing him to startle slightly. His scent shifts momentarily to surprise before settling back to normal levels. "Both Bearee and Jason."

I turn toward the front entrance, then pause, calculating optimal communication protocols for my return. "I should ring the doorbell upon returning?"

"Yes," Jason confirms, his posture relaxed despite my previous tactical error regarding personal space. "Just ring the doorbell if no one's outside and someone, probably me, will come open it for you." Before. "You still have that key?"

"Yes." I say. "however, I will ring the doorbell regardless." Jason grunts.

"Thank you," I say, then hesitate, an unusual impulse forming that defies tactical analysis. My hand rises and settles briefly on his shoulder, the warmth of his body registering against my palm. "This is long overdue."

His eyes widen slightly at the contact, pupils dilating by approximately 15 percent.

"Oh, wait," Jason says quickly as I turn to leave. "I was wondering if you'd want to come to the survival school tomorrow? It's Friday, so there's no work. Also, maybe look at my knives? I have one large one and one smaller one, though you already saw the larger one."

I pause, processing this request. His scent carries no deception markers, just genuine interest tinged with nervousness.

"And maybe," he continues, words speeding up slightly, "you could help me with that survival training thing we were talking about? If you want to." His shoulders tense briefly before he deliberately relaxes them. "Completely your choice, though. No oath stuff involved. Just asking."

I analyze this proposition, assessing multiple variables simultaneously. Survival school: opportunity to evaluate local training methodologies. Knife inspection: potential for weapons assessment and improvement recommendations. Training initiation: preliminary capability assessment without full commitment.

"Yes," I state, decision matrix completed. "I will accompany you to this survival school. Knife evaluation is tactically sound. Preliminary training assessment represents optimal approach to determine compatibility."

Something in my chest tightens—not pain, but an unfamiliar sensation. "Thank you for specifying this is my decision. The distinction is... appreciated."

I squeeze his shoulder once more—a gesture I've observed humans use to convey connection—then turn and stride through the door. The cold air hits my face like a familiar blade, sharp and clarifying. My legs, accustomed to traversing far harsher terrain, easily carry me down the driveway.

As I accelerate into a steady rhythm, the Toronto winter surrounds me, its chill penetrating my borrowed clothing. Unlike the killing cold of my homeland, this temperature threatens discomfort rather than death. My muscles warm quickly, loosening with each precise stride.

My thoughts arrange themselves with the metronomic precision of my footfalls. The basement. The wolf-spiders. Jason's concern. Bearee's protectiveness. The oath. The weight of obligations freely chosen versus those imposed.

The frozen air fills my lungs with each measured breath, familiar yet different. Home had winds that would flay skin from bone, ice that could freeze blood in veins, predators that viewed humans as merely another form of meat. Here, the cold is tempered, contained, almost gentle.

And unlike home, I realize as my pace increases, here there are people who will wait for my return. Not out of obligation or tactical necessity, but from something I cannot yet categorize. The thought propels me faster toward the trail, my body functioning at optimal parameters as the houses give way to trees, the pavement to earth, and my mind to the clarity of movement.

---Jason---

I sprawl across my bed, one hand resting on my uncomfortably distended stomach. The ceiling above me seems to pulse gently with every heartbeat, a visual reminder of just how much pizza I've managed to cram into my body.

"Ugh," I groan to the empty room. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"

It's a rhetorical question with an obvious answer: because pizza is delicious, and I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to food. Especially not after twenty-eight years of never being able to see what I was eating. The visual appeal of food is still novelty enough that I keep overindulging, as if my eyes are trying to make up for lost time by feasting alongside my stomach.

Through the wall, I can hear the low murmur of voices from the living room – my parents, no doubt discussing Grace in hushed, concerned tones. I should probably be out there, defending her, explaining... what, exactly? The truth is so far beyond anything they'd believe that our hastily constructed Romanian backstory, flimsy as it was, is probably more plausible than reality.

My bedroom door creaks open, and I lift my head just enough to see my mother's silhouette in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" she asks softly.

"Sure," I reply, making a half-hearted attempt to sit up before abandoning the effort. "Just lying here regretting my life choices. Specifically, the choice to eat half a pizza by myself."

Mom crosses the room and perches carefully on the edge of my bed. Her weight causes the mattress to dip slightly, and I have to brace myself to avoid rolling toward her. In the warm glow of my bedside lamp, I can see the worry lines etched around her eyes, the slight downward curve of her mouth that she gets when she's trying to find the right words.

"Jason," she begins, her fingers absently smoothing a wrinkle in my comforter, "I had an interesting conversation with Grace while you were in the basement."

My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with excessive pizza consumption. "Oh?" I try to keep my voice neutral, but mom's trained ear probably picks up every nuance of tension behind the single syllable.

"She offered to leave," Mom says, watching my face carefully. "Did you know that? She said if I wasn't comfortable with her staying here, she'd go live by the creek."

I wince, imagining Grace in her fur and leather outfit, crafting a shelter from fallen branches beside the water. The worst part is, I know she'd do it without hesitation. She'd probably have a fully functional camp set up within hours, complete with traps for local wildlife and some kind of primitive alarm system.

"That sounds like Grace," I sigh, finally managing to pull myself upright. "She's very... practical."

"Practical," Mom repeats, as if testing the inadequacy of the word. "Jason, that woman was completely serious about living in a ravine in Toronto in February. That's not practical – that's either desperation or delusion."

I shake my head, knowing I need to tread carefully here. "It's neither, Mom. It's just... where she comes from, that kind of self-sufficiency is normal. Trust me, if you'd asked her to leave, she absolutely would have gone straight to that creek and set up camp. And she would have been fine."

Mom's eyes narrow slightly, her professional assessment mode fully engaged now. "And where exactly does she come from that living in a creek bed in sub-zero temperatures is considered 'normal'?"

I rub my temples, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "It's complicated, Mom."

"So uncomplicate it for me," she says, her tone gentle but firm. The same tone she's used my entire life when she knows I'm keeping something from her.

"I can't," I admit. "Not fully. Not yet. Just... please trust me when I say Grace isn't taking advantage of me. If anything, it's the other way around."

Mom's eyebrows rise at this. "How so?"

"She's teaching me things. Important things." My hand drifts unconsciously toward my eyes, stopping just short of touching them. "And she's not asking for anything in return. She made breakfast this morning because she felt she owed me for letting her use the hot tub. Who does that?"

"Someone with an unusual understanding of reciprocity," Mom observes, professional detachment momentarily overriding maternal concern. "That sort of rigid exchange-based interaction often develops in environments where resources are scarce and trust is limited."

I can't help but laugh. "You're analyzing her."

"I can't help it," Mom admits with a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's what I do. And Grace is... fascinating from a clinical perspective. But I'm not just speaking as a psychologist right now, Jason. I'm speaking as your mother. I'm worried."

I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently. "I know you are. But I promise, Grace isn't dangerous. At least, not to us." The qualification slips out before I can stop it.

Mom's gaze sharpens immediately. "But she is dangerous to others?"

"Only if they tried to hurt us," I say quickly, realizing I've already said too much. "Look, she's protective, okay? That's not a bad thing."

"Protective how, exactly?" Mom presses, her clinical detachment slipping further.

I sigh, knowing I've backed myself into a corner. "She's... skilled. At defending herself and others. Where she comes from, those skills are necessary for survival."

Mom's silence speaks volumes. She's piecing things together, drawing conclusions based on the fragments I've given her and her own observations.

"Jason," she finally says, her voice very quiet, "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Is Grace running from someone? Someone dangerous?"

The question catches me off guard. Of all the theories she might have developed, that wasn't one I'd anticipated. But it's as good an explanation as any for Grace's hypervigilance, her combat readiness, her odd social behaviors.

"No," I answer truthfully. "She's not running from anyone. She's just... lost. In a way. She ended up here by accident, and now she's trying to figure out how to navigate a world that operates by completely different rules than the one she's used to."

Mom studies my face, reading between the lines with that uncanny perception that's always made lying to her nearly impossible.

"She's important to you," she says, not a question but a statement.

"Yes," I admit. "She is."

"Why?" The directness of the question reminds me of Grace.

I struggle to articulate something I barely understand myself. "Because she sees me," I finally say. "Really sees me. Not as 'poor blind Jason' or 'Jason who needs help' or any of the other labels people have been putting on me my entire life. She just sees... me."

Mom's expression softens, maternal love temporarily overwhelming professional concern. "Oh, sweetheart."

"And I see her too," I continue, the words flowing more easily now. "Beyond the weird behaviors and the blunt statements and the... everything else. There's something about her that's just... real. Authentic in a way most people aren't."

"You have feelings for her," Mom says, another statement rather than a question.

Heat creeps up my neck. "It's not like that. It's more... we understand each other. In ways that don't make sense but somehow do."

Mom is quiet for a long moment, her fingers still absently smoothing the comforter. "I won't ask her to leave," she finally says. "But I want you to be careful, Jason. There's clearly more going on with Grace than you're telling me, and that worries me. A lot."

"I know," I acknowledge. "And I promise I'll tell you more when I can. Just... give her a chance, okay? She's trying. She's just not great at the whole normal human interaction thing."

Mom laughs softly at this. "Yes, I noticed that." She stands, smoothing her slacks with practiced motions. "Get some rest. Food comas require recovery time."

She bends to press a kiss to my forehead—a gesture that always made me feel like a child again, regardless of my age. As she reaches the door, she pauses.

"Jason? One more thing."

"Hmm?" I'm already sinking back into my pillow, the pizza-induced lethargy reclaiming me.

"I love you. No matter what you're not telling me."

"Love you too, Mom," I murmur, my eyes growing heavy as she softly closes the door behind her.

Sleep claims me almost immediately, pulling me down into dreams more vivid than any I've experienced before. The bedroom dissolves around me, replaced by...

I find myself standing in an enormous mead hall, the likes of which I've only seen in movies or read about in fantasy novels. Massive wooden beams arch overhead, dark with age and smoke, their curves reminiscent of a ship's hull turned upside down. Flickering torches line the walls, casting dancing shadows across intricately carved pillars that depict scenes of battle and hunting. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and the honeyed sweetness of fermented mead.

Down the center of the hall runs a table so long I can barely see its end, hewn from a single enormous tree trunk, polished to a gleam by countless hands and years. Pewter tankards and platters scattered across its surface catch the firelight, glinting like stars. Surrounding the table are benches packed with men—burly, bearded warriors with braided hair and arms thick as tree trunks.

They're singing.

The song pulses through the hall, a rhythmic chant that seems to vibrate in my bones rather than just my ears. Deep voices rise and fall in perfect synchronicity, punctuated by fists pounding on the table. I can feel the percussion in my chest, but the words themselves slide past my comprehension like water through cupped hands. The language is nothing I recognize—harsher than French or Spanish, more melodic than German, with vowels that stretch and consonants that bite.

I stand at the edge of the gathering, simultaneously present and invisible. No one seems to notice me as they sing, their faces flushed with drink and passion for whatever tale they're recounting. Their expressions shift in unison—from solemnity to fierce pride, from sorrow to a wild, almost savage joy.

Suddenly, a massive presence looms beside me. I turn to find myself looking up, and up, and up at a giant of a man—easily eight feet tall with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His red beard cascades down his chest, interwoven with small metal trinkets that clink softly when he moves. I recognize him somehow, though I can't place from where.

"You hear but do not understand, little brother," the giant says, his voice so deep I feel it rumble through the floorboards. "That is why I have called you."

He places an enormous hand on my shoulder, and the weight of it nearly drives me to my knees. The moment his skin makes contact with mine, the song changes.

The words remain unintelligible, but now I *see* what they sing.

The air before me shimmers and parts like a curtain, revealing visions that move in time with the rhythm of the song. First, I see Earth—our modern world in all its frantic activity. Cities sprawl across continents, airplanes streak through skies, people hunch over phones and computers. The relentless pace of contemporary life unfolds before me, billions of humans rushing toward some unseen deadline.

Then comes a blinding white flash—so intense I try to shield my eyes, but this isn't physical light. It rips through the vision like reality itself is tearing. In its wake, darkness spreads across the world like spilled ink.

The singing grows more urgent, the tempo quickening.

Now, strange creatures emerge from shadows—some resembling wolves but with too many limbs, others like massive insects with gleaming carapaces. Humanoid figures with twisted features and impossible anatomy stalk through familiar streets. Beings that seem partially mechanical, with glowing circuitry embedded in flesh, hunt in packs through abandoned buildings. None are larger than humans, but their numbers are overwhelming—an endless tide of nightmares made flesh.

Humanity fights back. Regular people armed with whatever they can find—baseball bats, kitchen knives, hunting rifles—stand against the onslaught. Some discover new abilities awakening within themselves—strength beyond normal limits, reflexes that defy physics, talents that seem almost magical.

Alliances form and shatter. Battles rage across familiar landmarks now reduced to rubble. Blood stains the vision red as the singing reaches a fevered pitch. I watch as a crucial moment arrives—figures meeting in what once was a great city. A choice is presented. A decision made. The wrong one.

The world burns.

The vision collapses as the song ends on a discordant note that feels like a physical blow. The giant's hand tightens on my shoulder, and he leans down until his face is level with mine. His eyes reflect the firelight like twin suns.

"UNDERSTAND!" he bellows, his breath hot against my face. "YOU MUST UNDERSTAND!"

I jolt awake, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. For a moment, disorientation grips me—the mead hall felt so real, the visions so vivid. Even now, echoes of that strange song ring in my ears.

A voice from down the hall cuts through my confusion.

"Jason!" Mom calls up. "Why is Grace on the internet?"

I blink, trying to process the question through the fog of my fading dream. Grace? Internet? The two concepts seem completely disconnected, like trying to use a fish as a bicycle.

"What?" I croak, my voice rough from sleep.

"Your friend Grace," Mom repeats, louder. "She's trending on Twitter. Can you come down here, please?"

I stumble out of bed, still half-trapped in the dream's imagery. Monsters emerging from shadows. People discovering strange powers. The giant's command to understand. It all swirls in my mind as I pull on a shirt and shorts, trying to make sense of both the dream and my mother's bizarre question.

What could Grace possibly have done to end up on the internet?

---Grace---

---

humanity's glow

The fire crackles before me, sending small embers dancing into the winter air. I sit on a fallen log I dragged here while exploring the trail Bearee had described. The familiarity of open flames against the night soothes something restless within me, a fragment of home in this strange land of glass and steel.

I pull the squirrel from its makeshift spit, already skinned and gutted with practiced efficiency. The warm, rich taste of the meat fills my mouth as I bite into it, and for a moment, I'm transported back to the icelands. My shoulders relax fractionally—this simple act of hunting, preparing, and consuming prey grounds me when everything else feels unstable.

This is what my elder kin would call a touchstone—a reminder of who I am amidst all this unfamiliarity. The rushing creek nearby, though half-frozen, speaks in a language I understand. Water is the patient element; unlike the steady earth or flaring fire, water carves its path over time, relentless and inevitable. Much like adaptation, I suppose.

My thoughts drift to Jason and our conversation in the basement. His reaction when I used the word "burden" continues to puzzle me. His shoulders had hunched inward, his spine curved slightly—a protective posture triggered by that specific word rather than my explanation of mercy-killing. In my world, acknowledging one's potential to become a burden is simply practical recognition of reality. Here, it seems to carry emotional weight I don't fully comprehend.

More puzzling still is why I care about his reaction at all. His discomfort should be irrelevant to me. Yet I find myself reviewing our interactions, analyzing the minute shifts in his expression when certain topics arise, cataloging which subjects cause his scent to change to distress.

The flavor of the squirrel meat reminds me of the pizza from earlier tonight. With Jason's parents returning from their trip, we'd gathered around the kitchen counter, the air heavy with tension and unspoken questions. The pizza had arrived in flat cardboard boxes—an efficient delivery method I hadn't encountered before. I remember Jason's father, Magnen, pushing the box closer to me, encouraging me to take more without words. "Another slice?" he'd asked, his eyes assessing me with careful precision.

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The explosion of tastes—savory, tangy, rich with herbs unfamiliar to me—had been unlike anything in my experience. I had consumed it with the methodical efficiency I bring to all survival tasks, yet something about the flavor had triggered an unfamiliar response. Pleasure, perhaps. Not the simple satisfaction of satiated hunger, but something more complex.

I'd noticed Jason's father watching my reaction, his engineer's eyes cataloging my movements with professional curiosity. And Jason, despite his pretense of blindness, had somehow seemed aware of my enjoyment, his lips curling into a faint smile as if he could see my response firsthand.

There had been no strategic advantage for his family in providing this food, no tactical necessity—merely a desire to share something they believed I would enjoy. Even Bearee, with all her suspicion and protective wariness, had offered food without condition.

They had given without expectation of return, a concept so foreign to my existence it creates a strange pressure in my chest when I contemplate it. In my world, resources are never shared without clear reciprocal benefit or established clan obligation. Yet Jason's entire family seems to operate under different principles entirely—giving food, shelter, clothing with no demand for immediate compensation.

The memory of the basement stairs surfaces unexpectedly. My foot had slipped on the unfamiliar surface, and I'd begun to fall backward. Most people, recognizing my physical capabilities, would have let me fall. The impact would not have injured me significantly. Yet Jason had moved without hesitation, placing himself behind me, risking his own balance to prevent a fall that presented no real danger to me.

More significantly, he had touched me without permission—something I had explicitly warned against. He knew the potential consequences. He knew I might lash out instinctively. He knew a fall would not harm me. Yet he had moved to catch me anyway, his reaction immediate and unplanned, as if stabilizing me was as natural as breathing.

Would he have done the same for anyone? The question troubles me more than it should. His actions suggest he would risk himself for others without calculation, without weighing their value or strategic importance. Such behavior defies all survival logic I understand.

Yet I cannot dismiss it as mere weakness or foolishness. There is something in this approach to existence that seems to function in this strange world of abundance—something that allows for different types of strength than those I've been taught to value.

The fire pops loudly as a pocket of sap explodes in the heat, drawing my attention back to the present. I wipe the grease from my fingers on a nearby leaf, my thoughts circling back to Jason and his family. Their subtle dynamics—Bearee's fierce protection, Magnen's analytical observation, Jason's careful navigation between them—form a complex system of support unlike anything in my clan structure.

The death oath provides a convenient explanation for my continued association with Jason. Yet even I recognize that explanation is becoming increasingly insufficient to account for my behavior. There is something else developing—something I lack proper terminology for, something that exists in the spaces between tactical advantage and mere obligation.

I find myself... curious about what this might become. And curiosity, as the Druid often warned, is both the most powerful force in nature and the most dangerous trait a ranger can possess.

My contemplation is interrupted by a voice calling from up the trail.

"Miss? What are you doing?"

I stretch and stand, wiping grease from my face with the back of my hand. After tossing the bones into the creek, I turn to face the approaching woman. Her stance—hands on hips, face pulled into an expression of practiced outrage—marks her as someone who seeks conflict rather than resolution.

"You can't light a fire here," she declares, her voice sharp with self-importance.

I assess our surroundings before responding. "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," she snaps, folding her arms across her chest. "So you can't."

A familiar pressure builds behind my sternum—the urge to eliminate threats efficiently. In my world, this woman's attitude would earn her a blade between the ribs. But I'm learning that different rules apply here, where words often serve as both weapons and shields.

With effort, I suppress the instinct. "Are you one who deals with this? A ranger, then?"

"Doesn't matter." She withdraws a glass rectangular device—a phone, like Jason's—and waves it at me. "I'm recording this, and you can't light that fire here."

I shrug, having planned to extinguish it soon anyway. Squatting by the creek, I cup my hands to gather water and throw it onto the flames. They hiss and retreat, steam billowing upward. Two more handfuls and the fire dies completely.

"The fire is out," I state, rising to meet her gaze. "Now, can you leave me in peace?"

"What were you eating?" she demands instead.

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

Her expression shifts to confusion. "Meat-ripping what? What are you on about?"

I forget sometimes how different our worlds are. "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."

"I don't care," she interrupts, her blue hair quivering as she shakes her head. "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."

She fiddles with her device, smirking with the satisfaction of someone who believes they hold power. I feel my patience thinning, but force myself to respond with words rather than action.

"Who is going to report me? You? Who is going to arrest me? You? You and who?" I allow an edge to enter my voice. "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."

The woman sputters and stomps away, her indignation carrying her back down the trail. I allow myself a small smile before gathering my equipment and the plants I've harvested. Despite their unfamiliarity, they will serve as ingredients for remedies I can prepare later.

As I begin walking back, I find myself thinking about Jason's dwelling. "Home," I murmur, testing the word. It shouldn't feel right after less than a week, yet there's a warmth to the thought that I can't deny.

It's strange. Magnen and Bearee are wary of me, but I understand their concern. They see Jason as vulnerable despite his adaptation to his condition—a blindness that in my world would have been a death sentence. Among my people, such a disability would make one a burden, and burdens are not tolerated.

Yet here, Jason has not just survived but found purpose. And I... I fixed his blindness with vigger, something their advanced technology couldn't accomplish. The memory of his face when he first truly saw me—the wonder, the disbelief—stirs something unfamiliar in my chest.

I have watched him closely since then. The way he moves through his world with a newfound confidence yet still retains the careful awareness of someone accustomed to navigating by touch and sound. The way his expression shifted when I told him of my psycopathy--concern, yes, but measured concern, and a desire to learn when confronted with the unknown.

If I hadn't been able to heal him... would I truly have killed him as my instincts and training dictate? The thought sits uncomfortably now. I would have seen it as mercy, clean and quick, sparing him from a world that would eventually consume him. But I've watched him navigate his life with more grace than many warriors I've known. His blindness didn't make him weak—it simply forced him to develop different strengths, after all.

My thoughts are interrupted by a faint sound from nearby. My heightened senses detect the presence of a small creature in a box just off the path. Curious, I investigate to find a tiny kitten, black from nose to tail tip, huddled against the far wall and shivering with cold.

A growl builds in my chest—not at the kitten but at whoever abandoned it. I reach in gently and lift the small creature, its brown eyes regarding me with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. From my pocket, I extract a piece of squirrel meat I'd saved and offer it. After a cautious sniff, the kitten devours it so quickly it nearly takes my fingertips as well.

Without thinking, I open my coat and tuck the tiny animal against my chest. It immediately curls around my neck, a soft purring vibrating against my skin. The simple trust of this vulnerable creature affects me strangely.

In my world, something so small and defenseless would not survive long. The weak perish—it is the law of nature. Yet here I am, protecting this kitten from that very law. Just as Jason's parents protected him, gave him tools and support rather than abandoning him to fate.

Perhaps there is wisdom in this approach that my people have never considered. Perhaps there are different kinds of strength than those I've been taught to value.

I zip my jacket to shield the kitten and increase my pace toward Jason's home—because it is home now, at least for a time. I need to ask him how to care for this creature, as my knowledge of nurturing young is limited. The small weight against my chest feels strangely significant, as does my concern for its welfare.

The druid would know what to do, but he is dead by my hand, however unintentional. Another thought that sits uneasily now. I have never questioned the necessity of death before—it simply was, like the cold or the hunt. Yet now I find myself wondering, questioning, feeling.

This new world is changing me, I realize. Or perhaps it is simply revealing parts of myself that had no place in the icelands. Jason has become more than just the recipient of my death oath—he has become a guide to this strange reality where weakness is not always punished and strength takes many forms.

For better or worse, our paths are linked. And for the first time, I find myself believing it might be for the better.

I sense the presence before I see it—a shift in the air currents, the subtle compression of snow that even the most skilled hunter cannot entirely eliminate. The kitten stirs against my neck, tucked safely within my coat. Its warmth and tiny heartbeat create an odd feeling of protectiveness I'm not accustomed to experiencing.

My fingers drift to the bone knife at my hip as I continue walking, maintaining the appearance of unawareness while tracking every movement behind me. The forest has gone quiet—too quiet, as even the winter birds have ceased their calls.

After twenty more paces, I stop abruptly.

"You have been following me for three minutes and seventeen seconds," I state without turning. "Speak your purpose, or I will consider you a threat."

A sound like grinding stone emerges from behind me—laughter, though unlike any I've heard before.

"You noticed me sooner than most would have," rasps a voice that reminds me of ice scraping against metal.

I turn, maintaining my balance on the snow-covered path. The figure towers at least eight feet tall, draped in bone-white full plate armor that seems to glow with an unnatural luminescence against the darkening forest. A skull helm conceals their face, eye sockets burning with a cold blue light that reminds me of the bottomless ice lakes of my homeland.

"You smell of death," I observe, feeling the kitten press tighter against my neck, as if seeking protection. "Not like a freshly killed deer or even a days-old corpse. Something... older. More fundamental."

"Deathloard," the armored giant states simply, as if this explains everything. "The smell comes with the position."

"Why are you following me?" I ask directly. The druid taught me that directness often yields better results than circling a subject, particularly with those who might respect strength.

"Curiosity," Deathloard replies. "You are... not where you should be."

My muscles tense at the implication that this stranger knows something about my situation. "You know of my displacement?"

"I know of many displacements. Many worlds. Many timelines." The armored giant shifts slightly, the bone plates of his armor making a sound like distant avalanches. His gauntleted hand rests on the hilt of a blade that seems to swallow light rather than reflect it.

The rational part of my mind catalogs possible attack vectors and escape routes, but another part—one that has grown stronger since meeting Jason—feels an unexpected surge of protectiveness not just for myself, but for the kitten warming my neck and the man waiting for my return.

"The small creature within your garment need not fear me," Deathloard states, gesturing toward my jacket where the kitten has begun to squirm. "I have no quarrel with those newly born to this world."

The kitten mewls softly in response, its tiny paws kneading against my collarbone. I feel myself relax fractionally, though my hand remains near my weapon.

"You mentioned curiosity," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "Satisfy mine now. What do you want with me?"

"Nothing immediate," the skull-helmed figure replies. "I am merely... observing the aftermath of choices made by others."

The kitten shifts against my neck, its heartbeat fluttering against my skin. In my world, it would have died, abandoned in that box. Yet here I am, carrying it home—to Jason's home that has somehow become mine as well. The simple trust of this helpless creature strikes me in a way I couldn't have comprehended a week ago.

"I will allow your observation from a distance," I state, feeling a strange protectiveness harden into resolve. "But know this—approach Jason or his dwelling, and I will find a way to end you, regardless of what you are."

Deathloard goes absolutely still in a way that reminds me of the ice predators from my homeland—the perfect stillness that precedes either retreat or attack.

"Your loyalty is remarkable," he finally says. "Especially for one who believes herself incapable of such attachment."

The words hit me with unexpected force. "The oath—"

"Is that truly all it is?" Deathloard interrupts, his hollow voice somehow conveying amusement. "An oath?"

For once, I find myself without an immediate response. Is it just the death oath that drives my protection of Jason? three days ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. Now, I'm less certain. The way he showed me how to use his air frier, even after I caust him valuable resources. His concern when I was uncomfortable in the basement. The simple kindness of offering me shelter without expectation.

"My reasons are my own," I finally respond, unwilling to examine these thoughts in front of this armored giant.

"Of course." Deathloard steps backward, the snow crunching beneath his impossible weight. "We will not meet again unless circumstances demand it." He gestures slightly toward my jacket where the kitten rests. "This world is kinder to the vulnerable than yours, but still holds its dangers. Perhaps there is wisdom in both approaches."

Before I can respond, Deathloard seems to melt into the lengthening shadows despite his enormous size and gleaming armor. I remain motionless for several minutes, scanning my surroundings, but detect no further presence.

The kitten squirms against me, its tiny stomach rumbling. I resume my path toward Jason's home, my mind turning over the encounter. Not quite a threat, yet not entirely benign, either. Deathloard's words about loyalty and attachment trouble me more than I care to admit.

As the lights of Jason's house come into view through the trees, I find myself increasing my pace slightly. The thought of returning—of Jason's face lighting up when he sees the kitten, of warmth and food and conversation—creates a sensation in my chest I cannot name. It isn't the muted contentment I sometimes feel after a successful hunt, nor the satisfaction of a well-cleaned weapon.

It feels suspiciously like looking forward to something. Like anticipation without the edge of wariness that usually accompanies it. Like seeing that gnarly tree thrusting out of the snow back home—the one that meant safety and shelter were close.

I shake my head slightly, adjusting the kitten's position inside my jacket. "Emotions are inefficient," I mutter to the tiny creature. "Yet here I am, carrying you home instead of leaving you to the natural order."

The kitten purrs in response, and despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.

Perhaps there is something to learn from this world after all.

---Jason---

"What do you mean, Grace is on the internet?" I ask, trying to process Mom's words as I make my way downstairs, still half-trapped in the strange dream about mead halls and system windows.

Mom holds up her phone with that particular blend of professional concern and maternal disapproval I've come to recognize throughout my life. Her therapist face, I call it—the one that tries to remain neutral while her eyes betray exactly how she's analyzing the situation.

"This video was posted an hour ago," she explains in that carefully measured tone she uses with troubled students. "Your friend Grace is becoming quite popular online, though not necessarily for positive reasons."

I can hear a woman's shrill voice coming from the phone. "—lighting illegal fires and killing wildlife! Look at this!"

Grace's voice responds with that unnerving calm that makes her sound like she's discussing the weather rather than being confronted. "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."

I wince internally. Of all the cultural differences Grace could have highlighted on camera, she had to pick meat-ripping squirrel teeth.

"The fire is out," Grace's voice continues from the phone. "Now, can you leave me in peace?"

The other woman's voice rises, practically dripping with self-righteousness. "I don't care. 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."

There's a pause, and then Grace's voice takes on that dangerous edge I've come to recognize—the one that usually precedes mentions of throat-ripping or disembowelment.

"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."

The video apparently ends there, because Mom lowers her phone. Her expression is a perfect blend of professional concern and maternal alarm—the look she gets when she's simultaneously analyzing a situation and planning how to protect her family from it.

"Jason," she says, her therapist voice in full effect now, "I think we need to have a conversation about Grace's background. This video already has ten thousand views. People are calling her 'Survival Squirrel Girl' in the comments."

"Another keyboard warrior with blue hair trying to get internet famous," I mutter, then immediately regret it when I see Mom's expression shift from concern to disappointment. She's always taught us to be more empathetic than that.

"Sorry," I backpedal quickly. "That was uncalled for. It's just... frustrating when people record others without permission." What I don't say is how relieved I am that Grace only threatened the woman rather than, say, pinning her to the ground with a bone knife at her throat. I haven't exactly gotten around to explaining how video recordings work or why stabbing someone on camera might be problematic.

"Can I see?" I ask reflexively, then correct myself. "I mean, can you describe what's happening in the video?"

Mom's eyes narrow slightly at my slip—another data point in whatever analysis she's conducting of this situation. "There's not much to see beyond what you heard. Grace is sitting by a small fire near the creek at Marklen Woods. She's eating what appears to be a roasted squirrel on a stick, then puts out the fire with creek water when confronted."

She studies my face with that penetrating gaze she uses to extract truths from reluctant teenagers. "Jason, I understand you want to protect your friend, but I need to know if there's something more concerning happening here. Grace's behavior patterns suggest significant trauma responses consistent with survival situations. Her language around consumption, territorial responses, and frankly, her overall affect raise several red flags from a clinical perspective."

This is classic Mom—simultaneously compassionate and relentlessly analytical. In her mind, Grace has already become a case study: the mysterious young woman with apparent PTSD and unusual socialization patterns.

"Look," I say, trying to sound reassuring, "Grace has different perspectives on nature and survival that might seem unusual to us. But she's not dangerous." The lie feels hollow even as I say it. Grace is absolutely dangerous—just not to us.

Her voice softens, concern overtaking suspicion momentarily. "If she's in some kind of trouble—domestic violence, homelessness, anything—we can help connect her with appropriate resources. My office has partnerships with several excellent intervention programs."

And there it is—Mom's default approach to any concerning situation: assessment followed by carefully coordinated support services. In her world, every problem has a corresponding program, therapy model, or intervention strategy. She can't possibly conceive that Grace comes from a place where social services consist of a mercy killing if you can't contribute to the clan.

"She's not in that kind of trouble," I assure her. "She just... has a unique background. Different cultural norms. Please trust me on this."

Mom's shoulders relax slightly, but her eyes remain evaluative. "Alright. But if the police show up asking questions, you're handling it. And Jason? We will need to have a longer conversation about this soon."

The unspoken message is clear: her professional patience has limits, especially when it comes to her family.

"Fair enough," I agree, relieved she's not pressing further for now.

As Mom returns to her office with that purposeful stride that means she's mentally cataloging warning signs and intervention strategies, I sink onto the couch. The dream fragments still swirl in my mind—giant bearded men in a mead hall, visions of Earth under attack, strange windows appearing with status information. All of it somehow connected to Grace and this bizarre situation I've found myself in.

I'm still contemplating this when the doorbell rings. Dawson barks excitedly, racing to the door ahead of me.

"I got it!" I call out, moving to answer it. When I pull the door open, Grace stands on the porch, her presence somehow both intimidating and oddly comforting now—that unique combination of wilderness scent and quiet intensity that's become strangely familiar over the last cupple of days.

"Hey," I say, smiling despite everything. "You're back. Everything go okay on your run?"

Grace steps inside, and I notice something odd about her posture—she's holding her jacket closed with one hand.

"I discovered something," she says, unzipping her coat carefully.

My smile dies instantly when she pulls out a tiny black kitten, so small it fits in one of her hands.

"I found it abandoned in a box near the trail," she explains, cradling the tiny creature. "It would have died from exposure."

"Do you know who did it? I ask, voice under control, cold rage riseing. "as those who harm animals, children, deserve to have woodchippers go brrr on them, feet first."

Grace's head tilts in that now-familiar gesture of confusion. "Woodchipper? Brrr?"

I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my anger. It won't help the kitten, and it certainly won't help Grace understand what I'm talking about.

"A woodchipper is a machine that grinds up tree branches into tiny pieces," I explain, my voice still tight. "And 'go brrr' is a... meme."

"Meme?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"It's like... a joke format that gets shared online. People say things 'go brrr' when they're working really intensely or destructively." I scratch the back of my neck, aware I'm doing a terrible job explaining internet culture. "Basically, I'm saying whoever abandoned this kitten deserves bad things to happen to them."

"Ah," Grace says with a nod. "In my world, they would be hamstrung and left for the wolves." She pauses, considering her words carefully. "Though that would only happen if someone stronger, or a group of individuals, hunted down the one who abandoned the kitten and administered justice themselves. We do not leave the weak or defenseless to suffer if we can prevent it. To do otherwise makes us no better than animals."

There's something in her tone—a subtle shift I wouldn't have noticed three days ago—that suggests she's reflecting on her own values as much as describing her world's practices.

"You're right," I agree, my anger fadeing though not disappearing entirely. "We shouldn't just talk about punishment. We need to help this little one first."

I gently stroke the kitten's tiny head with one finger. It looks up at me with enormous brown eyes and mews pitifully.

"Let me get my parents. We need to figure out what to do with this little guy."

I call for Mom and Dad, who both appear looking concerned, probably expecting more fallout from the viral video. Instead, they find Grace standing in our entryway holding a tiny kitten that's making surprisingly loud mewing sounds for something so small.

"It requires sustenance," Grace states matter-of-factly. "I gave it some meat from a squirrel I hunted, but I believe it needs milk."

Mom's expression shifts instantly from professional wariness to compassionate action. Whatever reservations she has about Grace are temporarily suspended as she approaches to examine the kitten.

"It's so young," she says, gently taking the kitten from Grace's outstretched hands. "Probably only a few weeks old. Jason, get some warm water and a clean cloth. Magnen, check if we have any eyedroppers in the medicine cabinet. We need to get this little one warmed up and hydrated before anything else."

As we all snap into action, I catch Grace watching my mother with careful attention—studying how she cradles the kitten, noting her automatic shift into caretaking mode. In that moment, something passes between the two women that transcends their mutual suspicion. A shared understanding, perhaps, of what it means to protect something vulnerable.

"Poor little one," Mom murmurs, her therapist's voice shifting to the softer tones she uses when comfort is needed more than assessment. "It can't be more than four weeks old. Where exactly did you find it?"

Even Dad, whose engineering precision usually manifests as emotional restraint, can't maintain his analytical distance. He reaches out with those long, careful fingers that have spent decades manipulating architectural models, gently running a fingertip over the kitten's tiny head. His expression remains measured, but there's a softening around his eyes that betrays his immediate attachment—the same look he gets when sneaking treats to Dawson while pretending to be merely tolerating him.

"Near the trail by the creek," Grace explains with her characteristic precision. "It was contained in a cardboard enclosure approximately twenty meters from the main path. The temperature and its small body mass created a scenario where death by exposure was the statistically probable outcome within hours."

As she speaks, Dawson approaches with tipical curiosity, his nose twitching as he investigates this new addition to his territory. Most people would instinctively raise the kitten higher, away from the dog. Grace does the opposite—she carefully lowers herself to a crouch, bringing the kitten to Dawson's level.

"Your companion should be introduced to the new pack member," she explains to me, her voice holding the same matter-of-fact tone she uses when discussing survival tactics. "In my world, dogs are often utilized to help raise orphaned animals. They provide warmth, protection, and can retrieve them if they wander too far."

There's something in how she says this—not the clinical detachment I first heard when we met, but a quiet knowledge born of close observation of natural systems. It reminds me that for all her talk of psychopathy and emotional distance, Grace understands connection and care in her own way.

We watch as Dawson gives the kitten a gentle, investigative lick. The kitten, rather than recoiling, stretches one tiny black paw toward the dog's nose, a gesture of trust that feels disproportionately significant.

"Well," Dad says with the quiet certainty he brings to engineering problems that have just presented their own solutions, "looks like that's settled. Dawson's adopted it." His observation isn't sentimental but practical—he's identified the most efficient care arrangement based on observable evidence.

Grace carefully places the kitten on the floor, her movements controlled to minimize disruption to the tiny creature. It takes a few wobbly steps before Dawson gently picks it up by the scruff and carries it to his bed in the corner of the living room. The dog moves with surprising delicacy for his size, something Grace notes with an approving nod—a tactical assessment of his capabilities as a surrogate caretaker.

Mom follows immediately, her professional training never completely dormant. "We'll need supplies," she says, already mentally compiling a comprehensive intervention plan. "Kitten formula, a litter box, food appropriate for its developmental stage, perhaps a heating pad..."

"I'll grab my laptop," Dad offers, his engineer's mind already turning to the logistics. "We can order everything online and optimize for both cost and delivery time."

"The shipping wouldn't get here until tomorrow anyway," I point out with the practical adaptability I've developed from years of navigating between my parents' different approaches to problem-solving. "Might as well just go to the pet store in person."

"True," Mom agrees, making a quick assessment of the available options. "We can go first thing tomorrow. For tonight, we can make do with what we have."

I glance at Grace, surprised to find her watching the kitten and Dawson with an expression I've never seen on her face before. The calculating assessment that usually dominates her features has softened into something else—not quite warmth, but a quiet contemplation. There's something almost wistful in her gaze, as if she's observing a phenomenon she recognizes but has rarely experienced herself.

"So we're keeping it?" I ask, though the collective body language in the room has already answered my question.

"Of course we're keeping it," Mom says with the firm decisiveness she brings to all matters involving protection of vulnerable beings. Then, her therapist's caution reasserts itself as she adds, "Unless Grace would prefer to take it when she..." She trails off, realizing the unspoken question about Grace's temporary status in our home.

Grace straightens, considering this with her characteristic thoroughness. "I believe it should remain here," she states after a moment of analysis. "This dwelling offers superior protection from environmental threats. Additionally, your companion animal," she gestures to Dawson with precision, "demonstrates instinctive nurturing behaviors that would optimize the kitten's developmental outcomes."

It's classic Grace—framing an emotional decision in terms of tactical advantages and survival optimization. Yet there's something beneath her analytical framing that feels different, as if she's using the familiar language of survival to express something newer and less charted in her experience.

"What should we name it?" Dad asks, approaching the question with the same practical directness he brings to labeling components on an architectural model.

"Kitten," Grace states simply.

We all look at her.

"That is what it is," she adds, with the straightforward logic that from what I know defines her approach to everything. "Direct identification ensures clarity of reference."

I can't help but laugh—not at her, but at the perfect Grace-ness of the solution. Simple, direct, and focused on function rather than sentiment.

"You know, that actually works," I say, appreciating the elegant practicality of her suggestion. "Kitten it is."

And somehow, just like that, our household grows by one more. As we all gather around Dawson's bed, watching the newly christened Kitten settling into sleep, I find myself marveling at how quickly the extraordinary has become ordinary in my life. A week ago, I was blind and alone in this house. Now I can see, there's a woman from another dimension living with us, and we've just adopted a kitten that she rescued.

Mom watches Grace with careful attention, her therapist's eyes noting how this supposedly emotionless woman keeps glancing back at the kitten with what appears suspiciously like concern. Dad observes the structural integrity of Dawson's bed, mentally calculating if it will support both occupants comfortably. And Grace stands slightly apart, cataloging everyone's reactions while occasionally adjusting her position to maintain optimal sightlines to both the kitten and the room's exits.

The dream's imagery flashes through my mind again—system windows blossoming across the world, monstrous shapes emerging from the shadows. I push the thought away. That's a problem for another day. Right now, we have a kitten to take care of, and that's more than enough reality to deal with.