---Durge---

  **Watchman's Vigil**

  I stand in the shadows between realities, observing the scene that unfolds before me. The basement's dim light casts soft patterns across the sleeping forms on the couch—Jason with his head tilted back against the cushions, one hand still tangled in Grace's hair, and Grace herself curled against him, her face softened by an unguarded vulnerability I only witnessed when First Hate first brought her to me, and, considering what I found out later, perhaps not even then, as I was focused on different priorities at that time. Incorrect ones, however the facts of the matter remain. The trust in that simple position speaks volumes, especially for Grace.

  Behind them, Justice Stone leans against the wall, running his thumb across Clare's worn handle. The weapon glows faintly in response to his touch, Clare's consciousness stirring within the metal.

  "What do you think?" Justice asks quietly, his voice barely disturbing the air. "You think you can help her out, Clare? Some things a man just can't do, and Bearee..." He shakes his head. "She's not ready for some of the bullshit Grace is going to need to deal with, even if Healer's version probably could handle it."

  The hatchet warms, shifting subtly as Clare responds, her whisper audible only to him, as it should be. She is, after all, his companion as Marry is mine. As, soon enough, Grace will become this Jason's. Some bonds are sacred. This? This is one of them.

  Beside me, Eshen shifts impatiently, her small frame rigid with contained hostility. Her cold, empty eyes never leave my face as she studies me with the predatory focus of the Deathborn who wears a child's face that she is.

  "By Deathborn creed, I should kill you for what you did to her," Eshen states, her voice carrying neither emotion nor inflection—just the simple statement of fact. Her fingers twitch slightly at her sides, the only outward sign of her readiness to act.

  I meet her gaze without flinching. "You could try." No boasting. No bragging. Simply a fact, no more.

  The corner of her mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but acknowledgment. "I could," she agrees. "But it would require more than just me. And dragging the Deathborn into a war with your people would be... imprudent." A cold calculation crosses her face. "Besides, I rather like Marry... however much that means, given we're both broken beyond repair."

  My fingers continue their endless counting, a rhythm as natural to me as breathing. One-two-three-four. Justice for the innocent, currently in progress, though slowly. Five-six-seven-eight. Death to the guilty, currently unbalanced, although that may change shortly. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve. Balance in all things, to be determined.

  "That Jason is healing her," I observe, watching how Grace nestles unconsciously closer to him, her body seeking his warmth even in sleep. "More than anyone else could. Perhaps enough to fix what I broke, regardless of my reasons behind it. Which were wrong, I know this now."

  Eshen tilts her head, studying the couple with analytical distance. "Jasons are chosen in one way or another by their companions," she says. "But the companion, too, is chosen by her Jason."

  My fingers pause momentarily in their counting as memories surface—Marry as a child, eyes wide when I first found her among the rubble of what had been her home, the way even then, she practiced with that dull knife. Marry growing taller, hardening under my training, her determination transforming her into a weapon as sharp and lethal as any I've ever wielded. The pride I felt as she stood over me, fury blazing in her eyes as she drove Souldrinker through my chest, demanding justice for her father's death—a man I had executed, not knowing then that he was innocent of the crime the temple set me after him for, in the same manner, as the priest put it, the temple's hound. My Marry still wears the cloak I asked be made of his skin by Maytrin.

  "Marry was a child when we first met," I say, the words emerging with mechanical precision. "Our relationship was simple: protector and ward. Then it became killer and killed." My lips curve in what might be a smile on another man's face. "Our current arrangement only began after Sarah brought me back under Traveler's training."

  "Jasons do tend to find their companions after broken hearts," Eshen observes, her dead eyes following Justice as he prepares to leave. "Even if it's not so... literal... as Marry shoving Souldrinker through yours on Valentines Day, though neither of you knew what that was, then."

  We watch in silence as Justice concludes his conversation with Clare and departs, moving up the stairs with ghostly stealth. Only when he's gone does Eshen turn her full attention back to me.

  "What do you intend to do about this?" she asks, gesturing toward the sleeping couple. "That Jason will not tolerate his Grace being harmed. And she is his, whether either of them actually knows it yet." Her voice drops, taking on an edge of cold amusement. "Jasons are spiteful bastards like that. I would know. As would you, Durge."

  "You're asking because you wish to ensure Marry doesn't retaliate," I state, understanding her calculation.

  "Yes." Simple fact, as Eshen is want to do.

  I stare into the shadows, considering the scales of justice that perpetually balance in my mind. Grace's terror when she saw me—or rather, my shadow—at the edge of the trees was genuine. The harm I caused her in her own reality requires recompense, the fact that this is the Grace I re-made causing the scales to be unbalanced further.

  "Currently, Jason lacks the skills to harm me," I say finally. "This must be remedied."

  Eshen raises an eyebrow. "I can't do it," she states flatly. "The local Deathborn would not take kindly to an officer assisting an outsider without more information. The corpses on this Earth are not a tolerant lot." Her mouth twists into something almost like a grimace. "Also, I might have killed the current commander of the First Corpse on this planet, and I don't want to deal with that. Especially since Rolf, being Rolf, would attempt to remove that child's head from his shoulders with his axe if I came to actual harm, loyal that he is." Now, Eshen's eyes soften ever so slightly, her face muscles slackening into something. Younger, perhaps.

  My fingers resume their counting. "November's approach requires preparation. I will not remain after I square my debt with Grace—as much as it can be squared—though several of my people will for their own reasons. Kirt. Cil. Dammage, though I suspect more for Russet's sake than anything else, and because he wants to learn baking from Scarface."

  "Someone should send Jason to the pub to properly explain things," Eshen suggests. "Sergeant could help him understand what's coming, considering the man's background."

  "It can't be either of us," I point out. "Harald won't do so a second time without good reason, and Jar..." I almost smile at the memory. "Someone asked Jar once. He looked at the offending individual for seven seconds before calmly asking if said person wanted to be shot with a planetary siege goss cannon." Before. "I believe he was genuinely curious."

  Eshen's dead eyes glint with something like humor. "I could probably manage it, though Kargoss doesn't like me since I'm technically still thirteen, and so can't drink yet." Genuine annoyance flickers across her childish features. "He also keeps trying to give me headpats, which is deeply irritating."

  I pause in my counting, looking at the sleeping pair one more time. Grace has shifted again, burrowing deeper into Jason's chest, her breathing slow and even. His hand is more thoroughly entangled in her hair now, fingers curled protectively even in sleep. The trust there. The peace. Things I took from her, in another world, for reasons I believed were just at the time.

  "If Grace requests it," I say, my voice carrying the same inflection I might use to comment on the weather, "I will enter penance."

  Eshen blinks.

  It's such a small thing, that blink. For most people, blinking means nothing. But Eshen does not often admit surprise. Her dead eyes widen fractionally, and for a moment, something almost alive flickers in those empty depths before the usual cold calculation returns.

  "Do you understand," she asks slowly, each word precisely measured, "what that thing Traveler made actually is?"

  I turn to face her fully, my fingers still counting their endless rhythm. One-two-three-four. "Penance," I say, the word tasting of ash and iron in my mouth, "is a sentient necromantic template device. It contains a fragment of Traveler's soul, granting it consciousness and two distinct personalities. The black kasket—the original torture template—utilizes a bone architecture foundation crafted through Master-level Rath magic. The coffin-like enclosure contains razor-sharp bone protrusions that adjust their length and sharpness based on the subject's movement. Any attempt to find comfort results in increased pain."

  My voice remains flat, dispassionate, as if I'm reading from a technical manual rather than describing my potential fate. "The bone manacles grow directly from the housing framework, tightening in response to healing attempts. Delicate bone needles interface with major nerve clusters, amplifying pain sensations while preventing unconsciousness or psychological dissociation through enchantment that blocks natural pain tolerance adaptation."

  Eshen's face has gone very still. Even for her, that stillness is profound.

  "The device," I continue, my fingers never ceasing their count, "employs sophisticated rot magic cycling. Necrotic tissue degradation causes cellular breakdown at the magical level, ensuring damage goes beyond what natural healing can address. The rot magic targets nerve endings first, maximizing pain before structural damage. Wounds are kept at the threshold where regeneration keeps the subject alive but suffering remains constant."

  Five-six-seven-eight.

  "Adaptive torture algorithms monitor the subject's psychological state in real-time, adjusting pain application to prevent adaptation or tolerance. If the subject begins to adjust to one form of pain, the system automatically shifts to different applications. When psychological adaptation is detected, the system increases intensity while introducing new forms of suffering. The progression is designed to always stay ahead of the subject's ability to develop tolerance."

  Nine-ten-eleven-twelve.

  "Breakthrough prevention protocols exist," I say, still in that same mechanical tone. "Any attempt at mental transcendence or spiritual detachment triggers immediate escalation. Meditation will not save the subject. Dissociation will not work. There is no escape inward. The device learns from responses, identifying which specific applications of rot magic cause the most distress for each particular individual, then optimizing future applications for maximum effect."

  Eshen's hands have curled into small fists at her sides.

  "The psychological destruction occurs in four phases," I continue, unmoved by her reaction. "Phase one introduces forced empathy, compelling the subject to experience the suffering they caused others from their victims' perspectives. The device cycles through every person the subject harmed, forcing them to feel what their victims felt. For beings who lack natural empathy, the artificial induction of these emotions causes catastrophic impact on psychological stability."

  My counting doesn't waver. One-two-three-four.

  "Phase two involves identity erosion. The device attacks the subject's sense of self through systematic questioning of their fundamental beliefs and self-concept. For predators who have built their identity around power and control, watching that foundation crumble destroys their psychological anchor. Phase three is reality dissolution. The device uses memory manipulation combined with sensory distortion to make the subject unable to distinguish between past and present, memory and current experience, truth and fantasy."

  Five-six-seven-eight.

  "Phase four," I say, and now my voice drops slightly, though the mechanical precision remains, "is complete psychological collapse. When monitoring systems detect that the subject's mind has shattered beyond repair—when coherent thought has fragmented into disconnected impulses and awareness has dissolved into screaming static—Penance enters terminal protocol. One last intensive application of all torture systems at maximum intensity, designed to ensure complete psychological destruction. Every pain protocol activates simultaneously at peak power for a sustained period, guaranteeing no fragment of coherent consciousness survives."

  Nine-ten-eleven-twelve.

  "After psychological destruction is complete," I continue, "Ruen magic separates consciousness from the body without causing death, leaving the subject as a living but empty vessel. The awareness remains but becomes completely disassociated from physical form. They can no longer process sensory input into meaningful experience. Then systematic erasure of magical traces removes evidence that could connect the device to its creator."

  I pause in my recitation, my fingers still counting, and look directly at Eshen. "The suffering conversion process powers the device indefinitely. Every scream, every moment of despair, every spike of pain generates magical energy. The subject's agony literally fuels their continued torment, creating a self-sustaining feedback loop that becomes more powerful over time. As the subject's psychological state deteriorates, the device draws more power from their increasing despair and hopelessness."

  Eshen hasn't moved. She stands there, a thirteen-year-old girl's body containing a Deathborn officer's cold calculation, and for once, she looks genuinely shaken.

  "The device feeds on memories of causing suffering to others," I add, "converting past cruelties into present agony. Every person the subject ever hurt becomes fuel for their own punishment. The elegance of the system reflects Traveler's analytical approach—why provide external power when the subject can power their own punishment? The feedback loop ensures the device can operate indefinitely, limited only by how long the subject's psychology can withstand systematic destruction."

  One-two-three-four. Five-six-seven-eight. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve.

  "Do I want to enter that coffin?" I ask, though it's not really a question. "No. Will I, if Grace demands it for my crimes?" I let the silence stretch for three full counts before answering. "Yes."

  "Marry doesn't know about this," Eshen says quietly. It's not a question either.

  In my mind, I see Marry. My Marry, who is perfect in all things and mine, despite everything. Despite the fact that she killed me once, drove Souldrinker through my chest with all the righteous fury of justice denied. Despite the fact that I killed her father, not knowing then that he was innocent of the crime the temple sent me after him for. Despite the cloak she still wears, made from his skin at my request by Maytrin. My Marry, who has rebuilt me as much as Sarah and Traveler did when they brought me back.

  "No," I say finally. "Also, this is why Grace must demand it, not Jason. Not that Jason, if he knew what that device does, would. He would be correct that death would be better. A quicker death. A cleaner death. However." I pause, my fingers continuing their endless count. "I did not harm Jason, and as such, it is not Jason's choice to make."

  Eshen glances at Grace, who's snuggled deeper into Jason's chest now, her face peaceful in sleep, one hand curled loosely against his shirt. Jason's hand is even more deeply entangled in Grace's hair, his unconscious body curving protectively around hers like he can shield her from the world even while sleeping.

  "Grace will not," Eshen says flatly. "Not if she knows what that abomination is."

  I consider this for several counts, watching the gentle rise and fall of Grace's breathing, the way her fingers flex slightly against Jason's chest like she's holding onto something precious even in dreams. The scales in my mind shift, weighing justice against mercy, crime against punishment, what is deserved against what is right.

  "She would find some irony in it," I say finally. "Durge, Justice made flesh, becoming part of the Grey Hunt. Grace, I suspect, would find some humor in that. I would. I do, in my way."

  Eshen's dead eyes fix on me with sudden intensity. "Marry would. Could, never forgive Grace if she demanded that of you."

  I nod. One small dip of my head, acknowledging the truth of her words.

  "But," I continue, my voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty, "the innocent live. Grace is innocent. The guilty die. Durge, in this, is guilty. As such, if Grace demands it, I will enter penance."

  The counting never stops. One-two-three-four. Five-six-seven-eight. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve. Justice for the innocent. Death to the guilty. Balance in all things.

  Eshen studies me for a long moment, those empty eyes searching for something. Then she nods, just once, a gesture of acknowledgment between two people who understand what it means to serve a purpose larger than personal desire.

  I appreciate that she doesn't try to stop me. Not that she could—we both know this—but I respect her for not attempting to interfere with what must be done. The Deathborn understand duty in a way few others do. She is not quite a friend, but someone I respect, and in the world we inhabit, that matters.

  Eshen reaches into her coat—the motion smooth and practiced—and pulls out a piece of paper. She holds it out to me, the white rectangle stark against the shadows between realities.

  "Subspace coordinates," she says as I take the paper, "to the flagship of the House of Blades." Her dead eyes meet mine, and something almost soft flickers in them. "After this is done. Your children."

  I fold the paper carefully, precisely, and tuck it into my coat. The coordinates represent something I hadn't allowed myself to think about—my children, though I had not intended to create them, safe somewhere far from the consequences of my choices, far from November and what comes after. Eshen offering this, giving me this certainty about their safety, carries more weight than she probably intends to show. Or, given Eshen is Eshen, perhaps it is exactly what she intends. Eshen is old. Centuries perhaps, and, well. Eshen is Eshen is Eshen.

  "Thank you," I say, and mean it.

  Our conversation comes to its natural conclusion, both of us having said what needed to be said. With a final glance at the sleeping pair on the couch—Jason and Grace, together in the way companions should be, healing each other in ways neither of them fully understands yet—we step back into the darkness between realities, fading from sight like morning mist before the rising sun.

  The scales of justice remain unbalanced, but perhaps not for long. November comes, bringing change and challenge. And Jason Stone sleeps on, unaware of the watchers in the darkness or the destiny that rushes toward him like an oncoming storm.

  Now, I will speak with Traveler about penance, and if Grace demands such, I will enter the construct. The innocent live. The guilty die, and I am guilty. The fact that I would wish Grace to not demand it is unimportant. Justice must, ultimately, dominate. The innocent live. The guilty die. Grace is innocent. I am guilty. That is all there is to it.

  The counting continues. One-two-three-four. Five-six-seven-eight. Nine-ten-eleven-twelve. Always counting. Always measuring. Always seeking the balance that I broke and must now restore.

  ---Kargoss---

  #blood price, sort of

  The flames in the massive hearth cast dancing shadows across Grim's pub, each flicker revealing patrons from a dozen different realities. I polish a glass with practiced ease, the movement automatic after countless years of service. The job has its perks—never aging, all the drinks I could want, room and board, and no one asks why I wear head-to-toe black plate armor or why my chain-axe occasionally purrs when patrons get too rowdy.

  I'm just fucking wiping down the counter when reality tears open like wet paper, a human form tumbling through the gap with a startled howl. He lands hard on the floor, earning curious glances from the other patrons—a multi-limbed merchant from the Crimson Wastes, a pair of shadow disciples playing a game with bone dice, and the eight-foot blue-skinned orc berserker Kasarah, who's nursing her third tankard of spiced mead and might get roudy soon. Good. I need a good fight with someone who knows the rules, and also who isn't a fucking Jason variant, and the Kellboar do good for both.

  "DURGE!" the newcomer howls, scrambling to his feet. He stops suddenly, blinking in confusion as he glances down at himself, then around the pub. "At least I have goddamned pants this time, and no one's trying to stab me," he mutters, running a hand through sandy-blond hair.

  The Jason variant—for that's clearly what he is—spots me behind the bar and approaches with the cautious demeanor of someone who's found himself in an unfamiliar reality one too many times.

  "The others aren't here," I inform him, noting how the remaining patrons have returned to their drinks, unimpressed by yet another dimensional traveler in a bar that specializes in them. "Can I get you something while you wait?"

  He frowns, his brow furrowing in confusion. "How did I even get here? I fell asleep with Grace on my couch, and now..." He gestures around the pub.

  I shrug, resuming my glass polishing. "I just work here, kid. It's a Jason thing." There's no point explaining the metaphysics of it all—how the collective consciousness of Jason variants creates natural transit points between realities, or how dream-states allow easier passage for those still developing their abilities. The kid looks overwhelmed enough already and I'm 7-and-a-half hours into my 8-hour shift, and explaining it would take an hour at least.

  Sergeant materializes from the shadows of a corner booth, gas mask firmly in place. He beckons to Jason, already sipping something green and glowing through a straw that somehow extends through his mask without breaking its seal.

  "Don't get into any fights," I warn Jason as he turns to join Sergeant. "Most people here could break you in half, and the rest could probably unmake you." I tap the hilt of my chain-axe meaningfully. "I'll step in if anyone gets nasty without provocation, but I'm not cleaning up messes you start."

  Before Jason can respond, Kasarah slides off her barstool and intercepts him, towering over his frame with a predatory grin that reveals tusks polished to gleaming points.

  "Fresh meat," she purrs, looking him up and down appreciatively. "I like the innocent ones. They scream so prettily when I—"

  "He already has a mate," I interrupt, continuing to polish the same glass I've been working on for the past five minutes. "He's a fucking Jason, Kasarah, and I'm not saveing you're ass when said mate comes to kill you for touching what's hers, or don't you remember what happened the last time one of those red-jacketed scary fuckers showed up wanting blood?"

  Kasarah's shoulders slump slightly. "He's a Jason," she says, as if that explains everything, which it does. "Of course he does."

  "She IS MINE," booms a voice from Kasarah's hip, where an ornate sword hangs in a jeweled scabbard. "AND I WILL FIGHT ANYONE WHO TOUCHES WHAT IS MINE."

  Kasarah's blue skin darkens with an embarrassed blush. "Hush, Gorefang," she mutters, patting the sword's hilt affectionately. "No one's trying to steal you."

  "I MEANT YOU," the sword clarifies, its voice softening slightly. "YOU ARE MINE, KASARAH OF THE BLOODMOON CLAN. AS I AM YOURS."

  I turn away as Kasarah retreats to her seat, murmuring endearments to her sentient weapon that might-be-a-man-that-makes-her-fucking-scream so god-damm loud it wakes up other travelers who room here, not my fucking business, pun intended. So, just another day at Grim's pub, where the strangest things are often the most normal. Also, the scene ends, I guess. I wave to the audience with 1 finger extended from my fist.

  ---Jason---

  I follow the skull-masked man to a table in the corner, trying to orient myself in this impossible space. The pub seems larger on the inside than it appeared at first glance, with shadowy corners that stretch away into distances that shouldn't fit within its walls. The ceiling arches impossibly high above us, wooden beams crisscrossing in patterns that hurt my eyes if I look at them too long, which I am since I didn't really have a chance to look around the last time I was here.

  "Sit," Sergeant says, gesturing to a chair across from him. A tankard of golden liquid appears on the table as I take my seat. "Ambrosia," he explains, noticing my hesitation. "It won't actually melt your brain, despite what Healer says." He takes another sip through his straw. "Trust me, I've drunk things that tried to melt my brain. Healer's just being an asshole."

  I lift the tankard cautiously, the liquid catching light in ways that defy physics. It tastes like liquid sunlight, warming me from the inside out with each sip. "This is... incredible."

  "Best thing about this place," Sergeant agrees, his voice distorted by the gas mask. The skull design seems to shift slightly when I'm not looking directly at it, sometimes appearing more mechanical, sometimes more organic.

  "Look," he continues, leaning forward, "there's something I need to ask you. My past self is going to arrive in your reality in about a week. You can't tell him about me—this version of me." He taps his chest with a gloved finger. "He's earlier in the timeline, and things could get... fucky... if he learns too much too soon."

  I set down my tankard, suddenly wary. "What happens if I refuse?"

  Sergeant's posture shifts subtly, a coiled tension appearing in his shoulders. "Then I'll be forced to knock you unconscious and scrub my existence from your brain." He sighs, the sound whistling oddly through his mask's filters. "It's painful and unpleasant for everyone involved. I'd rather not."

  Before I can respond, the hulking bartender appears beside our table, his chain-axe glinting menacingly in the firelight. "Take your shit outside, gentlemen," he growls, his voice like gravel being crushed. "I work here, and I like this place, goddammit."

  Sergeant raises his hands placatingly. "No intentions of starting a fight, Kargoss. Just ensuring Jason doesn't break my timeline by informing my past self about my current self's existence and possibly either break reality because he dies and then I don't exist and then he doesn't die because the reason he died was because I exist, or something worse."

  Kargoss grunts, his massive armored shoulders relaxing slightly. "Not even the strangest shit I've seen today," he mutters.

  "Oh?" I can't help but ask. "What was?"

  The bartender's helmet tilts, suggesting he's considering whether to answer. "Had a sentient black hole come in asking for a job application," he says finally. "Said it was tired of consuming matter and wanted to try serving drinks for a change." He shakes his head. "Had to turn it down. Insurance nightmare. Going to see if the Author can do anything cause it seemed decent enough and I feel sorry for it."

  With another grunt, Kargoss returns to the bar, leaving us to our conversation.

  "So," Sergeant prompts, "can you keep my secret?"

  I consider the implications. Whatever is happening here—this impossible pub, these variants of myself from other realities—it's clearly more complex than I initially understood. "I can do that," I agree. "Probably."

  "Good man," Sergeant says, draining his drink in one long pull, the liquid somehow vanishing despite his mask remaining firmly in place.

  I feel a sudden heaviness in my limbs, the golden ambrosia working its way through my system. The pub around me begins to fade, edges blurring, sounds becoming distant. I barely have time to finish my drink before darkness claims me.

  As consciousness slips away, I feel myself falling back—back toward my own reality, back toward the basement couch where Grace sleeps against my chest, back toward a world that suddenly seems both simpler and infinitely more complicated than I ever imagined.

  Now, what was Cargoss saying about an author?

  ---Grace---

  #a strange situation

  Warmth. That's the first sensation that registers as consciousness returns. Unfamiliar warmth against my face, a steady rhythm beneath my ear, a weight across my shoulders. Another weight rests against my head—gentle pressure of fingers tangled in my hair.

  My eyes snap open. I'm not in my usual sleeping position. Not alert. Not ready.

  *Vulnerable.*

  My muscles lock into perfect stillness as I take inventory. I'm lying against someone. My head rests on a chest that rises and falls with steady breaths. An arm drapes across my shoulders, warm and heavy. A hand cradles my head, fingers threaded through my short hair. Unfamiliar scents surround me—fabric softener, traces of cologne, and beneath that, a human scent I recognize but shouldn't be this close to.

  Panic flares, bright and sharp. My hand instinctively moves toward my hip where my bone knife should be, but it's not there. I assess escape vectors, calculating how quickly I could break from this hold, which bones to strike first, how to incapacitate without killing.

  But I don't move. Something isn't right. There's no danger scent, no feeling of restraint. Just warmth and that steady heartbeat beneath my ear.

  Memory filters back slowly. The basement. The movie. Star Wars. Jason sitting beside me. The exhaustion that had slowly crept over me after the shadow incident—a bone-deep weariness I couldn't fight. And then... Jason's fingers in my hair, stroking gently as I drifted toward sleep. The memory surfaces hazily—the sensation of his hand moving in slow, soothing patterns, his touch cautious yet comforting as consciousness slipped away. Like when I was small, the woman with the silver hair and eyes stroking my hair when I had nightmares of things in the dark, before the druid. Before I woke in a tent. Before the parts of my life that I can not remember. Before the marble man and the man in the iron mask that my brain refuses to focus on.

  *Jason.*

  This is Jason I'm lying on. The realization washes over me in a wave that leaves me strangely breathless. I must have fallen asleep during the movie. And now I'm... what is the word? Cuddling. I'm cuddling with Jason. Which is like an embrace, but also, not? I am unfamiliar with this term, but also, familiar with it.

  This should feel wrong. Dangerous. In my world, such vulnerability would be unthinkable. You don't lower your guard. You don't sleep pressed against another unless they are sworn to you through blood oath, and even then, you sleep with one eye open. Jason is not. I, did not. He knows what I am. He has refused to utalize the deathoath. As such, ending me would be logicle, and simple given my vulnerability.

  But I feel... safe.

  The thought is so foreign it takes me a moment to recognize it. Safe. When was the last time I felt truly safe? Not since before the druid died. Perhaps not even then. Perhaps only when I was alone in the snow, no clan for dozens of kilometers, where the beasts and the cold would be honest about attempting to consume me, as I was about doing the same to them.

  I can feel Jason's heartbeat quickening. He's awake, has been for some time judging by his breathing pattern, but he hasn't moved away. His fingers remain in my hair, perfectly still now but still maintaining contact. He's letting me wake at my own pace, giving me space to process this strange new situation.

  The consideration in this small act strikes me unexpectedly. Among my people, weakness is exploited, not accommodated. Yet Jason has remained perfectly still, supporting my weight, allowing me this moment of vulnerability without taking advantage.

  I should move. This position compromises my tactical awareness, leaves me open to attack. But for just a moment longer, I allow myself to remain where I am, to feel the strange comfort of human contact without the immediate purpose of combat or survival.

  Then I feel a subtle shift in his scent—a new note of anxiety mixed with something else. I lift my head slightly, meeting his eyes. His hand slides from my hair, fingertips brushing lightly against my temple as they withdraw.

  "Are you well?" I ask, my voice sounding unusually soft to my own ears.

  Jason's face contorts into a expression I recognize as discomfort mixed with embarrassment. "I'm fine," he says, his voice strained. "It's just... I really need to go pee, and I can't exactly do that with you lying on my chest."

  Heat rushes to my face—an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation. I immediately spring to my feet, moving with more haste than precision, putting distance between us as if the couch might suddenly attack.

  "I apologize," I say stiffly, acutely aware of how unprofessional, how unutterably weak this whole situation is. I am a ranger. A hunter. I do not fall asleep on the first man who shows me any kind of consideration, regardless of the fact that he has proven himself multiple times over. "I did not intend to fall asleep."

  Jason opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to think better of it. He closes it again before rising from the couch with a small grimace.

  "It's fine," he says, moving quickly toward the basement bathroom. Which, I had learned, actually contains something called a "bath" "Be right back."

  As his footsteps fade and the door closes, I run my hands through my hair, trying to regain my composure. My fingers trace the same path his had followed, an echo of that gentle contact. What is wrong with me? Falling asleep on him like some helpless child. Showing such vulnerability. The druid would be disappointed. Baldric would have done something spasifically to hammer home that doing such would get me killed, the stumpy little shit.

  And yet... the druid isn't here. There are no wolf-spiders lurking in the shadows. No fanged deer to hunt. No Baldric to judge my weakness. There is only Jason, who has shown me nothing but kindness.

  I think about last night—about the shadow at the window. How I had frozen, trapped in memories of things that hunt between worlds, that speak of emotions as weakness while pushing little girls into frozen lakes. How Jason had positioned himself between me and it, blocking my view, grounding me with his touch. No one has ever done that before. No one has ever tried to protect *me*.

  Jason returns, wet hands obvious, his expression more relaxed now. "Ready to head upstairs?" he asks.

  I nod, falling into step beside him as we climb the stairs. The light grows brighter as we approach the top, and the scent of cooking food reaches us—something sweet and familiar that makes my mouth water in anticipation.

  We emerge into the kitchen to find Bearee at the stove, flipping pancakes in a pan. She turns at our approach, her initial surprise quickly masked behind a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

  "You two are up early," she observes.

  Jason grins, seeming unaware of—or deliberately ignoring—his mother's scrutiny. "Pancakes! Grace, you're going to love them. Mom makes the best pancakes."

  The aroma triggers a memory from last week—when Bearee had prepared these same flat, sweet cakes. The maple syrup had been a revelation then, the complex sweetness unlike anything in my homeland. My body responds to the memory, stomach tightening in anticipation of that rich flavor again.

  "I look forward to experiencing them again," I say, surprising myself with the genuine enthusiasm in my voice. "The maple syrup was exceptional."

  Bearee's expression softens slightly at my response. "Well, we have plenty," she says, gesturing to the bottle on the table. "Help yourself."

  As Jason moves deeper into the kitchen, eagerly reaching for plates, I remain where I am, caught between the unfamiliar warmth I felt in the basement and the watchful gaze of Bearee. Something has shifted between Jason and me—something I don't fully understand but can feel as surely as a change in the weather before a storm.

  I don't have words for this feeling. In my world, we have terms for alliance, for tactical advantage, for kin bonds and death oaths. But nothing that describes this strange, soft sensation that lingers in my chest like a coal that refuses to cool as it should.

  Perhaps there is no word for it in my language. Perhaps this feeling belongs only to this world, this house, this moment.

  I step forward into the kitchen light, into the scent of pancakes and maple syrup, into this strange new territory of vulnerability and comfort. And for once, I don't scan for exits or plan for attack.

  I simply follow Jason.

  ---Jason---

  # the morning after things didn't happen

  As Mom serves Grace pancakes, I notice her expression isn't quite what I expected. There's concern there, definitely, but not the pure anger I initially feared considering she knows full well we had gone down stairs last night, and not come back up till this morning. The tight set of her shoulders has softened slightly, and she even drizzles a generous portion of syrup over Grace's fresh stack without being asked. Granted, mom's always wanted a daughter, and, regardless of what might or might not, and let's be honest here, it's probably not going to happen, mom has decided that Grace would make a good daughter.

  "I think we should talk about last night," Mom says, settling back in her chair with her coffee mug clasped between both hands.

  Well, fuck. I knew we wouldn't escape without some Conversation. Maybee Grace can teach me how to make a shelter in the ice when I have to move out?

  "Nothing happened, Mom," I say quickly, though I realize immediately how defensive that sounds. "We were watching Star Wars, and Grace fell asleep. That's all."

  Mom takes a deliberate sip of her coffee, those counselor eyes missing nothing. "I know, Jason. Your father checked on you both last night."

  Heat rushes to my face. "Dad saw us?"

  "He wanted to make sure everything was okay after Grace's... episode at dinner." Mom's gaze slides to Grace, who's methodically cutting her pancakes into perfectly equal squares, which I have now decided is adorible, but I'm not going to tell anyone that because who the fuck says 'you're cutting you're pancakes into exact little squares is adorible?' "He said you both looked quite comfortable."

  Grace pauses mid-bite, her green eyes flicking between us. "Jason was humming. It was... soothing." She says this with such matter-of-fact simplicity that it stops whatever embarrassed denial was forming in my brain.

  Mom's eyebrows rise slightly. "Humming?"

  "The lullaby," I admit, feeling oddly exposed. "The one you used to sing when I had nightmares of the cold."

  Something shifts in Mom's expression—a softening around her eyes, a slight parting of her lips. She sets her coffee down slowly.

  "I see," she says, but this time the phrase carries none of its typical ominous weight in these situations.

  Grace swallows her bite of pancake and turns to me directly: "the maple syrup continues to be exceptional. Better than the first time."

  The comment is so perfectly Grace—analytical even about pancake toppings—that I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "Glad you're enjoying it."

  "I am," she confirms, then looks at Mom. "Bearee, I understand your concern. Finding your son with someone who appeared in your dwelling unexpectedly must create significant anxiety. However, I wish to clarify that my relationship with Jason remains primarily based on the death oath."

  "Right." I nod, surprised to feel, well, disappointed? "Because of the death oath." Also, fuck said deathoath with one of Grace's knives, the larger one that looks like a shortsword, in particular.

  Mom's gaze shifts between us, and I can practically see her counselor-brain working, picking apart the layers beneath my too-casual agreement.

  "Is that all you're hoping for, Jason?" she asks gently. "Just a relationship based on this... oath?"

  The question hangs in the air like a live grenade. I stare down at my half-eaten pancakes, suddenly finding the pooling syrup fascinatingly complex. How do I even begin to answer that? Yes, I've only known Grace for two weeks. Yes, she appeared mysteriously on my doorstep claiming to be from another dimension. Yes, she's demonstrated abilities that defy everything I thought I knew about reality and proen that yes, she is from another dimention.

  And yes, I can't stop thinking about her.

  "I..." I start, then stop, painfully aware of Grace's unwavering attention. "It's only been two weeks, Mom. And Grace is..." I gesture vaguely in her direction, as if that explains everything. "Grace is Grace. Emotions are, well..." I trail off, my thoughts too tangled to form coherent sentences.

  Grace sets her fork down with precision. "Emotions are Jason's area of expertise," she states, filling the awkward silence. "Tactics and skills are mine. This creates complementary capabilities that optimize our collective survival chances during the up-comeing end of this world, as you know it."

  I could kiss her for that save. Except, you know, I couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. Fuck.

  "I'd rather you didn't," Grace says, and I realize with horror that I must have spoken that thought aloud. "I currently have syrup on my face, which would make the experience suboptimal."

  Mom chokes on her coffee, coughing into her napkin as I feel my entire body temperature rise about ten degrees.

  "That wasn't—I didn't mean—" I stammer, wondering if it's possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Seeing as vigger exists, I wouldn't entirely discount that yes, in fact, it is.

  Grace dabs at her mouth with a napkin, completely unruffled. "Misunderstandings occur frequently in cross-cultural communication. No tactical correction is necessary."

  Mom's coughing fit subsides, and she gives me a look that's somehow both amused and concerned. "Jason, Grace," she says, her therapist voice kicking in. "I appreciate your honesty. I just want to make sure you're both... aware of how your relationship is developing."

  "I am aware of approximately seventy-three distinct changes in our interpersonal dynamic since initial contact," Grace reports, as if reading from an internal spreadsheet. "I find thirty-nine of these changes tactically advantageous, twenty-seven neutral, and seven requiring further analysis."

  I can't help it—I burst out laughing. Not at her, but at the sheer Grace-ness of that response. Somehow, she's managed to quantify whatever is happening between us with clinical precision, while I can barely string together a coherent thought about my feelings, and Grace says emotions are my area of expertise.

  "Well," Mom says after a moment, her lips twitching toward a smile. "That sounds... thorough."

  "Thank you for the additional pancakes," Grace says, rising from her chair with fluid precision. "They were excellent."

  I jump at the opportunity to escape this conversation, scraping my own chair back. "We should probably get ready. Grace has her second day at Northern Edge, and I promised to help Mike with some vigger exercises."

  Mom nods, though I can tell this conversation isn't permanently derailed—just postponed. "Of course. Will you be home for dinner tonight?"

  "Yes," Grace answers before I can. "Unless tactical developments necessitate schedule adjustment, in which case, I will insure that you are made aware of said changes, Bearee."

  As we head upstairs, I can feel the weight of Mom's gaze following us. The moment we're out of earshot, I turn to Grace. "Sorry about that. The whole... kissing comment. That was embarrassing."

  Grace tilts her head slightly, studying me with those intense green eyes. "Your comment was factually incorrect anyway. I would have preferred you not kiss me then, but your phrasing implied I would never want such contact."

  I freeze midstep. "Wait. Are you saying..."

  "I am saying accurate communication matters," she replies with typical precision. "And that the movie last night was... interesting. The tactical solutions employed by the rebels were surprisingly effective given their resource limitations."

  Right. Of course she's talking about Star Wars.

  "I particularly appreciated the scene where the small one—"

  "R2-D2," I supply.

  "Yes. Where R2-D2 disabled the garbage compactor. A valuable reminder that size does not determine tactical significance."

  As we get ready for the day, Grace moves through her morning routine with practiced efficiency—everything from brushing her teeth to checking her weapons (which I pretend not to notice) is performed with the same focused intensity.

  "You seemed happy about going to Northern Edge today," I observe as I pull on my jacket. "Or, you know, Grace-happy."

  She pauses, considering this. "The instructional environment provides opportunity to share survival knowledge. This is... satisfying." She makes a small adjustment to her knife's position beneath her clothing. "It is not tactically necessary, yet I find I want to do it. This is new."

  "That makes me happy," I admit. "That you're happy about something, I mean."

  "Does my satisfaction provide tactical advantage to you?" she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice now.

  I shake my head, smiling. "No, Grace. It just feels good when people you care about are enjoying themselves."

  She processes this, her expression shifting in that subtle way that most people would miss entirely. "I will speak with Carter today about Revenna's welfare. It is tactically inefficient for him to be distracted from lessons due to concern for a clanmate."

  And there it is. Grace, in her own way, caring about someone's wellbeing beyond pure tactical necessity. I don't point it out—that would only make her defensive—but I can't help the warm feeling spreading through my chest.

  "Good idea," I say instead. "Ready to run?"

  Grace nods, that familiar assessment passing through her eyes as she calculates routes, timings, and variables I can't even imagine. "Yes. Optimal weather conditions for vigger-enhanced travel today. Temperature minus seven Celsius, minimal precipitation probability, wind from the northeast at approximately nine kilometers per hour."

  As we head out the door, I marvel again at the strange turns my life has taken. Two weeks ago, I was blind, alone, and just trying to get through each day. Now I'm running at superhuman speeds through Toronto with a deadly serious woman from another dimension, discussing maple syrup preferences and Star Wars tactics.

  And honestly? I wouldn't trade it for anything.

  ---

  We take off down the street, Grace's hand firm in mine as she channels vigger energy between us. The world blurs, buildings streaming past in smears of color and light. The cold air slaps against my face, but the vigger keeps me warm, a current of energy flowing through every cell.

  This is what living feels like, I realize. This speed, this connection, this constant discovery of new possibilities.

  This is what Grace has given me.

  Northern Edge comes into view as we slow our pace, the familiar log structure appearing more solid and real than it ever did when I was navigating it through sound and touch alone. Grace's posture shifts subtly as we approach—her shoulders squaring, her stride lengthening. Ready for another day of being extraordinary in a world that has no framework for understanding what she truly is.

  But maybe that's something we have in common after all.

  ---Bearee---

  # A mother's watch.

  I watch Jason and Grace disappear down the street, their forms growing smaller as they pick up speed. Even from here, I can see the way they move closer together as they accelerate, like planets caught in each other's gravity. They don't seem aware of it, this unconscious orbiting they do around each other, but it's there, plain as day to anyone paying attention. Or, as Jason's mother, maybee it's just me.

  Magnen comes up behind me, his presence warm and solid at my back. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just watches with me as our son and the strange woman from another dimension blur into the distance.

  "Jason's falling for her," he says finally, matter-of-fact as always. No judgment, just observation delivered with that architectural precision he applies to everything.

  I nod, still tracking their movement down the street. "That's obvious enough."

  "Grace seems to be falling for Jason as well," I add, watching how even at speed, they maintain this awareness of each other's position, adjusting and compensating in ways that speak to connection rather than just coordination.

  Magnen shrugs beside me, and I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "Jason could do a lot worse than a woman with magic powers from an alternate dimension. Especially during an apocalypse."

  The laugh that escapes me is half-genuine amusement, half-nervous release. Trust Magnen to find the practical angle in interdimensional romance and impending system integration. It's one of the things I love about him, this ability to reduce complexity to core components, to find the structural integrity in chaos. I'm good with people, but I spent all night reading fucking esaki novels to understand what, exactly, what this hole end of the world thing is all about.

  Dawson pads up between us, his claws clicking against the hardwood, and he sniffs at both our legs before moving to the still-open door. The cold air spills in, making me shiver. We don't have vigger, unlike Jason, and standing here letting the February morning freeze the house is the kind of inefficiency that makes my practical side twitch.

  I reach down and scratch behind Dawson's ears, feeling his tail thump against my calf in appreciation. "Good boy," I murmur, then straighten and close the door firmly, cutting off the cold.

  The kitchen awaits, breakfast dishes scattered across the counter in the pleasant disorder that follows a family meal. I move toward them automatically, my hands already reaching for the plates before my mind fully catches up to the motion. This is familiar territory, the rhythm of cleaning up after feeding people I love, the simple meditation of soap and water and order restored.

  But my mind isn't on the dishes.

  I always wanted a daughter.

  Four boys. Magnen counts as one, obviously, well a man, but same shit different pile, as Worthy notes, but still. Jason, Worthy, Tyran. Boys are boys and girls are girls and there's something about the specific energy of sons that's different from what I imagined daughters would bring. Not better or worse, just... Different. Different conversations, different concerns, different ways of moving through the world, different advice from fathers and mothers.

  When Worthy brought girls over, especially the few actual girlfriends he had over the years, I treated them like daughters. Probably too much, probably made them uncomfortable sometimes with how eager I was to include them, to create that space for feminine energy in this house full of testosterone and sports equipment and that specific smell that men all have no matter how many times you tell them to shower.

  Grace though.

  I rinse a plate, watching the syrup swirl down the drain in amber spirals.

  Grace wouldn't be a bad daughter. At all.

  She's different from those other girls, the ones Worthy brought home who giggled and whispered and performed femininity like it was a role they'd been assigned and were determined to excel at. Grace doesn't perform anything. She just is, with this brutal honesty that's both refreshing and occasionally terrifying, what, in the end, drew Jason to her in the firstplace.

  She's a lot better than most young women I've encountered. Not in some ranking way or anything, but just in the sense that she knows exactly who she is and makes no apologies for it. No pretense, no manipulation, no games. When Grace says something, you can trust it's exactly what she means. When she commits to something, she follows through with single-minded determination that borders on frightening.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  And she's a lot better for Jason as well.

  I scrub at a fork, working at dried syrup caught between the tines.

  Jason likes her. Really likes her in a way I haven't seen him like anyone before. He appreciates her in a way Grace has never been appreciated before, I can tell that much from watching them together. He sees past the strangeness, the blunt statements, the occasional complete misunderstanding of social norms. He sees Grace, the actual person underneath all the survival mechanisms and tactical calculations.

  And Grace?

  I set the fork in the dish rack, reaching for another plate.

  Grace gave Jason something he never, ever thought he'd have. Vision, after a fashion. Not normal vision the way sighted people experience the world, but vission anyway. The ability to navigate without his cane, to run through forests, to perceive space in ways that transcend what he didn't have before. And she's continued doing so, teaching him survival skills and vigger techniques and all these capabilities, just because she believes Jason should have those skills.

  Because she thinks he's worthy of them.

  That's the part that gets me, right in the chest where I keep the tender places I don't usually examine too closely. Grace, who by all accounts comes from a world where weakness is death and sentiment is suicide, looked at my blind son and decided he deserved to be strong. Not out of pity, not out of some savior complex, but because she genuinely believes in his capability.

  And Jason's doing the same for her.

  I pause, hands up to the elbow in dishwater, watching soap bubbles drift across the surface.

  He's teaching her about this world, about social norms and human connection and all the soft skills that Grace's brutal upbringing never covered. He's patient with her confusion, gentle with her vulnerabilities, protective of her dignity even when she's struggling with basic human interaction. He creates space for her to be uncertain, to not know things, to learn without judgment.

  They're feeding off each other, this reciprocal exchange of capabilities and care, and it's good. It's so good it makes my throat tight just thinking about it.

  I'm happy.

  The realization hits me with surprising force. Despite everything, despite the apocalypse warning and the interdimensional complications and the fact that my son is involved with a woman who has killed people, servived things that I've never even heard of, I'm happy. Happy that Jason has found someone who sees him, who values him, who challenges him to grow while accepting exactly who he is.

  Happy that Grace has found someone who offers her safety and patience and the kind of gentle appreciation she's clearly never experienced before.

  Happy that they have each other, whatever comes in November.

  Now if only Worthy and Tyran would come home so we can all prepare for the end of the world as a family.

  The thought makes me snort, this ridiculous wanting, the hole family here when the world, as Magnen put it last night, 'goes to absalute shit'. I miss my other sons, want them here, want the family gathered and whole. Not just for the crisis, though that's certainly part of it, but because that's what mothers do. We want our children close, want to see them safe, want to feed them pancakes and watch them interact with their strange interdimensional almost-sister-in-law, and Grace is part of this family now, weather or not her or Jason actually know it. Jason won't let her go, not now. Not in a possessive way, just. Unless Grace herself spasiically asks to go, which she won't, Jason will hear no-one else say the woman needs to leave. My son, despite everything, is stubborn when he really, actually wants something, or in this case, someone.

  I finish the last dish, set it in the rack, and drain the sink. The water swirls away with a gurgle that sounds almost satisfied.

  Magnen appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that casual stability he's always had. "You're thinking about weapons, aren't you?"

  I dry my hands on the dish towel, meeting his eyes with a rueful smile. "How'd you know?"

  "Because I'm thinking about weapons," he replies, moving into the kitchen properly. "Guns are all well and good, but guns run out of ammunition. And if what this Harald guy said is true, if this really does involve monsters and some kind of system integration, we need backup options that don't depend on limited resources."

  I nod, my mind already cataloging possibilities. "I want an axe," I say, surprising myself with how certain that sounds. "Something I can swing into things. Something that makes me feel powerful. Axe with a spike on the back end so I can stab things maybee. Heavy head so I can split things."

  Magnen's eyebrows rise slightly, but there's approval there, too. "Not what I expected, but it makes sense. Axes don't jam, don't run out of bullets, and they're useful for more than just killing things. Chopping wood, breaking through obstacles. Different axes for that, but you can do all of those with one axe."

  "Or maybe two?" I add, warming to the idea now that I've voiced it. "Two hatchets are better than one, right? One for each hand. I could learn to use them together, create combinations. It feels right, somehow. Balanced."

  "Two hatchets," Magnen repeats, and I can see him running calculations, thinking about weight distribution and optimal length and all the engineering considerations he applies to everything. "Actually, that's tactically sound. Redundancy, versatility, and you could still use one if you lost the other."

  "What about you?" I ask, genuinely curious. Magnen's always been cerebral, preferring planning to action, blueprints to execution. The idea of him with a melee weapon feels incongruous but also somehow necessary given what we're facing. Also. Well. My Magnen killing things with something heavy and sharp would be kind of cool.

  He grins, and there's something boyish in it that reminds me of why I fell in love with him decades ago. "I want that spiked zombie bat thing," he says, gesturing vaguely. "You know, like in the movies. Wrapped in barbed wire or with nails driven through it. Something brutal and simple that doesn't require finesse."

  I can't help it, I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound echoing through our kitchen where just hours ago we were discussing interdimensional apocalypse with surprising calm. "A zombie bat. My refined, architectural engineer husband wants a zombie bat."

  "A spiked zombie bat," he corrects, mock-serious. "The spikes are critical to the design."

  We stand there grinning at each other like idiots, and I realize this is how we're going to get through whatever's coming. Not by panicking, not by denying reality, but by planning practically and maintaining our sense of humor and figuring out what weapons feel right in our hands.

  By being ourselves, even when the world is ending.

  By trusting our son and his strange, fierce not-quite- girlfriend to help us survive what's coming.

  By choosing weapons and learning skills and preparing as a family, together.

  Dawson pads back into the kitchen, settling at my feet with a contented sigh. I look down at him, this sweet creature who has no idea that monsters are coming, who just knows that his people are home and therefore everything is right with the world.

  "We should probably actually figure out where to get hatchets and zombie bats," I say finally, practical considerations reasserting themselves. "And maybe look into training. If I'm going to swing axes at monsters in nine months, I should probably learn how to do it without accidentally chopping my legs off or something."

  Magnen nods, already pulling out his phone. "I'll do some research. There have to be places that teach this kind of thing. Maybe Dave at Northern Edge would have ideas, or know someone who specializes in melee combat training."

  "We could ask Grace," I suggest, because if anyone knows about effective melee combat, it's the woman who casually mentioned punching through trees. "She'd probably have opinions on optimal weapon selection and training methodology."

  "True," Magnen agrees. "Though asking her might lead to a three-hour tactical briefing on the relative merits of different axe head designs and handle lengths."

  "I could use a three-hour tactical briefing," I counter. "If I'm doing this, I want to do it right."

  We stand there together in our kitchen, morning light filtering through the windows, planning for the apocalypse with the same methodical attention we'd apply to any other family project. It should feel absurd. Instead, it feels necessary. It feels right.

  Outside, somewhere in the winter forest between here and Northern Edge Survival School, my son runs beside a woman from another dimension, both of them learning to survive what's coming, both of them learning from each other in different ways. Both of them, I suspect, slowly realizeing that they care more about the other than they thought they ever would. Just hope I don't have to give grace the talk. I will if needed, but. That's going to be interesting, either way.

  And here, in this kitchen that's seen so many family meals and quiet conversations and ordinary moments of extraordinary love, his parents begin learning to do the same.

  ---Grace---

  We run down the street, my hand firm in Jason's as I channel vigger energy between us—something that's become so natural I barely register the act anymore, like breathing. The world blurs, buildings streaming past in smears of color and light that my enhanced vision processes with perfect clarity even at this speed. The cold morning air slaps against my face, carrying the scent of exhaust and distant snow, but the vigger keeps us warm, a current of energy flowing through every cell like liquid fire, not hot enough to burn but warm enough to sustain life in temperatures that should kill but will not.

  This is what living feels like, I am beginning to understand through Jason. This speed, this connection, this constant discovery of new possibilities in a world that should be mundane but somehow isn't when Jason's hand is in mine and his scent—warm like perfectly cooked meat and paper with that underlying note that's uniquely him—fills my awareness. Before Jason, living was survival. Breathing, eating, hunting, killing, enduring. Now there's something more, something I have no tactical framework to categorize but that creates warmth in my chest regardless.

  This is what Jason has given to me. Not just vigger training, not just a warm dwelling and abundant food and water that flows from metal fixtures at the turn of a handle. He's given me this feeling, whatever it is, that makes my face pull into expressions I never learned to make, that makes me want to ensure his continued existence not for tactical advantage but because the alternative is unacceptable in ways I cannot articulate. He has given me kitten, who I resuced from a box, Dawson, who is happy at my continued presence, Bearee, who speaks to me like I am something to be charished and not simply used, Magnen, who listens to my suggestions, regardless of the fact that he has been doing this, reinforceing buildings, for longer than i have drawn breath.

  Northern Edge comes into view as we slow our pace, the familiar log structure appearing more solid and real than it seemed during my previous visits. The building sits confident among the trees like it grew there naturally, the morning sun catching on windows that compromise security but create beauty, smoke rising from the stone chimney in a thin gray line that speaks of warmth waiting inside. Jason's posture shifts subtly as we approach—his shoulders squaring, his stride lengthening, his entire bearing changing from the slightly uncertain man who sometimes forgets to check for traffic because painted lines on asphalt still confuse his new vision to someone who knows this place, who has earned his position here through three years of competent work.

  I release Jason's hand as our momentum bleeds away completely, immediately missing the contact in ways that would concern me if I allowed myself to examine them too closely. The loss of his skin against mine creates a hollow feeling in my palm, like removing essential equipment before entering combat. Tactically unnecessary. Emotionally... complicated.

  Worry surfaces as we stand before Northern Edge's front entrance, the heavy wooden door closed against the February cold. Worry—something I'm unused to experiencing, something that served no purpose among my people where certainty of death made fretting about possibilities simply a wasteful energy expenditure. But here, now, with Jason beside me and Dave and Mike and Raj and Carter waiting inside, worry crawls through my chest like something living, like the dwellers in the pipes, though those creatures would have consumed my heart before entering my chest-cavity, burrowing up through my intestines as they do.

  Food. Shelter. Water. The basic necessities that I secured through my employment here, resources that will allow me to prepare for November's systems collapse without depleting Jason's family's reserves. Dave's opinion of my instructional capabilities, whether he finds my methods adequate or lacking. Mike's assessment of my technical knowledge. Whether I can integrate into their team structure without revealing too much about what I truly am, about the blood on my hands and the throat-rippings and the casual violence that constitutes normal behavior in my homeland.

  But worry? Worry about Jason's reaction to something I did, something I chose to do, something that felt right in the moment but might have violated protocols I still don't fully understand? That is strange. Unpleasant. Un-acceptible.

  The memory surfaces with perfect clarity because my mind catalogs significant events with tactical precision. Last night, watching that moving picture story called a movie, something about space and laser swords and family conflict that somehow resonated despite its complete disconnection from any reality I recognize. Sitting beside Jason on that seating platform called a couch, combat instincts still on high-elert from that shadow that was not a shadow, the memories of the iron mask and cold water and being small.

  And Jason's presence beside me, the memory of him turning on the lights when he clearly did not require them, his scent warm and safe and home in ways that should alarm me but do not, created a relaxation response my body couldn't resist.

  I fell asleep.

  More specifically, I fell asleep on Jason's chest, my head tucked between his shoulder and his heart where I could hear his heartbeat steady and strong, his fingers in my hair stroking gentle patterns that reminded me of something distant and lost—before the druid, before the tent, before the frozen lake and Durge's cruel lessons about weakness and exposure. The sensation of his hand moving through my hair, careful and kind, his voice a quite hum of a memory of another, the last thing I remember before consciousness slipped away into something resembling peace.

  Jason, when he fell asleep on me previously directly after we first found War of Grate Houses, he had been highly concerned about falling asleep on me. Something he had no logical reason to worry about, as I would have informed him if I possessed concerns about his actions, but the fact that he was concerned demonstrates that in this world, as Jason is a native of it, falling asleep on another person means more than simply losing consciousness in proximity to them. The worry in his scent when he discussed it, the shame when he apologized, the careful way he asked if it was acceptable—all indicators that this act carries social significance beyond its literal components.

  As such, what will Jason think about me falling asleep on him? Did I overstep? Did I violate some protocol I do not understand? The death oath prevents me from harming him, but does causing social discomfort constitute harm? Would he have preferred I maintain distance? The uncertainty creates a hollow feeling in my chest, cold despite the vigger warmth still flowing through my pathways.

  I stop outside the cabin door, my hand raised to push it open, but my feet refuse forward momentum. The tactical situation requires immediate assessment and correction if necessary. Proceeding without addressing potential protocol violations represents poor operational planning.

  "Jason," I say, my voice coming out more uncertain than I intend. I turn to face him, analyzing his expression for indicators of discomfort or displeasure. His sandy hair catches the morning light, those impossibly blue eyes meeting mine with that direct gaze that still startles me sometimes. "I require clarification about last night's events."

  His eyebrows draw together slightly, confusion crossing his features. "What about them? The movie was good. I mean, until I passed out, which was rude of me, but—"

  "Not you," I interrupt, the words coming faster than my usual measured speech. "Me. I fell asleep. On your chest. You were previously very concerned about falling asleep on me, displaying significant anxiety about whether such behavior was appropriate. I wish to know if what I did—falling asleep on you in such a manner—was acceptable in this world's social framework, or if I overstepped boundaries I should have maintained."

  The question hangs in the cold air between us, my breath forming small clouds that dissipate quickly. Jason's scent shifts, cycling through several emotional states too rapidly for me to catalog individually—surprise, followed by something warm, followed by concern, ending in something that might be tenderness but the biochemical signature remains unfamiliar enough that I can't be certain.

  Jason stops moving entirely, his body going still in that way humans do when processing significant information. Then slowly, slowly enougg that I could step away if I wanted, if I needed to maintain distance, if this violated my comfort parameters, he reaches out with both arms and raps them around me.

  His palms flatten against my back, fingers spreading wide across the fabric of my Northern Edge instructor's shirt—dark green with the school's logo embroidered over the left breast pocket, material softer than anything I wore in my homeland where wasteful comfort meant inadequate preparation for cold, which meant death, either from the cold itself, primary, or from others takeing you're equipment, secondary. He pulls me against his chest, firmly enough that the hold is secure but not so tightly that I feel constricted or restrained or trapped.

  My arms come up automatically, tactical response overridden by something deeper, something that speaks to needs I didn't know I had until this strange man brought me into his dwelling and showed me that not everyone betrays kindness with violence. I wrap my arms around Jason's torso, returning the embrace, my head tucking under his chin like it belongs there, like this is a position we've occupied before even though we haven't, not like this, not standing upright in the February morning with Northern Edge waiting and the rest of our lives demanding attention.

  His heartbeat sounds through his chest, steady against my ear. The vibration of his voice resonates through his ribcage when he speaks, creating sensations I have no words for, warm and safe and impossibly tender in ways that should make me pull away because vulnerability is death and trust is foolishness and showing weakness invites predation.

  But I don't pull away. I lean into the contact instead, allowing myself this moment of connection, acknowledging that whatever protocols I violated, Jason's response indicates forgiveness or perhaps there was nothing to forgive in the first place. The warmth of his body against mine, the knowledge that someone wants to hold me like this not because I'm useful or dangerous or bound to them by oath but because he wants to, because I'm Grace and apparently that's sufficient reason—it creates that strange pulling sensation in my chest again, that warmth that defies tactical analysis.

  "It's fine," Jason says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, feel it in the slight shift of his jaw against the top of my head. "I was concerned before when I fell asleepe on you because I overthink stuff. Like, constantly. It's kind of my default setting." He pauses, his hands moving slightly against my back, not enough to break the embrace but enough to create small points of contact that register as comfort. "But no, it was fine, Grace. More than fine, actually. You can fall asleep on me whenever you want. I promise I won't be weird about it, OK?" He pulls me just that little bit tighter, just that little bit more firmly against his chest, fingers starting to gently rup at my muscles in small circles.

  Despite the fact that I shouldn't—that showing such responses indicates vulnerability, that relaxing into comfort makes one weak, that this entire situation represents a tactical disaster of my own making—I lean further into the contact. His scent surrounds me, warm and content and like perfectly cooked meat and paper, familiar now in ways that should concern me but instead just feel like rightness, like something clicking into place that I didn't know was misaligned.

  "You two going to cuddle like that all day, or come inside where it's warm?" Dave's voice cuts through the moment like a blade through silk.

  The words carry amusement rather than judgment, but Jason's body jerks in surprise so violently that his chin cracks into my skull with audible force. The impact resonates through my cranium—not painful, my vigger-enhanced skull absorbing damage that would concuss a normal person, but unexpected enough that I register it as significant contact. Jason's teeth clack together with a loud snap, the sound sharp and worrying and far more important than my non-existant injuries.

  Jason starts to fall backward, his balance compromised by the violent startle response, but I catch him easily. My hands grip his shoulders, stabilizing his weight, holding him upright while his brain processes what just happened. His face contorts into a grimace, one hand rising to touch his jaw, his scent spiking with concern and embarrassment and something that might be pain.

  "Fuck," he mutters, working his jaw experimentally. His eyes meet mine, widening slightly. "Grace, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—did I hurt you? Your head—"

  "I'm fine," I assure him, because vigger-enhanced bone density means his chin impacting my skull caused him significantly more damage than it caused me. "But I need to verify nothing is broken."

  Before he can respond, I note his scent shifting again—worry bleeding in underneath the embarrassment, a new chemical signature that took me several days to properly catalog. "I've got vigger now," he says, the grimace not quite leaving his features. The statement carries weight beyond its literal meaning, acknowledgment that his new abilities should have prevented injury, confusion about why they didn't, possible concern about pathway malfunction, especially given what happened when I originally opened them.

  Dave, still standing in Northern Edge's doorway, has the good sense to look apologetic. "Sorry about that," he says, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably. "Didn't mean to startle you."

  Jason nods, still working his jaw, his tongue probing at his teeth to verify they're all intact. "It's fine. Just. Maybe announce yourself from further away next time?" The words come out slightly strained, pain still present despite his attempts to minimize it.

  Dave nods and retreats back inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud that somehow feels like a granted reprieve.

  I raise my hand slowly, giving Jason time to track the movement, to prepare for contact, to pull away if he wants. He doesn't pull away. He stays perfectly still as my fingers touch his face, my thumb brushing along his jawline, my index finger probing carefully at the joint where mandible meets skull, checking for displacement or fracture or swelling that would indicate significant damage.

  His skin is warm under my fingertips, stubble rough against my palm. The intimacy of the contact registers somewhere in the back of my mind—this is not combat assessment, not battlefield triage. This is Jason's face under my hands and I'm touching him with a gentleness I wasn't sure I ever possessed. His breath hitches slightly at the contact but he doesn't move, doesn't protest, just lets me complete my examination with that trust that still baffles me late at night sometimes.

  Nothing is broken. The joint moves correctly, no grinding or clicking that would indicate damage, no visible swelling. His vigger likely has been reinforceing his flesh even without intention, and as such said absorbed most of the impact, preventing injury that would have otherwise occurred. Good. I have done much to insure that my Jason does not die. This would have been unexceptable.

  Jason's hand comes up, moving toward my head, hesitating at the last second in that way he has—always asking permission, always ensuring consent, always respecting boundaries even when I've explicitly told him casual contact is becoming acceptable. I incline my head slightly, granting permission.

  His fingers push through my hair, gentle and exploratory, searching for injury the same way I searched his jaw. The sensation creates something warm in my chest, that strange pulling feeling again, the acknowledgment that he's checking on me even though he's the one who got hurt, even though my enhanced durability means cranial impacts barely register.

  He runs his fingers through my hair a second time, slower, thorough in his search for bumps or swelling or tender spots. The contact feels... pleasant. More than pleasant. Kitten leans into petting with her entire body, pushing against hands and purring like her life depends on maximal vibration. I am not Kitten. I do not lean into contact the way the small feline would. But I don't pull away either, allowing Jason this moment of verification, of care, of that tenderness he shows so freely it should make him easy prey but somehow doesn't.

  Finding nothing wrong—because of course he finds nothing wrong, vigger enhancement renders such minor impacts largely irrelevant—his hand withdraws from my hair. The loss of contact creates that hollow feeling again, like removing essential equipment, but I don't voice the complaint because that would be weakness.

  "Perhaps we could explain the coming apocalypse at the upcoming TTRPG game?" I suggest, redirecting to tactical matters because discussing the end of the world feels safer than acknowledging whatever just happened between us. The game later today, where I must explain that I, in fact, forgot that I wished to become a druid, the game that I am growing fond of, how had Jason put it? 'you can be someone else for a while?' I believe were his, not exact, words.

  Jason considers this, his face cycling through several expressions—interest, thoughtfulness, concern, then something like reluctance. His processing time extends beyond normal parameters, indicating genuine deliberation rather than reflexive response. Finally, he shakes his head.

  "No," he says, his voice carrying certainty despite the earlier hesitation. "Raj's girlfriend will be there. We don't want this shit getting out."

  I consider asking what fecal matter has to do with explanations about dimensional barriers and systems apocalypses, but I resist the urge. I've been in this world long enough now to recognize that Jason uses profanity in ways that don't correspond to literal meanings, that "shit" can mean trouble or problems or unwanted complications without any actual reference to waste products. Even if, as it did when I first asked, it would make him laugh. Not at me. Not because i did not know something. Simply because he found what I said amusing, and has no reason to hide this fact.

  Jason must recognize something in my expression because he grins suddenly, that full genuine smile that creates lines around his eyes and makes him look younger, less burdened by the weight of futures that haven't arrived yet. "You were going to ask what shit has to do with explaining about the end of the world, weren't you?"

  "Yes," I confirm, because lying serves no purpose and Jason appreciates directness.

  His grin widens. "Technically it doesn't. But just because you seem to find this amusing, I'll keep using shit when it pertains to unrelated things." He pauses, his expression sobering slightly. "Also, the reason I used it is because shit is bad. Waste, yes, but unneeded, and this getting out?"

  Jason's hands make frustrated gestures in the cold air, fingers spreading and clenching like he's trying to grasp concepts too large for physical manipulation. "I've watched a lot of movies, Grace. A lot. And in those movies, when this kind of information gets out—when people know the end of the world is coming—one of two things happens. Best case scenario, nothing happens. Nobody believes it, everyone thinks you're crazy, life continues until it doesn't. That's the best outcome in every possible way."

  He takes a breath, vapor cloud forming and dissipating. "Second option, though? It gets out, and people who know about this shit—and there are *always* people who know, who've been preparing or watching or waiting—they get wind that *you* know. And that's not good. Most of those people don't want you to know for their own reasons. Governments especially..." He trails off, his scent carrying something darker now, fear mixed with grim knowledge.

  "What exactly is a government?" I ask, because this term has appeared in multiple conversations but no one has provided adequate definition. My homeland had clan structures, territories, hierarchies of strength and capability, but nothing that maps clearly onto what Jason and his parents discuss when they mention government institutions.

  Jason's expression shifts to something that might be surprise mixed with realization—that look people get when they understand I'm missing fundamental context they take for granted. "Right, okay. So a government is basically... it's the larger authority structure that controls a territory. Like, way bigger than a clan. In Canada, we have federal and provincial governments that make laws, collect taxes, provide services, maintain infrastructure. They have police forces, military, intelligence agencies, all kinds of institutional power."

  He pauses, organizing his thoughts. "They're supposed to serve the people, but they're also concerned with maintaining stability and control. Which means when something threatens that stability—like knowledge that the entire systems-based infrastructure is going to collapse—governments tend to react badly. They might try to suppress the information, discredit people who know, or even..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but his scent tells me enough about what "or even" might mean.

  I process this information, mapping it onto familiar frameworks. "The government functions as a larger and stronger clan harvesting resources from weaker and smaller clans who lack capability to resist," I say, translating his explanation into concepts I understand. "And if this larger clan discovers we know about November's coming collapse, they might determine we represent a threat to their stability and take action to neutralize that threat."

  "That's..." Jason grimaces. "That's a pretty dark interpretation, but not entirely wrong. Yeah. Neither of us needs that kind of shit." He uses the profanity again, confirmation of its non-literal application.

  I consider our tactical situation, calculating optimal information dissemination that maximizes preparation while minimizing exposure risk. The Friday evening game would provide perfect cover—casual gathering, existing relationships, plausible deniability if questioned—but Raj's girlfriend's presence represents, with Jason's words in mind, an unacceptable security compromise.

  "I believe Dave, Mike Thompson, Raj, and Carter Blackwood would be good allies," I state, listing the individuals who already know about vigger, who have witnessed my capabilities, who demonstrate both competence and character traits that suggest reliability. "They possess useful skills and knowledge. They already trust us to some degree."

  Jason nods, his expression thoughtful. "I trust them. Absolutely. They're good people." He pauses, then adds, "Someone should probably tell Mike Tanner too. He seems like an alright guy, and he's already learning vigger so he's got some context." His mouth quirks into a small smile. "Plus you're part of the staff now, so you can eat in the official staff room. We could bring it up at lunch or something? Keep it casual, see how people react?"

  The plan has merit. Gradual disclosure during routine social interaction, allowing us to gauge responses and adjust our approach based on feedback. Low-risk environment, established trust baseline, multiple exit strategies if reactions prove negative.

  I nod once, firm and decisive. "This approach is sound. We'll proceed with incremental disclosure to verified allies, then."

  Having achieved tactical clarity on at least one immediate concern, I turn toward Northern Edge's entrance. The warmth waiting inside calls to me, promise of productive work and skill development and continued integration into this world's social structures. But before I can take more than a single step, Jason moves to pace alongside me.

  His hand finds mine, warm fingers sliding between my colder ones, threading together with that casual intimacy that still surprises me every time it happens. His skin is warmer than mine—vigger circulation still developing, not yet perfectly optimized—and the contact creates that spreading warmth in my chest that I've stopped trying to categorize as anything other than good.

  I don't release his hand. Don't pull away or maintain professional distance or remind him that such contact serves no tactical purpose. Instead, I allow the connection, acknowledging that maybe not everything needs tactical justification. Maybe some things can just be because they feel right, because Jason's scent—warm and content and like perfectly cooked meat and paper—surrounds me as we approach Northern Edge's front door together.

  The building's entrance opens before us, Dave having retreated inside but left the door unlatched. Warmth spills out to meet us, carrying scents of coffee and wood smoke and the particular combination of gear and canvas and human presence that characterizes places where people gather with purpose.

  We step across the threshold together, Jason's hand still in mine, into the greetings of the people who, through Jason, I've come to appreciate. Not just as tactical assets or potential allies, though they certainly are both those things. But as individuals who show me that this world—this strange, complicated, sometimes overwhelming world of abundant resources and casual kindness and social protocols I don't fully understand—might contain space for someone like me after all.

  Dave stands by the stone fireplace, his massive frame casting shadows that dance with the flames. Mike Thompson lounges near the coffee station, his perpetual grin widening when he spots us. Raj straightens from where he's been organizing equipment on one of the training tables, his dark eyes lighting up with that particular expression he gets around me—the one that makes his scent carry attraction markers despite his claimed romantic partnership status.

  Carter remains seated at the large central table, his military bearing evident even in rest, those sharp eyes assessing us both with that tactical awareness I recognize from my own training. He nods once, acknowledgment rather than greeting, the efficient gesture of someone who understands that not everything requires verbal confirmation.

  "Morning, Grace," Dave calls out, his booming voice somehow managing to be both welcoming and professionally appropriate. "Ready for your second official day?"

  "Yes," I respond, releasing Jason's hand with reluctance that I don't quite manage to conceal. The loss of contact creates that hollow feeling again, but protocol demands I maintain professional presentation during work hours. "I have reviewed instructional parameters and prepared appropriate lesson adaptations for students with varying skill levels."

  Mike laughs, the sound carrying genuine amusement rather than mockery. "Of course you have. I bet you've already mapped out the entire training progression through advanced certification, haven't you?"

  "Only through intermediate level," I correct, because precision matters. "Advanced certification requirements depend on student aptitude variables that cannot be accurately predicted without baseline assessment data."

  "Jesus Christ," Raj mutters, but his grin suggests appreciation rather than criticism. "Carter, I think we found someone who out-Carters you."

  Carter's expression shifts infinitesimally, that slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that constitutes his version of a smile. "Efficiency isn't a competition, Raj. Though if it were, Grace would be formidable opposition." Before, smile widening: "also, her name's not Carter. So she can't out-carter me if her name's not carter. Which means, I'm still best carter."

  Jason grins, before, gently bumping my side with his elbow, he notes: "I mean, Carter's got a point there."

  The casual acceptance in his tone, the acknowledgment of my capabilities without judgment or fear, creates warmth alongside the appreciation I've already cataloged. These people—Dave with his enthusiasm, Mike with his competence, Raj with his humor, Carter with his precision—they've integrated me into their structure without demanding I explain my past or justify my methods or soften the hard edges that define who I am.

  Through Jason, I've found this. This place where I can be useful without being feared, where my skills have value without making me a weapon first and a person second, where falling asleep on someone's chest and holding hands while entering buildings doesn't constitute weakness but rather something else entirely. Something I'm still learning to name but that feels increasingly essential to my continued existence.

  Jason catches my eye, his smile carrying understanding and something warmer, something private between us despite the room full of people. His scent—that mixture of paper and cooked meat and uniquely Jason notes that I've come to associate with safety—wraps around me like a physical presence.

  This is what he's given me. Not just vigger training or employment or shelter from Toronto's winter. He's given me *this*—belonging without obligation, connection without coercion, the possibility that someone like me, someone with blood on her hands and violence in her history and all the accumulated damage of survival in a world that valued strength over kindness, might still find space in this one.

  Dave claps his hands together, the sound sharp and attention-gathering. "Alright, let's get this day started. Grace, you're shadowing Mike this morning. He's got a group coming in at nine for basic winter survival skills. This afternoon, you'll observe Raj's navigation workshop. Tomorrow we'll start integrating you into actual instruction."

  "Understood," I respond, falling naturally into professional mode, into the role of student and observer and eventual instructor. But even as I move toward where Mike is gathering equipment, even as I continue the process of learning Northern Edge's methods and protocols, I remain aware of Jason in my peripheral vision.

  He's settled into the chair at the administrative desk in the back office, visible through the open doorway, already absorbed in whatever computer tasks constitute his daily work. But before the door swings fully closed, he looks up once more, catches my gaze, and smiles.

  I don't smile back—my facial muscles still resist that particular configuration with anything approaching naturalness—but I incline my head in acknowledgment. In understanding. In that wordless communication that's becoming easier between us, that requires no tactical analysis or strategic planning because it exists in the space beyond such calculations.

  The day stretches ahead with its training sessions and observations and continued adaptation to this world's requirements. But for this moment, standing in Northern Edge's warm interior with Jason's hand print still phantom-warm against my palm and his scent lingering in my awareness, I allow myself to acknowledge something I've been avoiding since that first night when he brought me inside from the cold.

  I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm living. And perhaps, just perhaps, I'm beginning to understand what that actually means.

  ---Dave---

  # The Breakroom Conversation

  ---

  I settle into my chair at the round table—well, calling it "my chair" isn't exactly accurate since round tables don't really have heads, but this is definitely my chair in the sense that I built the damn thing after the fourth regular chair collapsed under my weight. Reinforced oak, joints done proper with mortise and tenon instead of those cheap screws that strip out after six months, seat wide enough that I'm not constantly aware of the armrests digging into my sides or the seat sides digging into my ass. Pride of craftsmanship, that's what this chair represents, along with the practical acknowledgment that sometimes you just need furniture built for your actual body instead of some theoretical average human.

  Mike Thompson sits to my left, sprawled in his seat with that loose-limbed confidence he brings to everything, already working on what has to be his third taco based on the pile of wrappers accumulating near his plate. The man eats like he's got a hollow leg, burns through calories like a furnace through kindling, all that nervous energy and constant movement requiring fuel to keep the engine running. His sun-bleached hair sticks up in about seventeen different directions despite the fact that he clearly ran his fingers through it at some point this morning, and there's a smear of what might be salsa or might be hot sauce decorating his left thumb.

  Carter occupies the chair to my right, his posture perfect even in this casual setting, back straight without being rigid, hands resting on the table in that way that suggests relaxation but maintains readiness for immediate action. Military bearing never quite leaves a person, I've learned. You can take the soldier out of the service, but the ingrained habits remain—the constant awareness of exit points, the automatic assessment of potential threats, the way his eyes track movement through the room's single window even while he's participating in conversation. Today he's wearing one of his standard work shirts, dark gray and practical, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked with scars that tell stories he rarely shares.

  Raj sits beside Mike, somehow managing to look both relaxed and alert simultaneously, a trick I've never quite figured out despite years of observation. His dark eyes carry that perpetual glint of mischief, like he's always one comment away from making a joke that'll either get huge laughs or get him punched, and he's perfectly comfortable with either outcome. He's got his phone out on the table beside his plate—turkey sandwich with extra everything, because Raj believes in maximizing sandwich infrastructure—screen dark but positioned where he can see if notifications come through. Probably texting Melanie between bites, the girlfriend he mentioned was comeing today, the one he's been seeing for about three months now, the one who makes him smile in ways that suggest this might be more serious than, well, normal.

  Jason and Grace sit side by side on Carter's other side, and Christ, the body language between those two tells a story even without words. Jason's got his usual lunch spread out in front of him—sandwich from home, apple, bag of chips, water bottle that Bearee probably made sure he grabbed before leaving this morning because the kid forgets basic hydration if someone doesn't remind him. He's wearing one of his Northern Edge polo shirts, the green bringing out something in those blue eyes that I swear weren't this vivid before Grace showed up and did whatever the hell she did to fix his vision. She says it's Vigger. Were all of the opinion that it's just Grace existing, because she's done more for Jason than just given him sight by existing, and, well.

  Grace sits with that ramrod posture she maintains constantly, like someone welded a steel rod to her spine during childhood and her body just accepted it as normal. She's got the same Northern Edge instructor shirt Jason's wearing, though on her it looks different somehow—more like a uniform than work clothes, formal wear rather than just casual employment. Her lunch consists of what appears to be some kind of meat-heavy sandwich, Mike's probably going to wager if it's squirl, since, well, the surviver squirl girl vidio is still a favorit among the staff, an orange, and a water bottle identical to Jason's, suggesting they packed lunches together this morning or Bearee just made both of them like she was sending kids off to school. Which, given what Jason's told me about Bearee, well. She mothers people, and with 4 boys in the house? Magnen counts, also you never really stop being a child, not really, not in the good ways, Grace probably feels like the daughter Bearee never had.

  Jason had mentioned earlier, right after the morning training session wrapped up and we were putting equipment away, that he and Grace wanted to talk to everyone about something at lunch. The way he said it—careful, measured, like he was approaching a potentially explosive topic with appropriate caution—made my internal alarm systems start cataloging possibilities. Nothing immediately dangerous, his tone suggested, but definitely significant.

  Mike had joked, with that particular grin that means he's being deliberately provocative, that it was probably an engagement announcement. On one hand, Mike being Mike, he's a trickster and a funny bastard—and yes, Mike can call himself that since technically his parents didn't get married before having him, a fact he's mentioned exactly once after too many beers and has never repeated but which I filed away under "things Mike pretends don't bother him but actually do." But on the other hand? Well. Jason's obviously falling for Grace, and falling the kind of hard that breaks the ground when he finnaly lands.

  I've watched it happen over the past two weeks, the way his entire energy shifts when she enters a room, how his focus narrows to laser precision when she's speaking, the unconscious way he orients his body toward hers even when they're supposedly engaged in separate tasks. It reminds me of how Carter was with Revenna in those early days, that intensity of new connection combined with genuine compatibility, though Grace seemingly hasn't tried to stab Jason yet so there's a definite improvement there.

  Grace though? She's harder to read, and that's putting it mildly. Granted, I'm a man, which means I'm going to be a lot better at knowing what men are doing than women—basic tribal knowledge passed down through generations of confused men trying to navigate human relationships while not knowing what women actually want most of the time will do that to you, and Grace isn't exactly a typical woman at that, bringing her own unique set of behaviors and responses that don't map neatly onto any framework I've encountered in almost 5 decades of trying to understand human interaction.

  But the hug this morning. Grace snuggling up to Jason like that Kitten does when she's decided someone is acceptable for giveing her pets. If that doesn't say she's at least seeing Jason as more than whatever the fuck they are now—roommates? Friends? Complicated interdimensional survival situation participants?—I'm not sure what does. The way she leaned into him, the relaxation in her shoulders when his arms came around her, the fact that she initiated seeking clarification about whether falling asleep on him was acceptable behavior... Yeah. There's something there, even if neither of them has put words to it yet.

  I glance at Raj, the way he keeps glancing at Grace, before making a mental note to ask Carter to speak to the other man later. Not because I think Raj will do anything—Raj is Raj, fundamentally decent despite his tendency toward inappropriate jokes and questionable timing, and we all know that, why we shot down the idea he would do anything during that last mentors conclave. But Grace is like Revenna in some fundamental ways, that lethal competence combined with protective instincts that run deeper than ocean trenches, and Jason isn't exactly like Carter but they share certain traits. That intensity when they focus on something important. That unwavering commitment once they've decided someone matters to them. Raj can see Grace's qualaties. He's a man, and a streight one at that.

  Carter had almost stabbed me once, early in his relationship with Revenna, when I looked at her for just a little too long during one of our weekend sessions. To be fair to Carter, I'd been wondering what might have happened if I'd found Revenna first instead of him finding her, like most young men exploring possabilities that would never happen when one of his best friends brings home a woman who, in Carter's case, he litirally found in a fucking warzone. So I deserved the knife point against my ribs and the quiet voice explaining exactly what would happen if I kept looking at his woman like I was running probability calculations. Carter had said 'his woman', too. Still say that comment got him layed the next day, bastard came back all satisfied, and Mike, being Mike noted with a grin, 'Carter's got fucked, but in the good way'.

  The fact that I got the nickname "Holes" out of the incident? Well. Mudman, Holes, and Mike's Tricky, so not a bad group for Northern Edge's core instructors. But Jason stabbing Raj wouldn't go well for anyone involved, and there's already tension enough without adding interpersonal violence to the mix. Better to nip potential problems in the bud before they become actual problems. Also, there's only one Holes, damn it, and I've earnd that title fare and square, thankyou very much.

  Jason stands suddenly, the scrape of his chair against the floor drawing everyone's attention like a starting gun at a race. He crosses to the breakroom door with deliberate steps, movements careful in that way he has when he's navigating spaces where his new vision still doesn't provide all the information his brain expects. The door closes with a solid click, the sound somehow final in the small room, sealing us into whatever conversation is about to happen.

  He returns to his seat beside Grace, reaching out to lay his hand on her shoulder before returning it to his lap. The contact lasts maybe three seconds, fingers squeezing gently through the fabric of her shirt, but Grace's entire posture shifts in response. She'd been tenser than usual—and I've been watching Grace for almost two weeks now, cataloging her baseline behaviors with the same attention I give to students who might be one bad experience away from panic in the field—but she relaxes as Jason touches her. Shoulders dropping maybe half an inch, jaw unclenching slightly, that hypervigilance in her eyes dialing back from "active combat zone" to merely "elevated awareness."

  So probably not an engagement announcement, then. That kind of tension suggests something more serious, something that requires the door closed and everyone's full attention.

  "Thanks for coming," Jason says, his voice carrying that particular careful quality that means he's thought about what he wants to say, rehearsed it maybe, prepared for multiple response scenarios. "I know this is kind of sudden, but Grace and I need to talk to you about something important."

  Mike, smirking while attempting to stuff an absolutely massive taco into his mouth—seriously, the fact the tortilla's not breaking under it's own weight is impressive—manages to speak around the mouthful of beef and cheese and what appears to be enough hot sauce to strip paint. "It's not like we have anywhere else to eat, do we?"

  The comment breaks some of the tension, Jason's laugh emerging genuine and surprised, that brief release of nervous energy that comes from unexpected humor landing exactly right. Even Grace's face twitches into what might be a smile if you squint and tilt your head at the right angle, a microscopic upward curve at the corner of her mouth that I recognize from having known Revenna for almost as long as Jason's been alive and longer than Grace has existed, she being what, 21 or so?

  Jason looks to Grace, some silent communication passing between them that I can't quite decipher. She nods once, that sharp decisive gesture she uses when confirming tactical decisions, and then begins speaking in that measured precise tone she brings to everything.

  "The world is ending," Grace states, flat and factual as if announcing the weather forecast. "Specifically, it will end in November. The systems that maintain modern infrastructure will collapse. Monsters will come through dimensional barriers. Humans will begin manifesting powers—what I call vigger but which may present differently depending on individual aptitude and training."

  She pauses, taking a breath, her green eyes scanning each of our faces with that intensity that makes you feel like she's cataloging every microexpression for later analysis. "The game—War of Great Houses—might be more real than we initially understood. There are connections between that fictional universe and what's coming. Patterns that suggest knowledge, whether intentional or not."

  My brain tries to process this information, gets about halfway through, then hits a wall where coherent thought gives way to just... static. The world is ending. In November. Monsters and powers and dimensional barriers. Right. Sure. Why not? Jason's dateing, and if there not dateing now, they will be after they come back from their forest trip in a copple days, Grace, who's, Grace. So why not this too?

  "There's also Gulp," Grace continues, her tone not changing at all, still delivering information like she's reading from a tactical briefing. "The tummy infiltration unit operating in Sarah's running store. Evidence suggests it's conducting reconnaissance, gathering information about human infrastructure and behavioral patterns in preparation for November's events." Before. "I have no other reasons why a tummy infiltration unit would be present at this location, considering the timeline of events, however."

  Jason tenses visibly, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "Fuck, I forgot about that," he mutters, and there's genuine distress in his voice, like forgetting about interdimensional reconnaissance represents a significant tactical oversight. Which, hell. Maybee it does, for him. People are people, and. Well. Jason has Grace now, and that changes a man. Did with Carter, is, though I don't know if it's good or bad, with Raj.

  Grace glances at him, something softening in her expression for just a moment before she returns her attention to the rest of us. "I offered to stab Gulp for Jason," she says, casual as anything, like discussing whether to pick up milk from the store. "Jason requested I refrain from such action. As such, I will not stab the infiltration unit unless circumstances change or Jason modifies his request."

  The silence that follows this pronouncement stretches long enough to become uncomfortable, all of us processing not just the words but the implications underneath. Neither Jason nor Grace mentioned the death oath—that binding she'd explained last night when I stopped by Jason's place to drop off some training manuals and ended up staying for coffee and conversation that went places I wasn't expecting, and I've smoked a lot of weed. Not so much now, but when I was Jason's age? Well.

  The fact that Jason could command Grace, just straight up give her orders she'd be compelled to follow, sits heavy in my chest like bad food. Carter would not take that well at all, given his history with Revenna and his extremely firm opinions about autonomy and consent and the absolute sanctity of individual choice. Mike would take it even worse, his particular brand of moral compass swinging hard toward "people aren't property" and "fuck anyone who treats them like they are."

  The fact that if Jason dies, Grace dies too? That would be taken worse than anything, the casual cruelty of binding someone's existence to another person's survival, no matter how accidental or unintentional the binding might have been, and Jason's beating himself up about that enough, or he was when I left while speaking to Mike Tanner about improvements to Northern Edge. Which will ve even more important now we know the world's going to end in 9 months.

  Better to leave those particular details unspoken for now, let people process the apocalypse first before adding supernatural life-debt complications to the mix, then. Also, let Jason and Grace tell people that when, and if, they decide it's appropriate.

  Carter leans forward slightly, his hands clasping together on the table, fingers interlaced in that way he has when he's thinking through complex tactical scenarios. "Why didn't you mention this during the game last week?" His voice carries no accusation, just genuine curiosity mixed with tactical assessment. "If this is accurate, we could be using our Friday sessions for tactical simulations, preparation drills, scenario planning instead of fictional campaigns."

  Grace's posture shifts, something that might be approval flickering across her features. "That approach has merit," she says, her tone suggesting she's already running calculations about optimal training protocols and resource allocation, before. "We found this information when I opened Jason's vigger pathways last satterday, and wished to inform both Magnen and Bearee before anyone else."

  Jason glances at Raj, and there's something complicated in that look—apology, concern, trust mixed with uncertainty. "I don't want this..." He pauses, glances at Grace, and her lips pull up in that microscopic smile again, confirming my suspicion that they've got private jokes developing, shared references that exist in the space between them like Carter and Revenna's thing with marmots. "I don't want this shit getting out."

  Bingo.

  "I trust you," Jason continues, his gaze moving around the table, making eye contact with each of us in turn. "Dave. Mike Thompson. Mike Tanner. Raj. Carter. I trust all of you completely. But anyone else?" He shakes his head, conviction clear in the gesture. "If this shit gets out, if the wrong people learn that we know about what's coming... I've watched movies. The government—some part of them probably knows about this already, or *a* government, or *something* that won't take it well that other people have this information."

  His hands gesture in the air, trying to capture concepts too large for easy articulation. "Best case scenario, we get labeled crazy conspiracy theorists and everyone ignores us. Worst case? We get disappeared, or discredited, or become problems that need solving. I can't protect my family if we're dealing with that kind of attention. Grace can't prepare if she's answering questions about where she learned to punch through trees and how she knows that everything's going to end and, again, punching through trees."

  Raj sets down his sandwich with careful precision, wiping his fingers on a napkin before speaking. "Melanie would be there later today, at the game." he says quietly. You're worried about her knowing."

  Jason grimaces, genuine discomfort crossing his features. "I don't think... that's her name, right? Your girlfriend?" He waits for Raj's nod before continuing. "I don't think Melanie would say anything. I trust *you*, Raj. But I don't *know* her, and that's the whole point. By not being sure about Melanie, I'm kind of putting your judgment in question by proxy, and I'm sorry about that. It's not that I think you'd choose someone untrustworthy, it's just..." He trails off, the apology clear in his voice and posture.

  Raj considers this for a long moment, his usually animated face going still in that way that means he's actually thinking instead of reacting. Finally, he nods slowly. "I understand what you're getting at. You're not questioning her character, you're acknowledging that three months of dating doesn't equal the years of trust we've built here. That's fair, actually. Strategic even." But I can see the hirt in Raj's eyes even so. Which, fare enough. Jason's girlfriend, and Grace is his girlfriend, or will be by the time there done in the woods, knows. Raj's is suspect.

  "Yeah," Jason confirms, relief evident in the way his shoulders drop slightly. "Exactly that."

  Grace glances between Jason and Raj, her head tilting in that bird-like assessment gesture she uses when processing new social dynamics. "I have made an error in judgment when it pertains to the upcoming game later today," she announces, her voice carrying that formal quality she gets when acknowledging mistakes. "As such, I wish to address said error at present."

  Both Raj and Jason turn to look at her, surprise clear on their faces. Raj nods, something that might be gratitude flickering in his expression, appreciation for Grace's directness and willingness to acknowledge the oversight. Jason reaches out to squeeze her shoulder again, that brief contact that somehow communicates volumes, and Grace relaxes into the touch like a cat leaning into a favored hand.

  "I told Jason that I wished to become a druid," Grace explains, her gaze moving to me. "For my character in our game. However, I forgot to explain this change to you, Dave, last week, as you are the dungeon master and such modifications require your approval and integration into the campaign narrative. As such, I am rectifying this oversight now."

  I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking slightly under my weight, considering the request. Grace wanting to play a druid makes a kind of sense given her obvious connection to wilderness survival and nature-based skills, and the fact she was playing a ranger up till now, well. Druid wouldn't be more than just a side-grade, though the timing is interesting—right after we've been discussing apocalyptic scenarios and dimensional barriers. Then again, she'd said she wanted to do this last week and just forgot, so there's also that. The fact she said this now to lighten the mood between Jason and Raj? Well. Grace's smart. Scary smart. Just because she doesn't know all the social underpinnings doesn't mean she can't learn, and lightning the mood is fairly obvious, all things considered.

  "How do you want to spin this?" I ask, grinning, curious what Grace will decide to do, though I fucking hate retconing, so were not doing that, period. "I don't have an issue with your character becoming a druid, Grace. But it's your character, so how do you want to explain the transition? Did you train in secret? Have a religious revelation? Find a mentor in the wilderness? Something else I haven't thought of yet?"

  Grace glances at Jason, uncertainty flickering across her features—the first time I've seen her genuinely unsure about something since she arrived. Jason seems to recognize that she's struggling with the term, leaning slightly closer.

  "'Spin this' means how do you want to present the information," he explains quietly. "What story do you want to tell about why your character changed classes? Dave's asking about narrative justification, the fiction that makes it make sense in the game world."

  Understanding crosses Grace's face, followed by that slight softening around her eyes that I'm learning means she's grateful for the clarification even if she won't say it directly. "I am unsure," she admits, which itself feels like a significant statement from someone who presents certainty as her default operating mode.

  Mike, who's been uncharacteristically quiet during this entire exchange—probably because his mouth is full of taco number four, seriously where does he put it all—swallows and grins with that particular glint that means trouble is incoming. "We could spin it that Grace trained as a druid after she got everyone into the War of Great Houses universe, then just forgot to mention it because, you know, she was too busy making sure Jason didn't die again so she kept looking at him and forgot to tell everyone about her new class?"

  The words land like a tactical strike, perfectly aimed for maximum impact. Spots of color appear on Grace's face—actual visible blushing, which I didn't know she was capable of, two patches of pink blooming high on her cheekbones like roses in snow. Jason looks surprised, then happy, then defensive as he glances at Grace, his expression cycling through emotions faster than I can catalog them all.

  Grace blinks, her composure returning with visible effort, that steel control reasserting itself over the brief emotional exposure. "That seems..." she pauses, choosing words with obvious care, "I would not be unopposed to this strategy."

  The phrasing is so carefully neutral it almost circles back around to being an admission, like saying "I suppose I could tolerate breathing" while actively inhaling.

  I glance at Carter, catching his eye, then shift my gaze to Raj. Carter nods fractionally, that minimal gesture confirming he caught the same undercurrents I did, the same developing situation that requires careful navigation and possibly some preventive conversations about boundaries and respect and not making things weird.

  "Grace and Jason can talk about it later today," I say, keeping my tone neutral and professional, "hammer out something that works for both of you character-wise. We'll integrate whatever you decide into today's session, make it feel natural in the narrative flow."

  Jason glances at Grace, question clear in his eyes. She nods, permission granted or agreement confirmed, I'm not entirely sure which. Jason smiles, that full genuine expression that lights up his entire face, and stands from his seat.

  "I'm finished with my lunch," he announces, gathering his trash and water bottle. "Should probably get back to work. Those Trail Guide updates aren't going to catalog themselves, and Dave's filing system continues to laugh at me trying to make sence of it."

  "Hey," I protest mildly, "my filing system has worked perfectly fine for over a decade."

  "Your filing system," Jason counters, grin widening, "appears to be based on some kind of archaeological stratification principle where the age of documents can be determined by depth rather than any actual categorization method, man." Before, a considering glint now in the man's eyes: "how about instead of giveing me manleyness manuals for dateing Grace, you write one for orgonizeing you're filing system?" Bfore, genuine curiosity entering his expression: "actually curious how you'd structure that, actually. Could be interesting." He shrugs.

  Mike snorts laughter, nearly choking on the last bite of his taco. Carter's mouth twitches in what constitutes his version of a smile. Raj just shakes his head, clearly trying not to encourage this kind of insubordination but, well, it's funny.

  The others start standing too, the meeting apparently concluded, lunch break transitioning back into work mode with that casual efficiency that comes from years of working together. Mike gathers his collection of taco wrappers, making exaggerated sad faces at the empty containers like he's mourning fallen comrades. Raj checks his phone, probably responding to whatever message from Melanie he's been ignoring during our conversation. Carter stands with that military precision, chair pushed in at exact right angles to the table, napkin folded with creases so sharp they could probably cut paper.

  Grace rises last, her movements fluid and economical, no wasted energy in the transition from sitting to standing. She catches my eye for just a moment, something that might be gratitude or acknowledgment in her green eyes, before she turns to follow Jason toward the door.

  I watch them leave together, Grace's posture relaxing incrementally as Jason's hand briefly touches the small of her back to guide her around the table corner, a gesture so natural it probably happens without conscious thought on his part. The door closes behind them with a soft click, and then it's just me, Carter, Mike, and Raj sitting in the breakroom surrounded by lunch debris and the lingering scent of tacos and coffee.

  "So," Mike says into the silence, his tone carefully casual in that way that means he's absolutely about to say something significant, "the world's ending in November, Jason and Grace are clearly falling for each other, and we're apparently preparing for an apocalypse while pretending to run a survival school. Sounds like a movie plot, doesn't it? I want to play myself, thankyou very much."

  Carter makes a sound that might be agreement or might be thoughtful consideration. "The tactical assessment seems sound. If dimensional barriers are weakening, if infrastructure collapse is genuinely imminent, preparation makes sense regardless of weather or not were sure." Before, with a grin. "Also, I'm playing myself, and Revenna wants to play herself, thankyou very much. Still, better to train for scenarios that don't happen than be unprepared for ones that do."

  "Plus," Raj adds, leaning back in his chair with that loose confidence he brings to situations that should probably warrant more concern, "Grace punched through a tree. With her fist. While demonstrating 'proper striking technique' or whatever she called it. So her track record for impossible shit turning out to be real is pretty solid at this point."

  I nod slowly, pieces falling into place with that sensation you get when something you've been trying to figure out suddenly makes sense. "We'll need to adjust our curriculum," I say, thinking out loud, strategic planning mode engaging automatically. "More emphasis on long-term survival, resource conservation, defensive techniques. Less focus on recreational wilderness skills, more on actual crisis management."

  "Without being obvious about it," Carter adds, his tactical mind already running scenarios. "Can't have students asking why Northern Edge suddenly shifted to doomsday prepper training. We integrate it gradually, frame it as expanding our service offerings."

  "I can work with Mike Tanner on developing vigger training protocols," I continue, the plan taking shape as I speak. "If this energy system is real, if people are going to start manifesting abilities in November, having a head start makes strategic sense. Grace can develop advanced curriculum, push our instructors to higher capability levels. Also, well. Mike's been in construction for decades, and were going to need to upgrade our facilities."

  Mike Thompson grins, that particular expression that means he's already thinking about the possibilities. "I've always wanted superpowers. Running at enhanced speed, perfect temperature regulation, punching through trees... Yeah, I'm absolutely down for this training arc."

  "We tell Melanie," Raj says suddenly, his voice firm despite the earlier conversation about operational security. "Eventually, I mean. Not right away, but when the time's right. She's part of my life, and if the world's actually ending, I'm not keeping that from her."

  I study him for a moment, seeing the conviction there, the unwavering certainty that comes from genuine connection. It reminds me of decisions I've made over the years, people I've trusted with information that could complicate everything, betting on character over caution.

  "Your call," I tell him, meaning it. "We trust your judgment about when and how. Just... carefully, yeah?"

  "Yeah," Raj confirms. "Carefully. With tact and consideration and all those things I'm allegedly terrible at but will somehow manage because the stakes are literally apocalyptic."

  Carter stands, the movement marking the transition from discussion to action. "I'll contact Revenna. She needs to know, and her tactical capabilities would be valuable assets for this."

  "And I'll talk to étienne next time I see him," I add, thinking of the massive Deathblade who's been showing up at Northern Edge semi-regularly for reasons that seem to involve both professional courtesy and genuine curiosity about our operations. Or, well. Etienne is Etienne, and the man could just be comeing here because a particular patch of snow is marking down something for him, I don't actually know, and I saw him do that once. "If anyone knows about dimensional barriers and systems collapse, it's probably someone who carries the title 'Deathblade of Frontanaq' without irony, even though I have no fucking idea where Frontanaq actually is."

  Mike gathers the last of the trash, his movements automatic, hands finding purpose even while his brain is clearly elsewhere. "This is insane," he announces cheerfully. "Completely batshit insane. And I'm absolutely here for it."

  "We've prepared people for wilderness survival for over a decade," I point out, standing and stretching, feeling my back pop in several places that suggest I'm getting too old for sitting in chairs designed for normal-sized humans. "This is just... wilderness survival where the wilderness includes dimensional monsters and infrastructure collapse and whatever the hell 'tummy infiltration units' are."

  "Gulp," Raj supplies helpfully. "The infiltration unit's name is Gulp. Which is somehow both adorable and terrifying."

  Carter's expression suggests he finds it mostly terrifying, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he moves toward the door, already transitioning to whatever afternoon training session is on his schedule. "We proceed with normal operations while implementing strategic modifications. Maintain operational security. Prepare systematically. Trust the people in this room."

  It's not a question, just a statement of operational protocol delivered with that military certainty that makes it feel less like a plan and more like established fact. Which, given Carter's the only actual soldier here, it'll probably just become fact soon enough.

  The breakroom empties gradually, each of us returning to our respective responsibilities—Mike to his afternoon fire-starting workshop, Carter to advanced navigation training, Raj to equipment maintenance that he's been putting off for three days. I remain behind for a moment longer, gathering the coffee mugs and plates, restoring the space to the neutral state my Sensai taught me whe I was angry and just wanted to hit things and a teanager, that eventually got me liveing in a cabin alone for 5 years. Which, as it happened, helped.

  Through the window, I can see Jason and Grace in the parking area, apparently discussing something with intensity if their body language is any indication. Grace's hands move as she speaks, those precise gestures she uses when explaining technical concepts. Jason listens with that complete focus he brings to things he considers important, head tilted slightly, absorbing information like a sponge absorbs water.

  They're good for each other, I think. Whatever this thing is between them—complicated by death oaths and dimensional barriers and power imbalances they're both clearly trying to navigate with care—it's making them both stronger. Jason's more confident, more willing to trust his own judgment, less apologetic about taking up space in the world. Grace is softer somehow, more willing to acknowledge uncertainty, more connected to something beyond pure tactical survival.

  The world might be ending in November. Monsters might come through dimensional barriers. Infrastructure might collapse and humans might develop superpowers and everything we think we know about reality might be wrong for what's coming.

  But right now, in this moment, watching two people figure out how to care about each other despite every complication the universe can throw at them, I think we might actually have a chance.

  Mudman, Holes, Tricky, and whatever the hell Jason and Grace end up being called—probably something ridiculous knowing our track record—preparing for the apocalypse one survival skill at a time.

  Yeah. Northern Edge has definitely seen weirder fridays.

  Though not by much.