supplies and emotions, part one.

---Jason---

The soft buzz of my phone jerks me from sleep, and for a moment I'm disoriented by how clearly I can see the morning light filtering through my bedroom window. The voiceover says 7:30 before telling me that Dave is calling.

"Hey Dave," I answer, my voice still rough with sleep.

"Morning, Stone. You planning on gracing us with your presence today, or should I prepare for another day of wondering what the hell has gotten into you lately?"

I sit up straighter, suddenly more alert. "What do you mean?"

Dave's laughter booms through the phone. "Yesterday you seemed... I dunno, different. More focused. Like you'd found something you'd been missing." His tone shifts, becoming more amused. "Plus, I have to ask—did you see that video making the rounds online? Some woman they're calling 'Survival Squirrel Girl' after she handled some confrontation in the woods. Looks a hell of a lot like your Grace, and the way she talks about survival techniques matches exactly what I saw when I met her at your place."

My stomach drops. "Yeah, I showed it to her yesterday," I reply, rubbing my face with my free hand. "How bad is the fallout?"

"Bad? Stone, it's the best thing that's happened to our marketing in years!" Dave's enthusiasm practically vibrates through the phone. "That woman comes across as someone who actually knows what she's doing. The comments are split between people calling her amazing and others saying she's dangerous. Honestly, after meeting her yesterday, I'm not surprised she handled that situation so well. Most of my clients could learn a thing or two from her approach."

I feel a wave of relief wash over me. "So it's not a problem?"

"Problem? Three new clients signed up this morning specifically asking if we teach 'real survival like that woman in the woods.' Grace just became our best advertising without even trying." Dave pauses. "Speaking of which, I'd love to see her again this afternoon if you two are free. I have a feeling our conversation yesterday was just scratching the surface of what she knows about survival."

"Actually, that works out perfectly," I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "I need to come in a bit later today anyway. Grace found a kitten yesterday—abandoned in a box in the cold—and we need to get supplies for it first."

"A kitten?" Dave's voice immediately softens. "Well, that explains the protective instincts. Bring her by around two if you can manage it. Oh, and Stone? I'm even more curious to see Grace again after watching that video."

After hanging up, I head toward my bedroom door, feeling lighter about the whole viral video situation than I expected, especially as I didn't even think what Dave and the guies would think about the vidio, since they know about Grace now. But as I reach for the handle, something catches my attention, and I stop to blink while trying to figure out the fuck it is.

There's a small potted plant sitting on my desk that definitely wasn't there yesterday. It's completely bare—just naked branches reaching up from the ceramic pot like skeletal fingers. The stems look healthy enough, but every single thing that might have been on said branches has been stripped away.

"What the hell?" I mutter while moveing closer, examining the mysterious plant. I have no idea where it came from or how it got on my desk. The pot is unfamiliar, the plant species is nothing I recognize, and yet here it sits like it belongs here.

I head downstairs, the mystery of the unknown plant nagging at me. How did it get there? Who put it on my desk? And what stripped all the berries and leaves from it? The sound of quiet conversation drifts from the kitchen, punctuated by tiny mewing sounds and the occasional soft thump of something small hitting the floor.

Grace stands perfectly still at the kitchen counter, focused on the tiny black kitten currently engaged in what appears to be mortal combat with a small toy mouse. She's already dressed in her usual practical clothing, short hair washed, though dry.

"Morning," I say, moving toward the kitchen counter. "Grace, do you know anything about the plant on my desk? I have no idea where it came from, and something ate all the berries off it."

She turns to look at me, those green eyes holding their usual unreadable expression. "I have no knowledge of any plant being placed in your room. What manner of plant?"

"Small potted thing, ceramic pot, completely stripped bare. Just showed up on my desk overnight." I study her face for any sign of recognition. "You didn't put it there?"

"No," she says simply, but I catch something in her expression—not guilt, but curiosity. Like this is the first she's hearing of it too.

"Huh," I say, deciding to let the mystery drop for now. More important things to do after all. "How's Kitten doing this morning? And thanks for that sleeping draft last night, by the way. I actually feel human today instead of like a zombie since I've not showered yet."

"The kitten has consumed appropriate quantities of the diluted milk formula your mother prepared." Grace reports with characteristic precision. "Motor functions appear normal, response to stimuli is appropriate, and she has successfully utilized the small litter box your father constructed."

I bite back a smile at her clinical assessment. "That's good. Sounds like she's thriving."

"I require additional instruction on long-term care protocols," Grace continues, her attention returning to the kitten's epic battle with the toy mouse. "My knowledge of maintaining domesticated companion animals remains insufficient in this case."

"That's what pet stores are for," I explain, pouring myself a glass of water instead.

"Please define a pet store." Grace says: "I am unfamiliar with this term."

"A pet store is a place that sells everything you need to take care of animals." I say with a shrug. "Also, teaches you, sometimes, on takeing care of pet animals."

Grace tilts her head slightly, processing this. "Explain 'pet stores' more thoroughly. What is a 'store'?"

I settle against the counter, cradling my water and watching her watch the kitten with that intense focus she brings to everything new. "A store is a place where you go to buy things you need. Like a traveling merchant, but the store doesn't move. Pet stores specialize in animal supplies and how to take care of them."

"And 'pets'?" she asks. "Define this term."

"Pets are animals that people keep not for food or work, but for companionship. Like Dawson—he doesn't hunt for us or guard livestock in any practical sense. He's part of the family because we enjoy his company and he enjoys ours."

"Dawson provides tactical advantages," Grace points out with another shrug that looks like she learned it from a tactical manual for interacting with humans. "Alert systems, perimeter monitoring, emotional and thermal regulation for pack members."

"Well, yes, he does all that, but that's not why we keep him. We keep him because we love him. A pet store is a place where you can buy food, toys, beds, medical supplies, and other things pets need to be comfortable and healthy."

"Like a traveling merchant," she repeats slowly, "but stationary and specialized in animal care supplies."

"Exactly." I take a sip of water, then add, "Also, Dave called about that video from yesterday. Actually, Dave seemed impressed by the video, especially after meeting you yesterday. He wants to see you again this afternoon when we go to the survival school." I grin. "Said our conversation yesterday was just scratching the surface of what you know about survival."

Something flickers across Grace's expression—not quite concern, but heightened alertness. "Your pack leader wishes to conduct further evaluation of my capabilities."

"Dave's not exactly—" I start, then realize that from her perspective, that's probably exactly what Dave is. "Yeah, basically. But he's genuinely interested in meeting you again, not interrogating you. He appreciates practical knowledge over theoretical stuff."

"That approach is tactical," Grace notes approvingly. "I will accompany you to this survival school for assessment purposes after this, pet store."

"Great. We'll go to the pet store first, then swing by Northern Edge this afternoon." I watch as the kitten successfully defeats the toy mouse before falling over sideways, paws kicking in the air, in victory. "You're doing great with her, by the way. For someone who claims no experience with pets, you seem to have excellent instincts."

Grace immediately moves closer as the kitten lets out a tiney mu before crouching down and gently checking the small creature for injuries with gentle precision. "She appears undamaged. This falling behavior seems to be normal for juveniles of this species during play activity."

I watch her careful handling of something so small and vulnerable, noting how her usually controlled expression softens almost imperceptibly when she looks at Kitten.

"Survival requires rapid adaptation to new circumstances," she adds, but I catch the slight warming around her eyes that suggests she's pleased by my observation.

From the other room, I hear Dad's voice calling out. "Jason, Grace, could you bring Kitten out here? I think it's time for her next feeding."

We gather in the breakfast nook where Dad has prepared a small bottle with warmed kitten formula. The tiny orange kitten suckles eagerly while letting out little mus of what seems like contentment. We're all gathered around the breakfast nook, watching this little scrap of fur with its paws wrapped around the bottle like it's the most precious thing in the world. The scene feels surreal—my parents, me with my newly-healed eyes, and a woman from another dimension, all captivated by one tiny cat.

"Thank you for your assistance, Bearee," Grace says, her voice careful and measured as always. "I did not know how to ensure this creature remained alive after finding it in a box in the cold." She stops abruptly, but I notice the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth as she watches the kitten.

The little creature finishes eating and curls around the warm bottle, soft snores soon filling the silence. Dad gently scoops the kitten into his large palms, where it promptly nestles against his arm and somehow manages to snore even louder. For something so tiny, she makes an impressive amount of noise.

"We'll need cat things, like I said yesterday," Mom says, practical as always. "Litter box, scratching post, wet and dry cat food. Jason, could you look up what else we need to take care of a cat?"

I feel a flare of frustration at her question—a familiar feeling when such simple tasks required help or workarounds. A hand touches my shoulder. Glanceing over, I find Grace standing at my side. She removes her hand. I nod, before reminding myself this is my issue, not mom's, and that I still can't see screens properly before pushing said frustration down.

"Ok, I can do that, mom," I respond, keeping my voice neutral.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grace nod ever so slightly. I nod back. She nods once more and relaxes, though "relaxed" for Grace still looks ready to tackle a bear at a moment's notice.

"Where are we going to keep Kitten long-term?" I ask, suppressing a smile at the simple name. It reminds me of those text-to-speech videos where Kitten is an actual character name, though this one isn't golden, so hopefully no copyright ninjas will come after us. "As much as it's cute, Kitten can't just stay with Dawson forever, even if I doubt she would have an issue with that."

"I'll make up a bed," Mom offers with a smile. "But you need to look up what cats need, or maybe Grace can?"

"I'll do it," I say quickly, not wanting to explain yet again why Grace might not be familiar with the internet. "Come with me, please?" I gesture to Grace, who follows after me silently—so silently that I realize I've never actually heard her footsteps since we met.

Once we're in my room, Grace stands with her back to the now closed door, her posture upright and alert.

"Killing her would make you sad," she states flatly, "so I will not." She pauses. "Also, I already gave my word to you that I would not, regardless."

I sigh heavily and flop onto my bed. "I have my own shit to deal with," I mutter. "So, well, please don't just kill people?"

"If I was going to kill your clan matriarch," Grace responds matter-of-factly, "firstly, I would have done so with my bow and not my blade, and secondly, I would not have been so obvious about it." She pauses. "Also, she played a part in allowing me to touch base with something familiar to me, and as such, I would give her grace regardless, unless she proved a direct and present threat to you."

The casual way she discusses potentially murdering my mother should probably terrify me, but I'm starting to understand this is just how Grace processes the world.

"Thanks for, earlier." I say: "when mom asked me to look up, cat stuff."

"You're scent changed." Grace says, head tilting. "Why is this?"

"It's..." I start, then stop. "It's, I don't really know how to explain it?"

"Understood." Grace nods, I sitting up to look at her. Don't technically have to, but. Visual norms and all tht shit.

"So," I ask, changing the subject. "Apart from that Karen who posted that video, how was it? The run, I mean."

"Karen?" Grace tests the word slowly. "As in, one who is very much annoying, but, stabbing multiple times in the torso with a combat blade would cause more problems than it would solve?"

"I mean, kind of?" I reply with a half-smile. "Though our definition is more like 'grumpy middle-aged woman who is a bitch.'"

"As a bitch is also given to a female canine," Grace states, "I am of the opinion that calling Karens such is an insult to said canines, and as such, shall not do so."

I have to press my lips together to keep from cackling—though more because I don't want to bring my parents running with Grace standing there looking like she's guarding a door in some medieval castle than anything else.

"That's the funniest shit I've heard all day, Grace," I finally manage. "The fact you managed to deliver it deadpan just makes it better."

"It was not my intention," Grace replies, but I notice the slightest softening around her eyes. "Although I am glad that it amuses you." She pauses. "Now, what exactly did Bearee mean when she told you to 'look up cat stuff'?"

"So," I begin, standing, "we have something called the internet. Long story short, it lets us find information with this." I wave my phone in the air. "My computer would work too, but I'll use my phone because it's easier."

"I know little of caring for another," Grace admits, "and less so a cat. Dogs at least I know of, although Dawson is not like the ones I have seen. Cats are rare where I'm from, and only seen with Packmasters, and even then, rarely."

"Right," I say, unlocking my phone. "I'll look up what's needed, then we can find a pet store nearby, then I have to figure out how to get there."

"I can walk if I have the location," Grace offers. "Kitten is mine, and as such, is my responsibility to care for."

Her possessiveness over the kitten catches me off guard. For someone who claims to have muted emotions, she's already formed an attachment to the tiny thing. Granted, it's fucking adorable, but still.

"I kind of want to come with, if you don't mind?" I stretch, spine popping as my arms go over my head while reminding myself I still need to shower. "Also, you don't have any money to buy the cat food and things, so someone will have to come with you anyway."

Grace tilts her head slightly, considering this new information. "What currency do you use here? I doubt that carved teeth and trade-goods will work, as I have seen none to indicate such."

I bite back a smile at the mental image of Grace trying to pay for cat litter with carved teeth. "It's—I'll just show you when we get there, okay?"

"That is acceptable," Grace nods. "Although that still requires us to find transport, as neither should you, nor will I let you, walk in this. Without vigger, you will grow cold quickly and die soon thereafter." She pauses, and something in her expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "Even if I had not sworn to ensure you did not die, getting you killed because of a decision I directly made is unacceptable to me." Her voice softens slightly. "I still require you to teach me how to survive in this world, after all, and I can not do such if you're meet is in the cook pot."

"Thought I was growing on you for a moment there," I say with a grin, only half-joking.

Grace meets my eyes, and for a brief instant, I see something flicker behind her carefully controlled expression—a moment of uncertainty, perhaps.

"No," she responds, voice flat. "Or did you forget what you saw on my system window? 'Psychopath' is not just something I can choose to ignore, much as I might wish to sometimes." Her fingers rest lightly on the edge of my desk, tracing a small pattern absently. "I remain here for pragmatic reasons, and because the code I follow so I do not become a monster that must be cut down with silver and steel demands it. Nothing more."

She looks at me directly, her green eyes holding mine with unusual intensity even for her. "Remember that, and adapt to it, as you pride yourself so on doing. It would do you well and cause you less pain, which is something I do not wish for you without reason." A small crease appears between her eyebrows. "Monster I may be, but I do not enjoy the suffering of others without purpose, and you have given me no reason to enjoy yours."

Her words hit harder than I expected. For a moment, I'd forgotten the reality of what she'd shown me in that system window. Yet even as she reminds me, I can't help but notice the contradiction—someone who claims to feel nothing yet is concerned about causing me pain.

"Right," I say, lifting my phone to my mouth and activating dictation. "Top ten things a kitten under a year old needs."

As I speak the query, I wonder if Grace realizes she's already adapting more than she thinks. For someone who claims to be guided solely by a code, she's developed quite a protective streak for both a tiny kitten and a formerly blind guy who found her freezing on his porch. Maybe someday I'll point that out to her—but not today. Today, we focus on Kitten.

"The pet store is only about twenty minutes away by car," I say, finger swiping at the search results. "I think Dad would drive us. Though I'm not sure you actually need directions about pet care. You've survived in conditions that would kill most people here. I'm pretty sure you can figure out how to keep a kitten alive."

Grace's eyes track my movement, that predatory focus never quite leaving her gaze, though it's softened somehow by the conversation about Kitten. "Animals in my world are different," she states, her tone less flat than usual. "They evolve to kill and consume. Here, they appear to have different requirements." She glances toward the door, in the direction where Kitten sleeps. "I will not risk Kitten's life due to assumptions based on my previous experience."

I nod, not quite sure how to react to her caution. "Fair enough. Let's get the supplies we need and make sure Kitten has everything for a good start, then." I gesture toward the door. "Ready to brave the pet store? I promise no one there will try to kill you. Though the prices might make you wish you could kill someone."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

For a fraction of a second, I see the corner of Grace's mouth twitch upward and this time, I'm certain I didn't imagine it.

"I am prepared," she says, and for the briefest moment, her hand brushes against mine as she moves toward the door—so light I might have missed it without my new sight. Before I can react, she's already walking ahead, her movements silent and fluid as always.

We head back downstairs where my parents are still fussing over Kitten, who has now discovered the joy of attacking Dad's shoelaces with fierce determination.

"Dad," I say, "could you drive us to the pet store? Grace and I want to make sure we get everything Kitten needs."

"Of course," Dad replies, gently extracting his shoelace from tiny claws. "I'd be happy to drive you two. It's about time I met this little troublemaker's needs properly."

Before Mom can suggest coming along and subjecting Grace to twenty minutes of psychological evaluation disguised as small talk, I add, "We shouldn't be long. Just want to get the basics."

Mom nods, though I catch the slight disappointment in her expression. "That's fine. I'll stay here with Kitten and make sure she doesn't destroy anything important."

As we prepare to leave, I catch Grace watching the interaction between my parents and the kitten with that analytical intensity she brings to everything new. For someone who claims not to understand emotions, she's certainly observing a lot of them.

"Ready?" I ask, grabbing my coat.

Grace nods once before moving toward the door with that silent, predatory grace that makes me wonder what we're about to unleash on an unsuspecting pet store.

I follow, wondering just how much of her code about emotions is actually set in stone, and how much might be slowly, imperceptibly changing. And somehow, I'm looking forward to finding out.

---Grace---

"I thank you for driving us," I say to Magnen as we exit the car. The crisp Toronto air carries the scent of impending snow, a familiar companion that reminds me of home, though lacking the killing edge I know so well. Jason withdraws a telescoping staff with a grunt before glancing to ensure I've exited the large white carriage without issue. "I suspect you had more important things to do than drive us somewhere you wouldn't otherwise need to visit."

A small twinge of something—perhaps guilt?—flickers through me at inconveniencing him. The feeling is faint but noticeable, like a distant echo. Such considerations would have been irrelevant in my world, yet here, they seem to matter. In my homeland, those without vigger wouldn't merit such consideration. They exist only to serve those with power until their usefulness ends—enslaved in the warmer regions if fortunate, dispatched immediately in the colder territories like my own before being consumed, or rationed for when times were lean least their kin use their own resources to burn them, an indulgence the Druid upheld despite pushback from the others who led us.

I remember the seven I've helped transition to death. Not because I was ordered, but because I volunteered. The first was a boy of perhaps twelve winters whose vigger channels never properly formed. His eyes had held such fear when I entered his tent. The Druid had made it clear—this was my choice, though if I declined, he would carry out the clan's sentence himself as was his duty. I had knelt beside the boy, speaking softly of the stars until his breathing calmed, then opened his throat with a single, precise cut. His blood had been warm against my fingers, but I'd felt nothing beyond clinical satisfaction at a clean execution, that the boy would not slow the rest down.

Why does that memory feel heavier now than it did then?

Magnen's bushy black eyebrows draw down into a scowl. Jason glances at me questioningly.

"Then Kitten would've been left in that box," Magnen spits the last word, his disgust evident without needing my enhanced senses. "Just as long as she doesn't turn into an asshole."

The vehemence in his voice surprises me. His concern for a tiny creature he's known less than a day mirrors my own unexpected protectiveness toward it. Perhaps we're not so different in this regard. Yet in my world, such compassion for the weak would be seen as dangerous sentimentality. The winter does not spare those who cannot survive it; neither do we.

"she will not," I state, feeling an unfamiliar certainty that has nothing to do with tactical assessment. "I will ensure this."

"Grace is good with cats," Jason interjects before Magnen can ask the obvious question. "Ok, let's go, Grace."

I notice the slight smile Jason gives me—his way of saying he trusts me to handle this. The realization brings a warmth I'm not accustomed to feeling. In my clan, trust is earned through demonstrated capacity for violence, not through care for smaller beings. Yet here, Magnen's respect seems connected to my concern for the kitten, not my ability to end its life efficiently.

"You can guide him in there?" Magnen asks, his eyes never leaving his son, who is now entering through the swinging glass door. His protective instinct reminds me of the clan mothers watching over children during their first winter, though with a gentleness I rarely witnessed and never experienced directed towards me.

"I shall ensure that he comes to no harm," I say, my tone softer than usual. The bones of my knife press against my hip, a comfortable weight and reassurance. "And if anyone attempts to harm him, I will ensure they do not do so again, Magnen. I promise you this, although you have little reason to believe me."

"Good." Magnen grunts: "Jason likes you, so that helps."

I nod once, feeling the weight of his words. Jason likes me. Despite knowing what I am, despite my strangeness in this world, he likes me. The thought creates an unexpected lightness in my chest, though I quickly push it aside. Attachments are vulnerabilities. vulnerabilities are exploited. I can not afford this. Yet here I stand regardless, concerned for both a formerly blind man and a kitten too small to hunt for itself.

"He sees something in you," Magnen continues, leaning against the car door. The cold doesn't seem to affect him as it does Jason—his posture remains relaxed despite the frigid Toronto morning. "Something worth knowing. My son has always had good judgment about people, even when he couldn't see them."

I study Magnen's face, noting the careful way he observes me. The same analytical precision I've seen in Jason, but tempered with decades more experience. His eyes miss nothing—the way I position myself, how I scan our surroundings at regular intervals, my hand's unconscious drift toward where my knives hang.

"I am not a person," I correct him. "I lack the emotional framework that defines your..." I search for a word other than species before: "people. Where I come from, this is recognized and utilized, not hidden behind politeness."

Magnen's eyebrows rise slightly. "Is that what they told you? That you're not a person?"

Magnen's tone as he asks catches me off-guard. "It is simply fact. My status window lists my condition. My clan acknowledged it when they assigned me to ranger duties."

"Hmm." He makes a noncommittal sound, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know, as an engineer, I've learned that systems rarely behave exactly as their specifications claim. The gap between design documentation and actual performance is where the most interesting discoveries happen."

I tilt my head, processing this perspective. "You believe my self-assessment is inaccurate?"

"I believe," he says carefully, "that you rescued a kitten last night. You could have left it to die—that would have been the rational choice, especially for someone supposedly lacking emotions. Yet here we are, buying supplies for it this morning."

I consider this evidence, weighing it against my understanding of myself. "The kitten is small and defenseless. Her death would serve no purpose."

"And that bothered you," Magnen points out. "The purposelessness of its potential suffering."

"Inefficiency bothers me," I counter. "Waste is tactically unsound."

His lips quirk into a small smile. "So you're telling me your decision to rescue the kitten was purely tactical? A survival strategy?"

I open my mouth to confirm this, then pause. In truth, I had felt... something when I found the tiny creature shivering in that box. A response that went beyond tactical assessment. The memory of its desperate eyes, its tiny body fighting against the cold, had triggered something I cannot easily categorize.

"I..." I begin, then stop, uncertain how to proceed. "Your son gave me shelter when I required it," I say instead. "Perhaps I was merely... reciprocating."

Magnen nods, as if I've confirmed something he already suspected. "Reciprocation is a fundamental human behavior. One of our most basic social instincts, actually." He pauses, watching my reaction. "But you're not human, right?"

The question hangs between us, deceptive in its simplicity. I feel a strange discomfort building—not physical pain, but something adjacent to it. My clan elders would call this a weakness to be excised, a distraction from optimal function.

"I don't know what I am in this world," I admit finally. "The parameters are... different here. Jason..." I search for words to explain. "He treats vulnerability as something to be protected, not eliminated. This contradicts everything I understand about survival."

"Yet he's survived just fine," Magnen observes. "Twenty-eight years without sight, in a world that rarely accommodates difference." Pride colors his voice. "He adapted. Found different strengths."

"Yes," I agree. "His adaptation is... impressive."

"And now he can see," Magnen says, his voice deliberately casual. "Rather suddenly, if I'm not mistaken. Something we, and he, never thought he would ever be able to do with our current medical skills."

I freeze, my muscles tensing automatically. My eyes dart to his, searching for threat indicators, calculating responses. His expression remains open, inquisitive rather than accusatory. I realize, with some surprise, that I had not thought to check his scent, which I still have filtered per Jason's request. Interesting.

"I don't know what you mean," I say carefully.

Magnen sighs, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air. "Grace, I'm an engineer. I notice details. Jason's spatial awareness has always been extraordinary—it's how he adapted to being blind and haveing to deal with everything that comes with that. But yesterday, he tracked movements he shouldn't have been able to perceive. He responded to visual cues without realizing he was doing it."

I remain silent, maintaining a neutral expression while internally reassessing. Magnen is more observant than anticipated. A miscalculation on our part.

"I'm not asking for explanations," he continues. "Not yet, anyway. I'm simply making an observation: something has changed. And that change happened around the time you arrived."

He pushes off from the car, straightening to his full height. "I love my son, Grace. More than anything in this world. If you've helped him in some way I don't understand, then I'm grateful. But if you ever hurt him..." He leaves the sentence unfinished, the rest un-needed.

The threat should trigger my combat reflexes, yet it doesn't. Instead, I find myself respecting the protective instinct behind it—the same fierce drive I've observed in Jason, expressed differently, yes, but stemming from the same core.

"I am bound to your son by oath," I state simply. "I cannot harm him. What's more..." I hesitate, weighing my next words carefully. "I find I do not wish to harm him. Or any of you. This feeling is... unfamiliar."

Magnen studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for deception. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him, because he nods once. "Unfamiliar doesn't mean bad, you know. Sometimes the most unfamiliar feelings are the ones we need most."

As I move toward the door, I find myself reflecting on my behavior since arriving in this world. Why did I insist on accompanying Jason rather than allow him to traverse this relatively mild environment alone? In my world, such concern would be reserved only for those who had proven their strength. Those without vigger would never merit such protection—they would be culled at the first sign of weakness, their bodies left for the ice to claim or turned into rations, their blood feeding the snow.

I remember the girl with the club foot—perhaps fourteen winters, her face stoic as I entered her family's tent. Her mother had wept silently in the corner while her father stood rigid, refusing to watch. The girl had thanked me, her voice steady despite the tear tracking down her cheek. "Make it quick," she had asked, and I had honored her request with efficiency. The Druid had nodded approval afterward, telling me my lack of emotional response made me uniquely suited for this necessary task. A kindness, he'd called it. A mercy.

But here, Jason—who would have been killed as soon as it was realized he would never see in my world—moves with dignity and purpose through his environment. His family protects and values him despite what my people would consider a fatal weakness. And now, miraculously, he sees, thanks to the vigger I channeled into him. What would the Druid say to that? That I'd wasted precious resources on someone predetermined to be culled?

My thoughts are interrupted as Jason returns to stand beside me, Magnen having now driven around the corner and out of sight.

"Ready to find everything Kitten needs?" Jason asks, his expression open and trusting.

I nod, my hand unconsciously checking the position of my tactical knife—a habit born of necessity in a world where weakness meant death. Yet I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps my world, for all its harsh certainty, might be missing something fundamental that this softer place understands.

"Yes," I reply, stepping closer to Jason than strictly necessary for tactical purposes. "Let's ensure Kitten has what she requires to thrive."

"You good?" he asks, his voice filled with concern, his scent carrying notes of worry.

The question—so simple, yet so rare in my experience—catches me off guard. In my world, no one asked if I was "good." They asked if I could still fight, if I could still hunt. Never about my well-being for its own sake.

"Yes," I say, feeling a slight softening in my expression that would have been unthinkable days ago. "Let us enter the store now and find equipment for Kitten."

"Let me do the talking?" he suggests. "You describe the stuff to me then we can talk about it, but I actually talk to the staff since you're, well, blunt?"

"I am honest," I reply, though without the edge that usually accompanies such statements. "If I was asked if I would kill someone who pulled a knife on me, I would simply confirm that yes, I would, and be done with it."

As I speak, I realize I'm beginning to understand why such directness troubles Jason. It isn't the truth that bothers him, but the discomfort it causes others. A consideration that would have seemed pointless to me before.

"Right, we don't need that here," Jason says with a grimace I find almost... endearing. "People get really uptight about that, and you can get arrested for it if you get bated into something with the cops."

"Arrested for speaking my mind?" I say, allowing a note of playfulness that surprises even me. "As the Arek-mar tribes say: 'Up and at him, boys, time to get the guns! We're going on a revolution, so must be tuesday!'"

Jason's expression of shocked amusement brings a flare of unexpected satisfaction. His eyes widen momentarily before he bursts into laughter—a sound that seems to brighten the frigid air around us. Making him smile feels like a small victory, though I couldn't explain why.

"That was just so..." he starts, still chuckling as he shakes his head. "So you. I don't even know where to begin with that one."

The bell above the door tinkles as we enter. I follow Jason silently, positioning myself at his left flank—not just as a tactical choice now, but because it feels right to be there.

"Do you have this list of things for a less-than-year-old kitten?" Jason asks before rattling off items to the dark-haired woman behind the counter.

"Yes," she responds, her eyes flicking between us with barely concealed hostility. "Aisle 5, that's where all the young kitten things are: beds, milk bottles, instructions on how to prepare the milk and beds, and such."

Jason hesitates, and I notice his attention caught by something about the woman. As such, I step forward.

"I thank you, shopkeeper," I say, then add what seems to be a logical question: "Now, what do you take in skins and ivory?" After all, Jason had said that carved teeth would not work as currency here alongside trade goods, but everyone requires skins for, say, the couch in Jason's dwelling, and ivery and bone have many applications.

Jason makes a strangled noise beside me, half alarm and half suppressed laughter. I turn immediately, my hands dropping to my blades before I realize his reaction is directed at me, not an external threat. His scent carries fear for me rather than himself—concern that I've said something wrong mixed with genuine amusement at the sheer absurdity of my question in this context.

The realization that he continues to worry about my social missteps rather than fearing them brings a strange feeling to my chest—something like gratitude mixed with confusion.

"Excuse me?" the woman says, her face hardening, scent flareing with combat notes.

"She meant money," Jason interjects hurriedly, though I catch the ghost of a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "She's taking part in a renaissance fair, and she's getting a little into her character even for that. You know actors, right?"

I stay silent, recognizing that Jason is trying to protect me from the consequences of my ignorance. In my world, such protection would be unnecessary—even offensive. Here however, I find myself strangely grateful for it, if only because the knowledge gape betweeen us is so vast.

"Yes," the woman says, her expression softening, sharp combat notes fadeing from her scent and being replaced by, something warmer, as she shifts her attention fully to Jason. "I know what you're saying. What's your name, if I might ask?"

"Jason," he responds, visibly relieved while smiling at the woman: "yours?"

"Mildred," she says with a smile that strikes me as calculated rather than genuine, her scent flareing with that warm thing I can not identafy again: "name's Mildred, and it's nice to meet you, Jason."

Jason's sent flares with, something, as it always does when his name is spoken. Not pleasure, not quite. Deeper, ritcher, more than just that. It smells of perfectly prepared meet. The cooking fires of home. The first day of high summer, when the tempriture allows for water to run across snow and ice.

She extends her hand toward him, her fingers curling invitingly. I notice subtle changes in her posture—a slight angling of her body, a tilt of her head that exposes the curve of her neck. Her shoulders drop slightly as she leans forward, closing the distance between them. These are hunting behaviors, though not the kind I'm accustomed to. She is pursuing Jason, but not as prey. Something else.

Jason takes her hand, his grip firm but not aggressive. Mildred's fingers wrap around his, lingering a moment longer than necessary. She steps slightly closer as they shake, her thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist in a gesture that seems deliberately casual yet somehow intimate, that warm thing flareing from her again, hot and bright.

"Nice to meet you," Jason says, his pupils dilating slightly—a physiological response he likely isn't aware of. The corners of his mouth curve upward, his stance mirroring hers unconsciously though the same flare does not waft from him.

Despite that, a feeling stirs within me as Jason returns her smile—something hot and uncomfortable that I've never experienced before. I do not like the way she looks at him, though I cannot articulate why. I do not like the way her scent flares around him, though he does not return it. I do not like the way she holds him, like a trophy earned through the radeing of another clan's resources.

Jason's eyes flick toward me momentarily, something shifting in his expression as he catches sight of me. He releases Mildred's hand and steps back, moving deliberately to stand at my side—close enough that our shoulders nearly touch, and well outside of handshaking range, while the same hot and bright scent flares, though now seemingly directed at me.

"So, aisle 5 for kitten supplies?" he asks, his tone noticeably more businesslike than before. "Thanks, we'll check it out."

I feel something settle inside me as Jason positions himself beside me, as the warmth of this scent sorounds me though I don't understand this reaction either. For someone who prides herself on tactical awareness, these new emotional responses are disconcertingly unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar is dangerus. Unfamiliar gets people killed or worse.

"So, you know where we can find all this cat stuff, and you just forget about Grace's slip-up? Please?" Jason asks.

Jason's eyes flick toward me again, a subtle tension appearing around the corners of his mouth as he shifts his weight to stand fractionally closer to me. The distance between us decreases by perhaps four centimeters—barely noticeable to most, but to me, the adjustment speaks volumes. I catch a wiff of the same scent as previously-- when I said his name. Perfectly seared meet. Warm meed on cold nights. The smell of a correctly created campfire. The blood of a fresh kill. The warm time at our summer camp.

"I'll do it for you, Jason," Mildred says, her hand lingering on his as she returns to the counter. "Now, all the stuff you listed will cost around $100."

I observe Mildred's fingers lingering on Jason's hand, her body angling toward him with deliberate intent. The discomfort in my chest intensifies as she continues to touch him. Is this jealousy? The concept is familiar only in theory—I've observed it in others but never felt it myself. Yet there's no tactical reason for my discomfort; she poses no physical threat to Jason, after all.

More to the point however, why should I be feeling this? Jason is not mine, by blood, by clan, or by bond. If anything, I am his due to the death oath binding us. He saved my life; I owe him service, not possession. he continues to protect me from the dangers of this world he is more familiar with. I o him training, again, not possession. He looks at me not as a weapon, not as a tool. I do not know what I O him for that. What I could, O him for that.

I catalog my physical responses methodically: increased heart rate, slight muscle tension across my shoulders, an almost imperceptible shift in my stance that places me fractionally closer to Jason. My eyes keep returning to where her fingers touch his skin, calculating the exact surface area of contact.

Perhaps this is simply tactical awareness—monitoring potential influences on the person I'm sworn to protect. Yet that doesn't explain the relief I feel when Jason steps back toward me, deliberately placing himself at my side rather than hers.

The druid once spoke of emotions as survival tools—evolutionary advantages that prompt beneficial behaviors without requiring conscious thought. Fear speeds reaction to threats. Disgust prevents consumption of harmful substances. But jealousy? What survival purpose could this serve?

Unless... it's not about survival, but connection. The clan functions because of bonds beyond mere tactical alliance. I have seen this, know of it. Even in my world, rangers who hunt together develop attachments that make them more effective as a unit. Perhaps what I'm feeling is the beginning of such a bond—a primitive recognition that Jason and I function better together than apart.

Or perhaps it's simply that Jason is the first person who has seen me without fear or disgust. Even in my clan, others kept their distance, respecting my abilities but never quite forgetting what I am. Baldric and the Druid were the only exceptions, and even they saw me as a weapon first, the Druid by necessity, Baldric? Jason knows what I am, yet stands beside me anyway. He values my presence not just for what I can do, but for who I am.

The realization is both uncomfortable and strangely warming. I have no framework for processing such a connection. My training never addressed what to do when someone treats you as a person rather than a weapon.

I notice that Mildred has moved closer to Jason again, her voice dropping to a more intimate register as she speaks about pet supplies. Jason's eyes flick toward me briefly, something in his expression softening before he deliberately steps back, maintaining the position at my side.

This choice—this small but deliberate action—creates an unfamiliar warmth in my chest that momentarily drowns out the discomfort. I don't understand why his preference for my proximity should matter, yet regardless of that, it does.

"Pay with credit," Jason says, withdrawing a rectangular object from his pocket. "Tap or touch?"

"It's slide or touch, I think," Mildred responds with another smile. "But I'll do touch if you don't mind."

Jason's eyes dart toward me again, something uncertain flickering in their depths before he responds.

"Actually, I'd prefer to slide if that's an option," he says, keeping his position firmly at my side. "Not a big fan of the touch screen, if I'm honest."

The small furrow appears between Mildred's eyebrows—disappointment, perhaps frustration—before she smooths her features.

"Of course," she says, pointing to a narrow slit on the machine. "Just slide it through there, chip facing down."

"Thanks," Jason responds, his tone polite but noticeably cooler than before. He completes the transaction with minimal contact, his body angled slightly toward me the entire time.

"All paid up," she says, her cheerfulness sounding more forced now. "I'll get someone to grab the stuff for you."

"Thanks, Mildred," Jason says with a brief, warm smile. "Appreciate the help."

"So," she continues, leaning forward slightly over the counter, "you live around here, or do you have to commute?"

"Not too far," Jason answers vaguely, maintaining the precise distance he's established. "We should probably grab those supplies though. Kitten's waiting at home, and she's pretty hungry."

He emphasizes the word "we" slightly, his shoulder almost brushing against mine.

"Oh, Kitten is yours?" Mildred asks, her eyes darting between us, reassessing something. "Both of yours?"

"Grace found her abandoned in a box," Jason explains, his voice warming as he glances toward me though his sent flares with that cold rage he had displayed previously. "She's taking primary responsibility for her, though."

"That's..." Mildred pauses, clearly recalibrating her approach. "That's nice of you both."

A young man appears from a back room carrying a cardboard box filled with our purchases.

"Here's everything you asked for," he says, setting it on the counter. "Do you need help getting this to your car?"

"Nah, we' got it," Jason says with a genuine smile while lifting the box. "Thanks again."

As we turn to leave, I note the measured distance Jason maintains between himself and Mildred—far enough to prevent casual contact, close enough to me that our arms occasionally brush. The uncomfortable pressure in my chest eases slightly with each step we take toward the exit.

This reaction remains puzzling to me. Jealousy serves no tactical purpose, provides no survival advantage. Yet when Jason chooses to stay at my side rather than pursue Mildred's obvious mating interest, I feel something that might almost be satisfaction.

The bell above the door tinkles again as we step back into the cold Toronto afternoon, and I find myself wondering what other emotional responses this strange new world might awaken in me—and whether I should fear or welcome them.