Where the Dead Things Bloom [20-22]

20: Raptored

As we arrived at the station I noticed a detail that I missed last night—two flags flew from poles near the entrance gate—the familiar American flag, and another I didn't recognize with a stylized image of various animal silhouettes arranged in a circle.

"Wait in the vehicle," she instructed, parking in a reserved space marked 'Chief Ranger' and exiting with her usual fluid grace. "I need to prep the lab."

As soon as she disappeared inside, Nessy let out a long, dramatic groan. "This," she declared, "is gonna be an effing disaster, I can feel it."

"It could be worse," I offered, trying to sound optimistic.

"How?" Nessy challenged. "My arch-nemesis, who also happens to be your alternate-dimension girlfriend, is probably secretly planning to dissect you while simultaneously trying to prove you're her Alec! Not to mention she could arrest us both at any moment if she doesn't like what she finds!"

"When you put it that way..." I conceded.

"And the worst part?" Nessy continued as she pawed her face, stretching the skin. "She's so freaking pretty with those shiny scales and fancy feathers and she has so much more authority. How am I supposed to compete with that?"

I stared at her, momentarily blindsided by this sudden shift in concerns. "That's the worst part? Really?"

"Well, it's certainly not helping the situation!" she huffed. “I see you staring at her!”

“Staring isn’t a crime,” I pointed out. “She, like you, is simply a mind-bogglingly surreal alien from my point of view.”

The husky-girl huffed at me.

Krysanthea reappeared at the station entrance, unlocking the back of the car with her key fob and gestured for us to come inside.

The interior of the ranger station was divided into two distinct sections. The front area served as a visitor center, with educational displays, maps of hiking trails, and warnings about local wildlife. The second, separated by a secured door that Krysanthea unlocked with a card, was clearly the professional zone—desks, communication equipment, and various monitoring displays.

She led us down a corridor to a room that resembled a small medical lab. The space was meticulously organized, with gleaming equipment, cabinets of supplies, and examination tables. Everything smelled of antiseptic and pine.

"This is usually for treating injured wildlife before transfer to veterinary facilities," Krysanthea explained, pulling on reinforced, rounded tips that matched her sharp talons and latex gloves over those. "But it'll serve our purposes."

"Just how much blood are you planning to take?" I asked, eyeing the equipment she was preparing.

"Enough for a comprehensive analysis," she replied. "I need to understand your cellular structure, determine if your blood has unusual properties and check for signs of Systemfall corruption."

"And what if you find some?" Nessy asked, hovering protectively near my side.

“We’ve been over this. I have to determine if he poses a threat to Ferguson. My priority is protecting this town and its people, including you, Miss Whitepaw, whether you appreciate that fact or not."

Nessy let out a growl.

"Shall we get started?" I suggested, wanting to move things along before another argument erupted.

"Sit," Krysanthea directed, pointing to the examination table.

I complied, rolling up my sleeve as she prepared a syringe and collection tubes. Her scaled hands moved swiftly, swabbing my skin with alcohol.

"This may sting," she warned.

She poked my vein with a needle. I watched with a wince as my blood—red and seemingly ordinary—filled the collection tubes. Krysanthea's expression remained neutral, but I noticed her eyes widening slightly as she sniffed the blood.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she replied too quickly, focusing on the task at hand. "Just... your blood looks and smells perfectly normal.”

“You smelled it before when I broke my neck, no?”

“I suppose,” she sighed.

"So his blood is normal. That's good, right?" Nessy asked, her ears perking forward hopefully.

"It's... Strange," Krysanthea allowed. “I saw it turn into this weird mycelium… and yet here it is acting completely mundane. Maybe there's some activation marker I'm not spotting.”

Over the next hour, she conducted a series of tests—checking my vitals, taking tissue samples, examining my eyes and reflexes. Throughout it all, her demeanor remained detached, clinical, though occasionally I caught her watching me with an expression that betrayed deeper emotions.

Finally, she stepped back, removing her gloves and talon-covers. "I'll contact a doctor to run more detailed analyses on these samples. It will take some time."

"And until then?" I asked.

"Until then, we proceed with our arrangement," she replied. "I've already contacted the towing service. Your grandfather's RV should be at the campsite by this afternoon. In the meanwhile, we’ll go… clear the space to get it out.”

"What about Nessy's tests?" I reminded her.

Krysanthea's mouth twisted slightly. "Right. Let's get that over with."

Nessy approached the examination table with visible reluctance, her tail tucked low. As Krysanthea prepared a fresh needle, the husky-girl's nose wrinkled with disgust.

"I hate needles," she muttered.

"Everyone does," Krysanthea replied dispassionately.

"Not helpful, lizard," Nessy growled.

"Just hold still, dog," Krysanthea shot back.

I moved to Nessy's side, offering my hand. "Hey, look at me instead of the needle."

Nessy's blue eyes fixed on mine gratefully, her fingers intertwining with mine. When Krysanthea got her blood, Nessy's grip tightened painfully, but she remained still.

"There," Krysanthea said as she finished collecting samples. "Was that so terrible?"

"Yes," Nessy muttered, rubbing her arm dramatically. "I expect compensation for my suffering. Perhaps in sandwich form."

“Riiight.” Krysanthea sighed, her patience visibly wearing thin. "I still need to examine that tree of yours."

"No cutting pieces off it," Nessy said immediately.

"I need samples—"

"Don't hurt it directly.” Nessy insisted.

After a tense moment, Krysanthea nodded. "I’ll snip off a tiny branch end. Good?"

“Okay.”

The raptor spent the next hour carefully examining our blood through the microscope and then looking over the Sandwichu Tree sample.

"The tree definitely needs to be contained," she finally declared. "It cannot be exposed to open soil or air."

"We can keep it in its bucket," I suggested. "It seems content enough there."

Krysanthea shook her head. "Not good enough. I need to ensure it can't propagate or spread its influence." She gestured for us to follow her to a storage area where she retrieved a clear, sealed container. "This should work as a temporary measure."

The container—a large, reinforced plexiglass container with an airtight seal—seemed excessive, but I didn't argue. We carefully transferred the tree from its bucket, making sure not to damage its delicate branches.

. . .

We climbed into Krysanthea's forest-green ranger vehicle, the Sandwichu Tree now sealed in its plexiglass prison on the seat between Nessy and me. The container seemed to diminish our creation somehow—rendering it clinical, suspect, a specimen rather than the miracle it represented.

“Alec,” Kristi said. “Sit beside me.”

Nessy growled.

“You shush,” the raptor added, her voice carrying the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “And it’s not a request. Shotgun now, Alec.”

With a resigned sigh, I slid out of the back seat. Nessy's low growl intensified as I moved to the front passenger seat, her blue eyes tracking my every movement with wounded intensity.

"This is unnecessary," she muttered.

“Do you want me to lock you up by yourself at the station?” Kristi asked. “Because I will, if you keep annoying me.”

Nessy fell silent.

The moment I was seated, her scaled hand reached across the console, capturing mine in a grip that was both gentle and inescapable. Her skin felt different than I expected—not cold or rough, but warm with a textured smoothness, like suede heated by the sun. She positioned her thumb directly over my pulse point, pressing down with precise pressure.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

"Monitoring," she replied, starting the engine with her free hand. "Your pulse might tell me things your words might not."

The intimacy of the contact was jarring—this person who was both a stranger and a girl whose body knew another version of me. 

"Your heart rate is elevated," she observed without looking at me. "Nervous?"

"Wouldn't you be?" I countered. "Being held captive by a ranger who thinks you might be contaminating her town with your very existence tends to raise the pulse a bit."

"You're not a captive," she replied. "You're a subject of interest in an ongoing investigation." Her scaled fingers adjusted slightly, maintaining their position over my pulse. "And as for contamination... that remains to be determined."

From the back seat, Nessy huffed audibly, her reflection in the rearview mirror showing flattened ears and narrowed eyes.

“Right,” Kristi said. “Let’s begin. What’s your name?”

"Alec Foster," I answered automatically.

"Place of birth?" she continued, her amber eyes flicking briefly from the road to study my expression.

"Ferguson General Hospital."

"Parents' names?"

"Richard and Anne Foster."

“Now tell me a lie.”

“The sky is yellow.”

“Another lie.”

“My shoes are currently red.”

“Relationships?”

“Dated about seven different girls in college a week or two each, got dumped,” I replied.

The raptor frowned at this.

"Pets growing up?"

I hesitated. I heard Nessy leaning forward, as she awaited my answer with tense anticipation.

"One dog," I finally let out. "A Siberian Husky named Nessy. She belonged to my grandfather."

“What…” Kristi choked, nearly driving off the road. “What do you mean Nessy belonged to your grandfather?! She's… not a slave.”

"In your world," I reminded her. "In mine, dogs don't talk, don't walk upright, don't become mechanics."

"So you're saying," Kristi continued, "that in your reality, the person sitting behind us was merely an animal? A... family pet?"

“No,” I shook my head. “The Nessy from my world wasn't much like this one. She was a devoted dog, but she wasn't fully sapient.”

“Mkay… What about me?”

“You didn’t exist.”

The raptor twitched at this, her hand squeezing mine harder. “WHAT.”

“Dinos are extinct in my world. Dogs walk on all fours and can’t talk. The only fully sapient bipedal species with abstract thinking capability were humans. There were no pradavarians there.”

“I… see.” Krysanthea took a deep breath, composing herself and releasing the pressure on my hand slightly. "Brother's name?"

"Marcus Foster."

“Other siblings?”

“None.”

"Your first job?"

"Mowing lawns for Mrs. Hendricks on Maple Street when I was fourteen."

“Second job?”

“Packing dogfood in Mr. Lobforth’s basement when I was sixteen.”

"What did you study at university?"

"Computer science with a minor in mathematics."

"First kiss?" Krysanthea asked, her voice deliberately casual.

I laughed dryly. "Seriously?"

"Answer the question."

"Sarah Ellsworth. First girl I dated at uni."

The raptor fingers tightened. She didn’t seem to like this answer.

"What happened at the senior formal?" She asked.

“No idea,” I said. “I never went.” 

A beat of silence, then Krysanthea's claws dug slightly into my wrist. "You were there," she said. "You wore a navy suit that was too big in the shoulders. You danced with Nessy. Then you danced with me."

“No. I wasn’t,” I said. “I was home, watching reruns of The X-Files and not giving a fuck about formals because I didn’t have any trusted friends at high school to go to formals with.”

We turned onto a narrower road leading toward the outskirts of town. Trees began to crowd closer, their shadows dappling the vehicle as we drove. 

"Tell me about your death," Krysanthea said.

"I was drowned…" I began, describing the cartel men and my death in gruesome detail, concluding with silver letters burning into my eyes and fermenting within the tub for years or possibly just weeks.

“Fuck,” Kristi swallowed. She let go of my wrist rubbing her face. “Fuck my life… you’re so much like him and yet you’re not. Damn it all. This is so fucked up.”

“Uh-huh,” Nessy commented from the backseat. “Now you know how I feel.”

We drove in silence for several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. The road curved, revealing a small clearing. The ruin of my grandfather’s original home, filled to the brim with junk, windows broken and covered in cardboard or taped up with trash bags appeared first.

21: Childhood Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Need a break?" Nessy asked.

“Just for a bit,” I panted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just for a bit," I assured her. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

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

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

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

"What was he like?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she said. “I killed them all.”

22: Quest Numero Two

“How many?" I asked.

“Far too many on highway 69. Seven in Ferguson valley," she replied. Her tail shifted behind her, a subtle movement that betrayed emotion her face refused to show. "Four that tried to breach the tunnel to town were obvious cases—distorted bodies, strange abilities, clearly not right. The others..." She exhaled slowly. "The others looked almost normal. But my senses could not be fooled."

"And you're certain they were threats?"

Her feathered crest rose slightly, a display of indignation. "One of them turned people and anything living into glass," she said. "Another secreted a substance that caused plants to grow eyes and scream. So yes, I'm certain.” 

Her feathers came up, shimmering as she let out a growl.

“The four were a group that left a long trail of bodies behind them according to the ranger radio reports. They came to kill everyone in town. Their unnatural abilities didn’t save them from a gunshot to the head. They were strong, but slower than me.”

I shuddered slightly.

"The others were solitary travelers," Krysanthea continued, her claws tapping a rhythmic pattern against the worn Formica table. "Loners. Hunters. They tried to come through the mountain passes."

Her amber eyes grew a bit distant, "I tracked them, studied their movements. Set traps. They never even made it to the valley proper."

Another chill ran through me as I processed her words. There was no boasting in her tone, no pride—just the matter-of-fact delivery of someone describing routine tasks.

"You hunted them," I said.

"Yes." No hesitation, no apology. "Two died trying to cross the eastern ridge. The traps I set worked well." Her scaled hand closed into a fist, then relaxed deliberately. "The third... that one was different. More intelligent. More cautious. Almost made it through."

"What happened?"

"I happened." Her feathers rose slightly, then settled. "That's why I believed your dimensional gate story, by the way. There's simply no conventional way into Ferguson now. Every path is watched, every trail monitored. The hydroelectric station powers the town and I’ve got infrared and mundane cameras and wildlife sensors pointed everywhere, volunteers watching the passes 24/7.”

"How do you know they were threats?" I asked. "The ones who looked normal?"

"I know corruption when I sense it," she replied, her voice hardening. "Had lots of practice at such. The wrongness has a... signature. A scent that doesn't belong in this world." She leaned forward, staring at me. "That's why you puzzle me, Alec. You don't carry that scent. You should, given what you are, but you don't."

"Meaning maybe 'Systenfall wrongness' isn't a binary state," I suggested. "Maybe there's a spectrum…”

“Maybe,” she clicked. “You’re the first System-changed person that’s not an insane murderer.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’m a raptor and trained ranger, Alec. I can smell not just Systemfall wrongness but… blood, rot, death. If a human or a prad kills someone, I can absolutely tell. You didn’t kill anyone. If you had, I would have taken you out already. Those seven smelled of wrongness, blood, death and decay a mile away.”

I noticed a pair of fluffy ears wiggling our way, barely visible through the slightly grimy round door window. Nessy was listening in.

"So Ferguson is safe?" 

"Safe-ish," she sighed. "There's still occasional flying bullshit trying to snack on people. Had to put down a dragon woven from moldy fabric and book pages a few days ago that decided to make a nest in one of the taller birches."

"How are people handling it?" I asked. "Living under constant threat, isolated from the outside world?"

Krysanthea's gaze drifted to the window, to the scattered pieces of my grandfather's life lying in organized chaos outside. "Better than you might expect. Humans are remarkably adaptable. Pradavarians even more so." Her scaled fingers drummed once on the table. "We've always lived with the knowledge that we exist at nature's mercy with the occasional avalanches that bury snowboarders and hikers, or forest fires. This is just... a new kind of nature to understand and to prepare for."

A moment stretched between us—not quite a connection, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

"You should know," she said suddenly, her voice dropping lower, "that I can't guarantee your safety indefinitely. If your condition changes, if you begin showing signs of corruption or causing harm… I will have to kill you, Alec.”

"I understand."

"Do you?" Her feathers rose slightly. "Because the dog out there clearly doesn't. She looks at you like you're her salvation, not a potential threat that could unravel everything I am trying to preserve."

I considered Nessy, her unwavering loyalty, her absolute certainty in me despite everything. "She sees what she needs to see."

"And what do you see when you look at yourself, Alec?" Krysanthea asked. "A victim? A miracle? A monster?"

The question caught me off-guard, forcing me to confront something I'd been avoiding since my rebirth in that filthy bathtub. What was I? Not quite human, not quite dead, existing in some undefinable space between categories.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I do know that I don’t want to kill people. I definitely don’t consider myself hungry for power or irrational.”

“Come here,” she ordered. “Sit across from me and give me your hand.”

I did. She grabbed my hand once again, thumb on my pulse.

“Have you killed anyone?”

“I killed a conceptoid monster,” I said. “It was shaped human-ish, but was made from wrongness and silver worms.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. This is only my 3rd day after waking up in a new, insane world after being reborn from a bathtub soup.”

“Will you obey Ferguson law, protect the town if asked to do so?”

“Yes.”

She relaxed visibly.

"Why do you want to stay in Ferguson?" she asked.

I considered my answer, watching motes dance in the shaft of light between us. "I don't have anywhere else to go," I admitted. "My world got fucked by Sytemfall. The little town of pradavarians that Nessy dragged me into is… strange, alien and complicated, but… This place—" I gestured around at my grandfather's preserved possessions, "—at least feels familiar. Exactly like my childhood home in every single derail."

“Prove it,” Kristi said.

I considered her words.

“See that kitchen shelf?” I pointed. “When I was sixteen I was hella bored, so I unscrewed it and sketched out and carved an elk on the back of it.”

Kristi let go of me, stood up and opened the shelf. The carving of the elk was there. 

“There you go,” I smiled. “See? It's strange how many parallels there are.”

“Hum,” she said, staring at it then at me.

Then she sat back down. “What do you think of Nessy?”

"She found me, protected me and got me here. She’s loyal, if slightly overbearing at times.”

"Loyalty can be dangerous when misplaced," the raptor-girl said, her voice carrying a warning. "Especially blind loyalty."

"Is that what you think she has?"

"I think," Krysanthea replied, "that she loves the idea of Alec more than the reality. She's built Alec into something beyond human—her perfect packmate, her purpose, her… unhealthy obsession. And now that he’s gone, she’s focused this obsession on you.”

I saw the ears behind the door flatten slightly.

“And you?” I asked.

“I’m pragmatic,” she said. “My Alec is most likely dead, either from the cartel or from Systemfall bullshit. If you’re just like him for the most part, then you’re going to have to do.”

“To do… what?” I asked.

“To assist me in securing the town,” she answered a bit too quickly. “I’m deputizing you to help me kill Systemfall abominations.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You can’t die,” she pointed out. 

“I can get hurt to the point where I won’t be able to move,” I said. “If I don’t eat sandwiches from the glass tree. Sandwiches that are out by the way.”

“Figure out how to grow more,” she said. “Then you’ll make a perfect tank.”

“Why do you need a tank?” I asked.

“You know the Birchwood cave system, yes?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “I used to explore it when I was young.”

“Things are coming out of it.”

“Things?”

“Wrong things. Slimes. They come out of the tourist tunnel like clockwork at 11:11 AM. More every week. I used dynamite to bury the entrance tunnel, but they managed to dissolve the rocks away and are back to being a thorn in my side. Their bodies can melt rubble and people at about the same rate.

I winced.

“Verrrry slowly. Layer by layer. A normal person or pred would not be able to recover once their skin or scales melt off or once their fingers are dissolved away. You on the other hand…” She waved a hand in the air. 

“So,” I said. “You want me to kill slimes?”

“Help me clear Birchwood of its Systemfall infestation and then the town will absolutely be on your side,” she nodded.

[Quest: [Of Monster Slayer Krysanthea Liss Strand] : Clear the Birchwood Dungeon of its acidic slime infestation. Help Slayer Krysanthea protect Ferguson and earn the town's trust.]

My eyes grew wide as I read the text.

“What?” I heard Nessy bark from behind the door. She must have received the quest notice too. 

"What just happened?" Krysanthea demanded, her amber eyes narrowing. "Your pupils dilated and moved left and right as if you’re reading something… and you both seem to be reacting to something I can’t sense or see."

"I... received a quest," I said, the words sounding absurd even as they left my mouth.

"A quest," she repeated flatly. "Like in a video game?"

“Yes,” I nodded.

Her hand shot out to grab my pulse. “Explain.”

I told her of the nameless city, of the Archmage of Mini-Mart who gave us a quest to grow a magic tree, of the mall filled with crazy bullshit of bulbees summoned by positive vibes and of conceptual friendship between me and Nessy and of the Echo-ghosts in the Celestorm. Then I explained what the new quest stated.

“So,” Krysanthea chewed on her bottom lip. "A man... in a tinfoil hat... with eye drawings... gave you instructions that the System turned into a quest," she repeated slowly, each word measured as if testing their sanity. "And now I've accidentally done the same. The System... just gave you an objective? Based on our conversation? And it tagged me as a ‘Monster Slayer’?"

"Yes."

"And the dog saw it too?" Her gaze flicked to the door where Nessy's ear silhouette was still visible.

"Yes!" Nessy called from outside, abandoning all pretense of not eavesdropping. "I got the same message! We’re an adventurer pack! Second Quest, wooo! Kinda annoyed that the lime scaly chicken butt gave it, but whatever.”

“Slayer give me strength,” Krysanthea released my wrist, leaning back against the worn vinyl of the Airstream's booth. Her expression shifted through several emotions settling on weary and disturbed.

"This changes things," she said, almost to herself. "If the System is directly interfacing with you, giving you... directives..." She tapped her claws rhythmically against the table once again. "Can you reject these quests?"

"I don't know," I admitted. 

“And the city you went to university at…  now has no name,” she said. “Huh? Shit!” Her yellow-orange eyes went wide for a second. “How did I not notice something like that vanishing from my head? Nazareth, how the fuck do I defend the valley from something that can just eat a particular memory out of everyone’s heads everywhere?”

I shrugged.

Nessy burst into the door, clearly unable to stay outside any longer. “Quest high-five!”

I slapped her offered pink-pad hand.

“Yeah, emerald-birb, in yo face,” she stuck a tongue out at Kristi sliding onto the seat next to me and wrapping herself around me. “We Quest together. Try n’ beat that.”

Kristi’s eye twitched.

“Ha, jelly of my Quest-packmate?” Nessy laughed. “Thought you would be. That’s right. Stew in your feathers. I win! I finally beat you at something after all these years! Suuuucka!”

Watching Krysanthea struggle to maintain her composure was like witnessing a carefully constructed dam beginning to crack. Her scaled, dark claw-tipped fingers opened and closed rhythmically. The glare she directed at Nessy carried the full weight of reptilian indignation, amber eyes narrowing before catching my gaze and attempting to reset to neutral professionalism.

It didn't work. Her feathers betrayed her, fluttering with waves of agitation despite her obvious efforts to appear unaffected by her loss.

"I'm glad you find this amusing, dog," she finally said, her voice carrying the carefully measured tone of someone counting to ten or maybe even twenty five internally. "While you celebrate your… quest partnership, I'll focus on the actual task of keeping this town safe from abominations that melt flesh from bone."

Nessy's triumphant grin didn't fade. If anything, it widened, her canines flashing. Her arm remained firmly wrapped around my shoulders, a physical declaration of territory that wasn't subtle in the slightest.

"Sounds like that's exactly what our quest is about," she replied cheerfully. "So I guess we'll be working together after all, Scaley. Try not to be too disappointed when we beat that dungeon and our bond deepens beyond what you’ve ever achieved."

I gave Nessy a look that implied ‘please stop antagonizing the local authority figure’.

‘Don’t care, let me have this victory! She’s beaten, she’s finally beaten! Look at her, she’s going to explode and cry! Ha ha ha.’ She replied without words, blue eyes striking mine.

Krysanthea's tail swished once against the floor, the noise sharp in the confined space. "Your 'packmate' simply happens to possess a useful ability..."

"Uh-huh," Nessy hummed skeptically, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Keep telling yourself that."

I cleared my throat. "So, these slimes. How many are we talking about? And what weapons are effective against them?"

The redirection worked, drawing Krysanthea back to her element. Her posture straightened, professional purpose replacing petty irritation.

"The colony grows each day," she explained, her clawed hand sketching invisible patterns on the table as she spoke. "They're acidic—standard firearms are relatively ineffective since bullets passing through them don't disrupt their structural integrity substantially."

"So what works?" I asked.

“Trapping them in a garbage can and throwing them into the quarry from above. Once they absorb enough lake water, they become weak enough to cut through.”

“Doesn’t sound very effective,” I said.

“It’s not,” the raptor sighed. “I’m running out of garbage cans on the account that they’re getting better at eating through metal. Their gradual adaptation rate is concerning. What worked yesterday might fail tomorrow."

"Kinda like the nippers," Nessy mused. "Calvin said they were evolving too."

I nodded, recalling the strange metallic creatures that had swarmed us in the parking lot. "The System seems to favor adaptive enemies."

"The System," Krysanthea repeated with a look of a frustrated badger. "An entity capable of rewriting reality, altering memories, creating life forms that defy natural law... and apparently, it wants you to run errands for it."

“If I weren't living it, I'd consider the entire scenario a fever dream, yep,” I agreed.

"The tow truck should arrive soon," Krysanthea said, abruptly standing up and once again drawing my eyes to her shiny, scaled abs. “I’ll go wait outside for the driver.” 

She departed, vanishing behind the door.

“Aww yuss,” Nessy licked me. 

I sighed.

"No sigh-ery! Did you see her face?" she whispered conspiratorially, her muzzle close to my ear. "So salty she could season a steak!"

"You really shouldn't antagonize her," I said. "She could still decide we're too dangerous to keep around."

"Nah," Nessy dismissed the concern with casual confidence. "She needs you now. Needs us. The quest sealed it." Her blue eyes sparkled with an almost childlike delight. "We're in adventuring business, Alec! With magic sandwiches and system powers! How cool is that?"

“Very cool,” I deadpanned.

“Nu. Stop being a loaf, Aleeeeec,” she whined.

“I’m going to be a loaf,” I said. “Because you’re not thinking ahead.”

“‘Bout what?”

“From what I’m observing, Krysanthea is incredibly competitive,” I said.

“She is,” Nessy agreed.

“And you basically just annoyed the shit out of her,” I said.

“Eh, what’s she gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me. I don’t know her that well. What’d she do before?”

“...”

“Go on.”

“She… stole my Alec. She saw something awesome that I had and took it from me just because she wanted to beat me.”

“Uh-huh.”

"You think she'll try to take you from me too? She can't... I won't let her!”

"I don't think it's about 'letting' her do anything," I said. "This isn't a competition."

But even as I said it, I knew that wasn't entirely true. The tension between Nessy and Krysanthea was palpable, electric—two apex predators circling the same territory. And somehow, I had become the territory or perhaps… prey.

Suddenly I wasn’t as jealous of the local Alec. 

Did he leave Ferguson to get away from… two prad girls obsessively fighting over him? 

Nessy's tail had stopped its triumphant wagging, now hanging limp behind her. "I'm sorry," she said, ears drooping further. "I just... when I saw her face, when I finally had something she didn't... I couldn't help myself. You… like me more, right?”

I nodded.

“Yay!” She wrapped me in a fuzzy, warm embrace. “Then there’s nothing at all to worry about! Nope. Nothing at all!”

Somehow her words only managed to intensify my concerns.