Tiffany did her best to mentally and physically prepare for the evening. Even if she couldn’t account for everything, she tried her best anyway. Decked out in her new dress, she adjusted her top and smoothed the stretchy fabric over her torso.

  Kneeling at the side of her bed, she rummaged through her belongings, her plump posterior peeking out of the slit in her dress. Passing by, Jarvis caught the view and quipped, “A bit early in the evening to be showing off the goods, eh, mum?” His mischievous smile glowed on his panel.

  “Not now, Jarvis. Did you see a wooden box my grandfather sent me?” she asked, irritation slipping into her tone.

  “Hmm, no, mum, can’t say I have. But I do recall you putting it last at the very spot you’re searching.”

  “Great. How about, instead of ogling my ‘goods,’ you make yourself useful and get under the bed?”

  “Yes, mum,” Jarvis replied with a hint of mock-pouting. His hovering body slumping sideways, doing his signature sulk. Still, he floated under the bed, his LED faceplate shining in an almost blinding display.

  “Jarvis, turn it down! The light’s no help if you’re blinding me!”

  “Yes, mum,” he said as the brightness dimmed to a manageable level.

  “Ah! Here it is!” She slid the box toward Jarvis, who grasped it with his clamps and pulled it out from under the bed. Tiffany slid herself out at the same time.

  Jarvis successfully dragged the box from under the bed but struggled to lift its awkward shape.

  “Thanks, Jarvis. That was a big help.”

  “No problem, mum. I live to serve,” he said with a theatrical *phew*, wiping pretend sweat off his digital faceplate with a clamp.

  She picked up the ornate wooden box and laid it on the bed, running her soft hands on the rough-cut wood, tracing the gold inlay design that her grandfather had carved and given to her for her sixteenth birthday.

  She placed her two index fingers in the center of the box and, in a deep hiss of a voice spoken in her grandfather's native tongue, Draken, "Raforasu Akeru!" The gold inlay started to shine brighter, shimmering as it slowly glowed from red to yellow, then to dark jade green. The once-sealed rough-cut wood split open horizontally, the top section lifting on invisible hinges.

  As the lid opened, a faint whiff of cherry-scented pipe tobacco wafted into the air. Tiffany froze for a moment, her chest tightening as the familiar scent tugged at memories of her grandfather. She could almost picture him sitting by the fire, puffing on his pipe, telling her stories of their people's history and the magic he wove into his craft. The fragrance lingered, wrapping around her like an invisible embrace, grounding her in the warmth of those cherished moments.

  She reached out, caressing the soft golden-furred lining, her fingertips gliding from the silky fur to the two hardened steel kunie blades the size of short swords. The expert folding and layering of the Damascus steel gave each layered section a colored hue like a rainbow, going from gold to orange, to red with hues of blue and purple. The magical glyphs etched into each blade glowed at her touch.

  The hilt was a special twist with her grandfather's taste, being wrapped in scaled Draken leather, a very rare material. To cap it off was a golden-blueish ring at the hilt of both kunie. In her normal Lupus state, she could grasp the ring with the tip of a claw, using the ring to spin and fling them as they were intended, as throwing knives. These, however, had a special trick thanks to her grandfather's magic. The blades were genetically assigned to her blood. To anyone else, they were just heavy steel blades. But to her, once thrown, she could control their very movement to chase down a target with precise targeting through hand signals. If missed, they would return back to her, unless deemed otherwise by her will and handsignals.

  She gently picked up a blade, flipping it in the air, then catching it with the back of her hand, balancing it . A light backhand sent it floating momentarily before she gave the ring on its hilt a solid punch. The blade became a blur, slicing through the air as it flew across her room, down the hall, and speared an unsuspecting Jarvis's dish rag right out of his clamp. It stopped just short of the living room wall. She extended her hand, clossing the fist of her outstreatched hand drawing it back, the glowing glyphs on the blade flared brighter as did her green eyes as it shot back to her grasp at neck-breaking speed.

  A quivering Jarvis peeked around the corner of the hallway. Once he saw the projectile safely in her hand, he floated over, placing his clamps on the sides of his frame in a gesture that mimicked hands on hips. His faceplate lit up with a scolding expression.

  "Mum! We've had this discussion about projectiles in the house. That could've hit me—or the wall! And good luck getting your deposit back, mum. Don't you roll your eyes at me, young miss!"

  She held up the blade and carefully removed the dishrag, offering it to Jarvis with an apologetic look.

  "Sigh, it's fine, mum. No harm done. But please, stop with the sad puppy dog eyes," he said, taking the rag from her hand and patting her head with his other clamp. "You make it so hard to stay mad at you. Look, all I ask is that you practice this sort of thing in the woods, not indoors. Mistakes happen, and I'm just trying to help you make good decisions."

  "Sorry, I got carried away," she said, flipping the blade end over end in her hand absentmindedly. Jarvis reached out and caught it mid-spin.

  "Mum, I must insist—NO PROJECTILES IN THE HOUSE!" Jarvis bellowed in his best sports announcer voice as he plucked the short sword-sized kunai from her grasp and carefully placed it back into the box.

  "If you really need to practice, there's still plenty of daylight left. Pack your evening attire, head halfway to your soirée, and get some practice in before the party. You can change once you're there."

  Tiff put a finger to her chin, mulling over Jarvis's suggestion. "But what if I work up a sweat? I'll end up smelling funky."

  "Mum, I can't solve all your problems," he replied with an exaggerated sigh. His telescoping arm crossed over his chassis as the other clamp lightly tapped his faceplate, mimicking a dramatic facepalm.

  "You can either come home early and sacrifice some play time or bring a pack of cleaning wipes, brush your hair, and call it good. Who knows? You might even meet a man who’s into the au naturel look—or who has a thing for wet dog musk. Your call."

  He gave her a bow before floating off to the kitchen, merrily humming as he bobbed about, leaving her staring at the box of weapons, uncertain of her next move. She had been considering taking a weapon for safety, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  "Jarvis, could you pack me a light bag with a towel and a brush? I’m going to go 'play' for a bit."

  "Right-o, mum!" Jarvis chirped from the kitchen, grabbing a large towel and her rucksack. She quickly changed into her workout gear: gym shorts, a sports bra, and a baggy T-shirt thrown on top. Her boots, dress, and socks were carefully tucked into the rucksack alongside the towel and brush Jarvis had packed. The faint scent of fresh linen from the towel filled her with a soothing sense of calm.

  She sheathed both blades into custom Draken fire-hide scabbards, tucked into a concealed compartment on the outer back of the rucksack—designed specifically to house kunai. The leather was smooth and supple, adorned with sleek scales that gleamed like glass, shifting color depending on the angle. It was remarkably tough—nearly impossible to burn or cut. The fire hide earned its name from its fiery hues, which danced between orange, red, and green under varying light

  With her pack ready, she stepped out onto the balcony, listening to the soft rustle of orange, brown, and gold leaves in the breeze. She slung her pack over her shoulders, clipping the torso buckle into place—a clasp that always liked to hide beneath her ample chest, making it tricky to fasten. She paused, tapping the toe of her sneaker on the deck to adjust her shoes while admiring the fall colors. The vibrant hues blended seamlessly with the antique charm of the city’s architecture, creating a scene that felt both timeless and serene.

  "I know we refer to this place as a backwater mudball, but in the short time we've been here, I’ve grown to like it," she mused to herself.

  "Jarvis, watch the place while I’m gone."

  She squatted down to stretch her legs, then extended one leg at a time onto the handrail for a final, lingering stretch. Tiffany straightened her legs and pushed off with her toes, hopping lightly to the roof above her balcony. She landed without a sound and broke into a blurred sprint the moment her feet touched the surface, racing toward the forest nestled in the mountains a few clicks away.

  Behind her, Jarvis gave a wave before hovering back inside to close the double French doors. His digital face wore a cheerful smile as he hummed and resumed his chores, eventually docking himself to charge for the evening.

  Like a cheetah, she leapt from rooftop to rooftop until she reached the edge of the city. She paused at the final rooftop, closing her eyes to attune herself to the sounds around her. The faint flutter of birds' wings and the distant hum of slow-moving cars from a few streets over were all she could hear.

  Satisfied, she hopped gracefully off the rooftop, landing on all fours before transitioning into a brisk jog toward the tree line. She paused at the entrance to an old hiking trail that wound through the woods to the mountain.

  Cautiously, she scanned the area, kneeling as if tying her already tied sneakers. After confirming the area was clear, she leapt into a nearby tree, moving from branch to branch with the same effortless rhythm she’d used across the rooftops.

  Making great time, she sprang from tree to tree, giving herself a few hours to play. She paused at a towering pine, using its branches to springboard upward until she reached the top. Settling into a perch, she took a breather and enjoyed the view.

  Pulling her canteen from the rucksack, she took a sip of water as her eyes scanned the forest for a clearing to practice in.

  "I can definitely see why the humans get so worked up about fall. It's so pretty," she said to herself, taken aback, admiring the sea of brown, orange, and red of the trees, the slow cool breeze rustling her hair as she enjoyed the moment. She could make out a glint in the distance, the sun reflecting off one of the many plate glass windows of the Spencer estate where the party would be.

  "Welp, onward and downward," she said to herself, twisting the cap back onto her canteen and putting it back into her bag. Without a care in the world, Tiffany stepped off the limb, dropping straight down and catching a few branches on the way to break her speed before landing on the ground. Making her way to the clearing, she checked the area again while walking up to one of the trees to do some practice like her grandfather taught her. Normally, the GSA had training simulation holograms that were highly effective, but her grandfather detested the modern era. Within reason, he still liked some modern conveniences, but for fighting and training, he had his own ways.

  She set her bag next to the tree, took the kunai out, and set them next to her bag. Squaring up to the tree within arm's length, she spread her feet apart and twisted her hips, putting her weight into her swing. When her fist connected with the tree trunk, she slightly twisted her wrist and followed through, putting a substantial dent in the trunk and shaking the whole tree.

  Then she went to work, using more than enough strength to shake the tree but not enough to damage it. Her reward was a slow rainfall of orange, brown, and gold leaves. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she lifted her hands palm up and open, bringing the blades to life as they hovered by her side. The glyphs burned on the blades as her eyes glowed a piercing green. She balled her fists, extending her index and middle fingers on each hand, and flicked both hands. Both blades almost vanished, followed by a flurry of hand signals, causing the kunai to move this way and that. *Whissh*. As the leaves rained down, the blades sliced through them in a flurry of whisps mixed with the wind and the slicing of the leaves.

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  She took a breather after the leaves finished falling and walked to the next tree over, repeating the process. However, this tree didn't seem to be as sturdy as the other (or she put a little too much umph into it), shattering the trunk. The top part slowly started to lean away from her before changing its mind and deciding to fall towards her in a slow descent.

  “Oh, fudruckles,” she said. For a split second, she was lost, watching the tree fall toward her. She shook her head side to side to jolt herself out of the daze, snapping back to the situation at hand. Instinct kicked in—two blurs rushed past, slicing through the hardwood like a razor through hot butter, turning the tree into short logs before it had a chance to hit the ground.

  She danced out of the way to avoid the rest of the tumbling logs, her heart racing. But the thrill of it all left her grinning—no harm done, and, admittedly, a lot of fun.

  After that bit of unplanned excitement, she decided to squeeze in some strength training—just for fun. Grabbing the short logs, she tossed them like mini cabers, stacking them neatly to clean up the mess. With only three poles left to go, her rucksack started beeping. She ignored it, finishing the final few logs before pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow with the hem of her drenched shirt and heading over to her pack.

  Reaching over, she grabbed the sports watch buckled to the shoulder strap, squeezing it to turn off the timer. She plopped down on the ground with the pack in her lap, leaning back against the first tree she had punched. Cooling down, she let the quiet wooded area wash over her, stirring a pang of homesickness. Crossing one arm over her head and extending the other straight up, she stretched, popping her joints and easing the tension in her muscles. She repeated the stretch on the opposite side before rummaging through her bag for a towel. Pulling it out, she wiped her soaked mane of messy red hair and her face.

  With a sigh, she hooked a thumb under the bottom band of her sports bra, letting the girls plop out for a much-needed break. She used the towel to take care of the "humiditiddies" and other drenched areas.

  Laying her head back, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift, soaking in the sounds of nature. The distant scuffling of raccoons and the faint hum of bicyclists cruising up the trail added to the peaceful ambiance. After a moment, she pulled her canteen from the bag, downing the rest of the water before standing to finish wiping herself down.

  *Crack. Crunch. Crack.* The sound of dry leaves and small sticks being trampled shattered her calm. Someone had gotten closer than she liked—a sign they weren’t just passing through. She grabbed her things and dove into a nearby shrub, twisting to see who it was before they could spot her.

  "Look, I'm tellin' ya, I heard somethin' ovah here," said a short, stubby man in a whiny, high-pitched Boston accent.

  "I couldn't give two fecks, yah motherless whore. I say we head back and get a drink. I can hear my bottle of whisky calling from 'er. Besides, it's my day off anyway," the other man retorted in a slurred Irish accent.

  *Great, company. I was hoping to have the place to myself,* Tiff thought, annoyed at the interruption.

  "Hm, looks like the short fat one is a rat. Very passing body augments. If his clothes weren’t so out of place, I wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from a distance." I mean, come on, who wears pinstripe suits in cattle country?" she muttered. It seemed someone hadn’t bothered to check the fashion of the time period. Just about every rat she’d seen on Earth so far was a dead giveaway with their stereotypical 1940s mob attire.

  "I swear the only thing they're missing is driving around in a 1936 Mercedes 260D," she raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle.

  "That tall skinny one throws me off, though," she thought to herself. He was dressed in plain brown slacks with suspenders, a rumpled white dress shirt tucked in with sweat stains, and a tweed paperboy's hat perched on his greasy hair. His face looked strange, though—like it froze the way a digital screen might, with patchy visual static or a screen tear. A regular person would probably pass it off as their eyes playing tricks on them.

  "You know what da second in command said—well, first now dat dey killed or arrested everyone in the warehouse bust."

  "Ay, I still say someone squealed."

  "Like that mattahs, Francis. Tommy moved in fast and took over the whole op'ration. Now we're undahstaffed, and he's in charge. Unless you wanna come up missin' like the othah jacklegs that didn’t take kindly to him ditchin' the big guy."

  "Ah, feck 'em in the eyes for all I care. Let’s just hurry up and say we haven’t nothin’ to report so we can head home."

  "Dah hell? Who da hell was cuttin' lumber out heah?" Danny asked.

  Francis shrugged. "Ey Danny boy, now ya go askin' stuppid questions, and it'll just lead us bein' here longer for nothin'."

  Danny rolled his eyes, flipping off Francis while pulling a communicator off his belt. "Danny heah, nothin' to report out heah. All cleah. Headin' back now. Happy?" he asked sarcastically, cutting his eyes at his friend.

  Francis gave a creepily broken-toothed smile at Danny, his face distorting again before abruptly changing altogether, like a digital mask being removed. Beneath it, he revealed his true self—a Pharose with a chunk of flesh missing from under his right eye, as if it had been clawed off. He reached down, rubbing a grimy hand through Danny's slick black hair. "Use that language at me again, and I'll snap that finger off and shove it up yer arse till ya usin' the claw ta clean the back of those pretty teeth." Francis patted Danny's head and turned back toward where they came from, eager to leave.

  Danny glared at his work partner. "Big talk for an asshole with no augments."

  "Aye, does shortstack have a wee temper to match 'is height?"

  "Wanna find out, ya oversized rivah noodle?"

  Francis stopped, pulling a hand out of his pocket to slap his neck as if swatting a bug. His disfigured, otter-shaped face glitched, switching back to his light-complexioned, freckled human face with sandy red hair. Tiffany's breath caught, her heart pounding as fury welled up in her chest. *A Pharose? They're working with the rats now? Selling their own people as slaves?* The thought burned through her mind, her fists instinctively tightening in the underbrush. The very idea churned her stomach, but she bit down on the urge to act. Now wasn’t the time for reckless moves. She quickly steeled herself, staying as quiet and still as the bush she was hidden in. Francis slipped his hand back into his pocket, looked down at the ground, then rolled his head to gaze up at the sky as if lost in thought. Finally, he turned to Danny with a mocking expression of hurt and surprise.

  "Danny boy, does this mean we can't be friends no more?" Francis asked, slowly walking toward him. "Aye, ya know, Danny, if I thought ye weren't me friend... I just don't think I could bear it..."

  Francis stopped just short of toe-to-toe with Danny, his right hand emerging from his pocket. Small, sharp, hooked claws unsheathed and sheathed repeatedly as he flexed his fingers, his gaze fixed on Danny.

  Danny began to sweat, taking a step back and bracing for the worst. Before he could react, Francis blurred into motion, swiping at Danny's face. At the last second, the claws retracted, and Francis's hand stopped just shy of Danny's cheek. Instead, he patted it playfully, erupting into laughter.

  "Ha! Wish ya coulda seen the look on yer face, mucker! It was priceless!" Francis roared. Danny, who had gone from terrified to boiling with rage, could only sputter in frustration.

  "Fuck you, asshole!" Danny snapped, his voice full of hot air.

  Francis laughed even harder, slapping his leg as he tried to catch his breath. "Eh, maybe if yer a good lad. C'mon, I'm thirsty, and ya put me in a good mood. Drinks are on me." His laughter faded to a chuckle as he turned to leave, waving the back of his hand dismissively at Danny.

  Danny lingered for a moment, fuming. He jammed his hands into his pockets, staring at the ground as he tried to get his anger under control. Spotting a rock, he kicked it with his pointed leather dress shoe, sending it flying across the clearing. It rolled to a stop near the bush where Tiffany was hiding, silently watching the exchange.

  "Hey, wait up! I wanna drive this time, ya asshole!" Danny yelled, hurrying after Francis.

  Tiff waited until the short, fat one disappeared into the woods after his friend. She checked the watch on her pack and realized she had enough time to finish wiping down and changing before the party started. Wanting to stay as clean as possible in her dress clothes, she headed in the opposite direction. About five clicks from the mansion, she found a small clearing surrounded by tall brush.

  Sitting cross-legged, she emptied her bag, setting her boots to the side and laying her neatly folded, plastic-wrapped dress on top of them along with her towel. She found a pack of wet wipes.

  "Oh, thank you, Jarvis! Great thinking ahead!" she exclaimed, relieved. She pulled at the pack, only to find the wipes completely dried out.

  "Ah, fudruckles... well, plan B it is then." She stripped down, shifting quickly into her Lupus form. Grabbing the pack of wipes, her snout and ears twitched as she lifted her head to the sky, eyes closed, using her heightened senses to get a lay of the land. "There should be a stream somewhere, being up in the mountains." Her long tongue flicked out, licking her nose and around her snout in a reflexive movement. Her nose twitched this way and that, searching. "Ah! Found you!"

  She darted into a nearby tree, staying mid-tree level above the ground, leaping from branch to branch in the direction of the stream. She stopped abruptly, claws digging into the trunk of a tree, ripping deep crevices into it as she perched next to the stream she had been searching for. Her ears twitched, scanning for any unwanted company. After a few seconds, she deemed it clear, released her claws, and dropped down to the stream. She popped the lid of the wipes, dipping them briefly into the cold water to moisten them before resealing the pack and setting it aside.

  Kneeling down, she sat back on her haunches, leaning over the stream with her snout just short of touching the clear, cold water. Rolling her long canine tongue out, she lapped up the fresh stream water. Her ears twitched constantly, still checking her surroundings, while her eyes widened slightly at the crisp, refreshing taste. Once she had her fill, she shifted her pawed feet out from under her, sitting for a moment as she wiped the remaining water from her muzzle with her right arm.

  "Wow, this water is infinitely better than what comes out of the sink in the apartment," she said in a mix of cheery gruffness, her mood lifted by the cold, fresh water and the chance to clean herself.

  "Alright, back to get prettied up, I guess," she said in a low, gruff voice, a toothy grin spreading across her face. She grabbed her pack of wipes and headed back the way she came, following her own scent trail. Her scent, rubbed off on the towel she had left to air dry on a branch with her workout attire, created an invisible path leading her back to her things.

  Quickly shifting back to her human form, she wiped down her body with the now-moist wipes and rubbed sweet-smelling oils into her hair. After brushing and taming the tangled knots, she tied it back into a long ponytail that stopped just above her bottom. Setting the towel on the ground, she stepped onto it and slid into her dress, pulling the material over her chiseled yet curvy frame. She tucked her breasts in and adjusted the top to seat them properly, then tugged and smoothed out the bunched-up fabric until it looked just right.

  She pulled on her long socks, then unbuckled the sides of her boots and slipped them on, sliding in her sheathed kunai. She tucked a short sword-sized blade into the inner side of each boot, zipped up the inside, and adjusted the outer buckles to ensure she could move comfortably. After making her final adjustments and looking herself over, she did a playful twirl, letting her ponytail and dress dance around her.

  "OK, guess that's enough goofing around," she said, tapping each toe of her boots to get a feel for them. Then she tossed everything into her rucksack and got ready to move. Staying at ground level, she made a conservative sprint through the forest toward her destination, trying to stay clean.