After Aralyn and her party marches off into the forest, 11 starts to follow at first, but the Synapse-Mother-System stops her.

That Demonic Entity is not worth your time or energy hunting, Gier 11, especially if there are already others doing it.

I trust you are sensible enough to make the right decision, both as a weapon of humanity, and as one of my God Giers.

11 does not move from the square. She watches the gate lowering, shutting the outside world behind a wall of sharpened logs. The crowd disperses shortly after, their hearts content with the promise of peace. Some of the villagers stop and offer words of comfort to the grieving couple, but most return straight to their houses and shops, for what little respite there is left before the day begins.

Standing on tiptoes, 11 tries to look over the log wall, but feels foolish for even trying. She may as well be trying to peek over a mountain.

It'll be so easy for me to jump over, she thinks vindictively. I won't even need a running start.

It will be even easier for 11 to just snap one of the stripped logs, like a toothpick. The barriers of humans are nothing to a God Gier.

But 11 does not jump any fences, or punch any logs, because just as the S-M-S says, it simply is not logical. And now, with Aralyn out of sight, it has become a little easier for her to think logically.

The God Gier turns from the gate, and heads back up the hill towards the doctor’s house, telling herself that she is taking the right course of action in doing so.

The sky is caramelized with the golden brilliance of sunrise, but Lawheim’s house somehow remains dark. The door is open, and the stench of booze greets 11 like a vulgar host.

The drunkard is hunched over on the table, snoring fitfully. 11 picks her way across the carpet of bottles and drinking glasses, and makes her way to the table. She slides a chair out and sits down, and waits for the man to wake.

Five minutes go past, then ten. Then twenty.

11 clears her throat.

The snoring stops, but the doctor does not move still. 11 grabs a half-empty bottle off the table and knocks it against his head.

Lawheim looks up, moving stiffly like a tin man in need of oiling. He squints at 11, who offers him the bottle.

A slow smile lights up the doctor's weathered face.

“Blast it. Strike me dead.” Lawheim takes the bottle from 11, but does not drink. He sets it down on the table, right between them. Through the murky glass bottle, the doctor’s eyes are old pieces of copper. “You look so damn similar,” he says quietly, all traces of humor gone. “Your hair, the color of your eyes, even your damn underwear is the same.”

“Similar to whom?” 11 asks, keeping her voice low, as if afraid she will spook the doctor if she speaks too loudly. “What is it that you know, Doctor?”

“Not enough, it turned out.” Lawheim’s eyes glaze over, and he talks almost more to himself than to 11. “But, who could’ve known? If we did, it wouldn’t have happened that way. At least, if she only would've told me more, I would never have made her stay here. Then, maybe, she would still be…”

The doctor reaches for the bottle, misjudges, and knocks it over. Honey-red liquid gushes across the beautiful mahogany.

The man and the girl sit watching the puddle get bigger, as the silence stretches between them.

“I recommend you be a little more… subtle, in your approaches from now on.” Lawheim’s tone is casual, like reminding 11 to take an umbrella for the rain, but his words are laced with a hidden meaning that 11 picks up on right away. “I’m sure whatever it was, didn’t warrant an earthquake to take it down?”

“Well, he was really big,” 11 starts to say before correcting herself. “I mean, what makes you think that was me?”

I can't give him everything, she decides. Not when he wouldn't do the same for me.

“You are frightfully poor at this," Lawheim remarks. "You should start with learning how to lie. It just might end up saving your life one day.”

“I believe in putting one’s good foot forward,” 11 defends. “Speaking of which, can you please explain your earlier comment? Who did you say I look similar to?”

Lawheim does not answer her. He is too busy staring longingly at the spilled alcohol on the table.

11 gets up, goes to the wine shelf, and takes one out by random. She places it in the middle of the puddle. “A bottle for your thoughts.”

The doctor looks up with a bitter grin. “My wife.” He says it so quietly 11 thinks she hears him wrongly.

“I’m sorry, did you just say your wife? As in, another human? Or...”

"It doesn't matter," Lawheim says quickly, picking up the bottle, "because you’re not her. Not even a little. A doppelganger, maybe. A replacement? Not ever.” He starts clawing at the cloth stopper wedged into the bottle's mouth. “Now, I suggest you go after your new friend. That thing in the woods isn’t your average wraith. If those kids aren’t prepared, then they probably won’t come out of a confrontation alive. They’re not the first ones to try.”

“Thank you," says 11, "but I’m more interested in your wife, Doctor. Was she... like me?”

The doctor pulls and twists for a while longer, before deflating into his chair with a sigh. “Blast it. I’ve decided that I am not thirsty this morning.” He tosses the bottle on the table, where it topples over and splashes into the puddle.

11 reaches for it, but Lawheim shakes his head. “Leave it.”

11 sits back. “Would you prefer if I seduce you into giving me the information, then?”

Lawheim eyes her suspiciously. “Do you even know what you're asking?"

"I do."

A moment of silence goes past.

"And what if I say yes?”

11 starts lifting her shirt off, and manages to get it over her stomach before the doctor launches himself across the table to stop her.

“What in Sharn’s hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Seducing you.”

"Are you insane?"

"I thought you said yes."

The doctor stares at 11 for a beat, and then he starts to laugh, his belly quivering from the combined effort of struggling off the table, and laughing. He collapses back in his chair, and when he finally stops laughing to breathe, his face is as red as the stains across his cotton shirt.

“Damn Nranhana, if that isn’t the funniest thing I've ever... ” Shaking his head, the doctor gets up. “You know what? You’ve put me in a good mood. I don't know how you thought of that, but blast it, you got me. Alright, wait here.”

11 watches as Lawheim trails a line of wine across the hardwood floors as he staggers to the second-floor stairs, chortling to himself all the while.

After a long time, Lawheim finally comes back, still in his stained clothing. He strolls over to 11 and plops a wrinkled leather backpack down on the now dried table. “Yours,” he says, patting to the backpack and releasing a billion dust particles into the air. “There’s some basic necessities, enough silver bits for some simple gear, and a map.”

“Um… Thank you?” 11 says, unable to mask her confusion. “I… I don’t understand. Why are you giving this to me?”

The doctor smirks, puts a heavy hand on 11’s head, and ruffles her hair. “So I can get rid of you, of course. You’ll find the general goods store on the east side of the square. Now go. Get out of my house. It displeases me greatly just looking at your pretty face.” His voice is light, but there is a tightness in his eyes that accents the truth behind his joking words. “Don't ever come back. Please.”

11 looks at the man, then at the backpack. She thanks him, accepts his gift, and then leaves.

As 11 walks down the dirt path from the house, the sound of shattering glass makes her pause. But the doctor’s demons are not something a God Gier knows how to fight, so she continues onwards to the village square, lit up by daylight.