I hadn't expected this second summons, and I certainly hadn't expected what it would reveal—not about Victor, but about myself.
Several hours later, Butch gathered the transcript pages, arranging them into a neat stack. "One more thing before you go," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "After what happened with Victor's men, we need to reassess our security. All of it." He leaned back in his chair, eyes steady on mine. "You found ways into our compound that none of us knew existed. You spotted surveillance devices we missed. And you've survived alone for fifteen years without getting caught." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "So tell me, Liam—how would you protect this place?"
The question caught me off guard. I'd been asked to recall information, to analyze patterns, but never to offer solutions. Never to build rather than hide. My fingers twitched against my thigh, the familiar nervous rhythm returning as I processed his request.
Butch must have sensed my uncertainty, because he pulled a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer and slid it across the desk along with the pencil. "Just show me what you're thinking," he said. "No pressure."
No pressure. As if sharing fifteen years of survival techniques wasn't exposing my very soul.
I stared at the blank page, feeling the weight of his expectation. Then, almost of its own accord, my hand reached for the pencil. I'd spent months observing this compound, mapping its strengths and weaknesses from the shadows. I knew its vulnerabilities better than anyone.
The first lines were tentative—the main building's foundation, the fence line, the access road. But as the familiar shapes emerged beneath my pencil, something shifted inside me. This wasn't just recalling information—this was applying it. Using it. Giving form to knowledge that had kept me alive when everyone around me died.
My strokes became more confident, more precise. The compound took shape with remarkable accuracy—every building, every door and window, every camera position.
I added topographical features around the perimeter—the slight rise to the north that provided cover for approaching vehicles, the drainage ditch that offered concealed access from the east, the dense tree line where I'd hidden for so many months.
As I drew, I felt my body changing—my hunched shoulders straightening, my breathing deepening, my movements becoming more deliberate. This was my territory—not thephysical space of the compound, but the realm of security and survival. Here, in this domain, I wasn't damaged or broken. I was experienced. Knowledgeable. Perhaps even skilled.
Once the basic layout was complete, I began marking vulnerable points with small X's—places where the fence could be breached without triggering alarms, blind spots in the camera coverage, areas where the building's construction created natural entry points.
I circled three locations where Victor's men had gained access during the attack, then marked four additional points they could have used but didn't.
Butch leaned forward, studying my work with growing interest. "You've really analyzed this place," he said, his tone a mixture of concern and admiration.
I nodded, then continued drawing. Now came the part that mattered most—not just identifying problems but solving them. I sketched a secondary perimeter around the property, not a fence but a natural barrier. Specific plants arranged in strategic patterns—blackberry brambles with their protective thorns, tall grasses that would rustle with movement, flowering bushes that attracted insects whose flight patterns could indicate approaching threats.
My pencil moved faster as my confidence grew. I wasn't just drawing physical barriers, but an entire early warning system—a living network that could communicate danger to someone with the ability to listen.
Someone like me.
I tapped the paper, then pointed to my eyes, trying to convey that these weren't just random plantings, but carefully selected species with specific purposes. I reached for my notepad and wrote quickly:"Plants talk. Different languages, but patterns. Warning signals."
Butch's brow furrowed slightly. "You mean you can... communicate with them? Get information from them?"
I hesitated, then nodded. It was the part of myself I'd hidden most carefully—this strange connection that had kept me alive, but would mark me as truly other if discovered. But hiding it now served no purpose. Not if I wanted to truly protect this place. These people. Rooster.
I placed my palm flat against the wooden desk, closing my eyes briefly. The connection formed instantly—not as strong as with living plants, but still present. Wood remembered being alive. I could feel the echo of its growth, its years taking in sunlight and rain.
Opening my eyes, I pulled my hand back and wrote:"Everything green has patterns. Disruptions show threats. Can feel approach through root systems, wind movements, insect behaviors."
I sketched a crude representation of what I sensed—a web of awareness spreading through the soil, up through stems and branches, across leaves that registered subtle changes in air current and vibration. Then I added human figures disrupting this network, their presence creating ripples through the system long before cameras would detect them.
"Jesus," Butch muttered, studying my drawing. "You're talking about a biological security system. One that can't be hacked or disabled with technology."
I nodded emphatically, relieved he understood without more explanation. Writing was exhausting, inadequate for conveying complex concepts. But Butch was making connections without requiring every detail spelled out.
"And you can interpret these... signals?" he asked, his tone careful but not disbelieving. "You'd know if someone was approaching even before they reached the fence line?"
I nodded again, then drew a rough map of the surrounding area, marking the natural features I'd already been using to monitor the compound—the ancient oak whose branches gave clear sightlines to the main approach, the dense thicket where I'd hidden while observing their movements, the wildflower meadow whose subtle patterns had alerted me to Victor's surveillance team long before I spotted actual devices.
"That's how you knew," Butch said softly, understanding dawning on his face. "That night, during the attack. The plants warned you."
I tapped my nose, confirming his insight. Then I continued sketching, adding details about how specific plantings could funnel intruders toward predetermined interception points—natural choke points where the MC's defenders would have tactical advantages.
"Can you implement this?" Butch asked, gesturing to my design. "Supervise the plantings, make sure it's done right?"
The question startled me. Implementing meant staying. Meant committing to this place beyond the immediate danger. Meant accepting that I wasn't just passing through but putting down roots—literal and figurative.
