It's a strange sort of honor to bear witness to the last moments of a person's life. With all the pretense stripped away and the sinking realization of that finality taking hold, a man tends to become more himself than he's ever been since birth. And while -- for the most part -- Wrench has never been one to leave his victims to languish in their final moments, he's seen plenty of different reactions in his time. He used to think maybe they held the clue to what lies on the other side, but over time he's convinced himself they're nothing more than the chemical reaction of the brain in its own death throes.

Which is why none of this makes any sense. A boat and a ferryman waxing on about quests and redemption, a metal band around his wrist glowing an eerie orange, and the overwhelming taste of pollen on his lips. Wrench is still reeling when he's dumped to port to be greeted with braided, flowering blooms and open arms. His stature makes it difficult to blend in among the crowd, but the cloud of his silence and the hard stare he pays anyone who tries to place flowers in his arms lets him wind through the better part of the chaos largely unfettered.

He can be found doing his best to orient himself to this strangeness, or later at the temple, picking through the dyed fabrics and considering both a bowie and a kukri.

In the midst of so much that's unfamiliar, bathing in a natural pool of water is a tale as old as time. Wrench is glad to find the spring so inviting in its warmth. It is, fortunately, nothing like sinking into a clear Minnesota lake on an early spring morning. In fact, once he's got one toe in the water he's happy to throw caution to the wind and let the runoff from the formation above pour over his head and down his back. After a little while, he almost can't help but risk closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, Wrench would swear he's been transported. In the midst of this strange place, he's found something as precious and as familiar to him as anything he's ever known. He can feel the threadbare bedsheet pulled over his head and see the amber glow of light streaming from the other side. He's just a boy here, no more than twelve, and the brunette boy hiding next to him puts an elbow into his ribs and points at a book laid between them.

How do you sign this? The boy's finger casts over the vocabulary in their science text.

A much younger Wrench rolls his eyes. Come on, you know all this. I think you've been signing longer than me.

Yeah? Well maybe I just like the things you do with your fingers. What about that?

At the falls, Wrench sinks further into the water.

There's no chance in hell he's closing his eyes here tonight anyway. Wrench isn't looking to provide any kind of help, but when he finds himself caught up in the crowd drifting around the sobbing woman he finds himself enlisted. A cursory point at the blade he's tucked in his waistband is all it takes, and truth be told he doesn't mind the excuse to explore a little bit more of his new home.

None of this could be any different than the frozen tundra of the upper Midwest, but tracking is tracking no matter how you slice it. He may be with the group, but it's increasingly clear he's only here to serve his own purposes.