It took a couple of weeks for the birds he sent out to find Hundred, and a couple more for the birds to return with directions. in the end it was Pherson's parrot that found the man - no matter how much he disguised himself, how hard he hid, that parrot would recognize that voice anywhere.

Pherson had no car, of course. He travelled by foot, by moose, by horse. Another couple of weeks went by, but he was patient. He had waited so long already, listening for word.

Now, after all these years, maybe his brother would finally hear reason.

He had long since forgiven Mitchell for his murder (at some point he had been ported out, and lived in his home world for just enough seconds to die), or at least, the time had made the sting ease again. He had lived so long without hearing the invaders. So long since he'd spoken to another human.

Pherson did not hate Mitchell Hundred, but he was drawn to the man, regardless of time and space, regardless of context. They were brothers, in powers and in homeworld, now and forever.

A simple knock at the cabin door seemed so anti-climatic.