The DC-8 didn't just land at Pearson International; it hit the frozen tarmac with a satisfying, stomach-dropping thud that shook loose the last of the jet lag. Dr. Liana Wainwright, built for the sun and wearing her heaviest California coat, felt the aggressive Canadian cold immediately seep into her bones. She quickly unbuckled Perseus Alexander Wainwright, her three-year-old, whose small hand already had a confident grip on her sleeve. Percy, his mini afro a perfect dark halo, was unnervingly silent, a quiet little statue amidst the rush of travelers. Liana focused on the heavy, brass-tacks reality: the prestigious U of T job, the tight finances after the divorce, and the absolute, pressing need to make everything boringly perfect here in Toronto.
The taxi was a warm, slightly musty escape, but the world outside was a dull, grey blur of brown brick and endless, slush-covered streets. Liana pressed her hand against Percy's back, her thumb making small, rhythmic circles. "We find order, mi vida," she murmured, a nervous tick disguised as a lullaby. "We focus on the data, on the research." She was attempting to soothe the deep, maternal dread that always flared up when Percy went into his stare-mode. Percy, however, was using the thrum of the engine like a calculator. He wasn't seeing the depressing snowbanks; he was mentally clocking the distance and timing the traffic flow—a crucial dry run for the high-speed logistics he would need tomorrow.
The Annex apartment was small, and the heat was losing a losing battle with the sub-zero air. Liana wrestled with the apartment door—a solid, grumpy beast—and dragged in the two heaviest pieces of luggage, along with the all-important, institutional black rotary phone. That phone had to be operational immediately; it was her only professional connection to the outside world. Percy, meanwhile, was already exploring. He ignored the open boxes of toys and walked straight to the window, testing the old latch with a surprising force. He moved to the radiator and tapped it twice. Acoustic Check: Complete. The clanking, wheezing furnace noise was perfect. It would mask any future calls that needed to stay perfectly secret.
Liana commandeered the tiny, wobbly folding table by the window as her command center. She immediately laid out her professional shields: the thick, official surveys of the Abitibi Greenstone Belt and her beautifully neat U of T lecture notes. Percy, seated on the worn area rug, pulled out his copy of the Greek myth of Perseus—the namesake of his whole operation. He then found a fat, bright yellow crayon and a large piece of packing paper. Liana watched him, smiling at the focus of her little prodigy. She assumed he was doing complex algebraic doodles. In reality, he was rendering the precise aerial view of the Pearson International cargo facility—the exchange point—mapping out the security fencing and the discreet drop zones.
Liana needed to establish routine. She left her work to heat milk on the stove, but froze in the kitchen archway. Percy was sitting utterly motionless, staring at the blank plaster wall. The stillness wasn't the rapt attention of a child, but the perfect, deep-sea focus of an adult mind. The air in the apartment felt strangely thick, like before a storm. Liana's medical alarm bells screamed: Not again. She immediately dismissed the impossible content of his stares, locking onto the familiar random physical crisis that always followed. Jet lag. The move. The divorce. She grabbed the carton of milk, her hands shaking, focused entirely on stopping the coming nosebleed and collapse.
Suddenly, a piercing white noise slammed into the apartment, instantly replaced by the aggressive, frantic percussion of the Oracle Theme that only Percy heard. The vision hit him like a lightning strike—a Golden Eye view of decades of geological history. The coordinates, the crushing financial shortfall, and the golden target—the Golden Giant Mine structure—blasted through his mind all at once. The psychic download was agonizing, forcing the data out in desperate, impossible English.
Percy's voice cracked into a polyglot shriek. "Mama! The axial plunge! It's the Golden Giant Mine structure! Not the marginal claims! The capital is empty! You must find the job—the quick, voice job—for the cover! Now!"
The drumbeat stopped with a soundless, terrifying crack. Blood surged from Percy's nostrils, staining his coat. He collapsed instantly. Liana saw nothing but the crisis. The words "axial plunge" and "Golden Giant Mine" were instantly erased by the professional certainty of Severe Epistaxis. She scooped him up, ignoring the soiled coat, rushing him straight to the bathroom sink. Her mind was a tunnel of adrenaline and motherly command: Cold cloth. Pressure. Stabilize the random medical failure.
While Liana was completely focused on cleaning the blood from the coat in the laundry tub, Percy executed his move. He slipped from the cold porcelain sink. Moving low and fast, he reached the heavy rotary phone and, using both small hands, executed a rapid, precise dial sequence. He spoke into the receiver, low and fast, his voice clipped and cold Urdu—a secure, high-risk language Liana did not possess and would only hear as the low, adult mumble of a child playing.
"Vic. Package is cold. Target confirmed: Hemlo. Exchange point is the noise. Tomorrow. Pearson. Double the price for the cover. Cash engine begins today. Confirm." He silently replaced the receiver, crawling back to the bathroom, leaning against the sink just as Liana returned, a mask of exhaustion and medical concern replacing her features.
Liana spent the afternoon on complete, aggressive normalcy. Sedative administered. Temperature checked. She rationalized the episode as pure altitude stress and jet lag, shutting down any internal inquiry into the impossible words he had screamed. Percy, playing the perfect, recovering angel, spent the time internally confirming the logistics of the drug exchange network for the next day's critical funding run.
The apartment grew quiet, the silence heavy after the day's drama. Liana sat at her desk, meticulously reviewing her notes for the mandatory check-in with Dean Hawthorne. Her life had to appear flawless, focused only on academic integrity. The call was tense, clipped. Liana spoke with measured, data-driven authority, selling the image of stability. The institutional stress was immense, reinforcing her internal mantra: Every part of my life must be unimpeachable.
Dinner was over. As Liana cleared the plates, Percy executed his final move of the day. He crawled to her open briefcase and retrieved the business card Liana had thrown in on impulse: Ivan Reitman, the fast-rising producer. He held the glossy card up, his gaze intense, demanding.
"Call. Now. The contract. The CBC. It makes the headaches stop." Liana stared at the card. The idea of a voice-acting job for her genius three-year-old was absurd, a comedy sketch. But her maternal logic seized on the only thing that mattered: It makes the headaches stop. She instantly rationalized the call as securing a therapeutic distraction—a high-paying, low-commitment curiosity that would stabilize his genius. It was a perfect, protective, and completely oblivious decision.
Liana picked up the heavy, black rotary phone. She dialed Reitman's office number, the click-whir of the dial sounding ridiculously loud in the small hall. She left a brief, professionally curt message on the answering machine, stating her son was a "unique talent" available for immediate, short-term work. She hung up, feeling a wave of relief. The cover was secured by the most absurd means possible.
That night, Liana read to Percy in his small bed—a predictable Greek mythology story. Percy listened with angelic patience, his mind already five steps ahead. The call was made. The exchange was set. His mother, in her act of loving, protective denial, had just secured the untouchable financial mechanism for the Hemlo gold caper. Day one was complete.