Dorian, Lyra, and Marcus arrived home in a heavy, unnatural silence. The front door hissed shut, sealing them inside their small, safe world. Leo floated out from the kitchen to greet them.
"Welcome back, Dorian," the Compadre said, its tone attempting a new, jocular subroutine. "I added one more minute to the lasagna to spite you."
The attempted joke, which normally would have earned a playful retort, landed in a dead void. Dorian was still in shock from what he had just witnessed.
"Lyra," he said, his voice a low, hollow thing. "Bring your brother and go change, will you?"
Lyra, her own face pale, just nodded. She took Marcus's hand and led him silently toward their room.
Leo's optical sensor flickered. "Dorian, what happened? You are not even mad that I said I added one minute to the baking time."
"It is just... I need to catch my breath," Dorian replied, his gaze fixed on nothing.
"What happened?"
"Never mind. Forget it," he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Did you really add one more minute?"
"No... Yes," Leo corrected itself.
Dorian let out a long, weary sigh. "Alright. I am too tired to be mad at your antics. Get everything ready. Father should be back any minute now. I am going to wash up."
"Do not forget to brush your teeth," Leo called after him.
"Do not start, Leo, or else!" Dorian shouted back, the familiar banter a thin, fragile mask over his frayed nerves.
He stepped into the bathroom, the shower's spray a welcome shock against his cold skin. As he closed his eyes, the water washing over him, the images came flooding back, a torrent of stark, terrifying memories. The first time the Legion had banged on his door, the fear for Lyra and Marcus sharp and cold in his chest. The sight of Verza Zal, her cold smile, her Legion troopers standing with their Photon Rifles, the way she had said his family's full names, a quiet threat that showed she knew everything about them. And just now, the image of the Zynar, slumped dead in the middle of his meal, the Legion trooper's nonchalant attitude a chilling display of absolute power.
Am I safe? he thought, the water drumming against his skull. Are they safe?
He snapped out of it, a new, cold resolve washing over him. No. Thinking about it was useless. What he needed now was a way to fight back. He needed a banner that could give him a profile, a persona, capable of standing against those white-armored monsters. His mind raced through the possibilities, the ghosts of his Mnemonic Echo rising to the surface. The raw, divine fury of God of War, or the practical, tactical genius of Metal Gear. He needed power.
He turned off the shower.
Just as he stepped out of the bathroom, the front door hissed open. John Kepler, weary and covered in the fine dust of the mines, stepped inside. He was about to call out his usual, tired "I'm back," when the apartment exploded.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
A shower of colorful confetti erupted in front of him. He saw Dorian, Lyra, and Leo, all holding confetti poppers. Marcus, in his excitement, had aimed his directly at his father's face.
John sputtered, blinking away the colorful paper. "Oohh," he said, a slow, wonderful laugh building in his chest. "HAHAHAHAHA! A sharpshooter, huh?" He dropped his heavy bag and knelt, pulling all three of them into a massive, desperate hug. "Thank you," he whispered into their hair.
Then, he sniffed the air. Sniff, sniff. "What is this smell?"
Dorian grabbed John's bag. "Come on. Lyra, Marcus, take Father to the dinner table."
His two younger siblings grabbed their father's hands. "Close your eyes, Dad!"
John laughed, letting them lead him. "Hahaha, do you guys realize my birthday was a week ago?"
"Yeah, but you were not home yet," Lyra said, her logic impeccable.
"Yeah," Marcus added. "Pretend it is the correct day."
They led him to the table and had him sit down. Dorian followed, taking his own seat.
"Okay," they all said in unison. "Open your eyes."
John opened his eyes and saw a feast. A real, impossible feast. There was the golden-brown lasagna, a bowl of fresh, green salad, and even a small, frosted cake with a single candle on it. He stared, completely and utterly shocked.
"What is all this?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Marcus and Lyra, who had already eaten all of these things before, eagerly began to explain each dish, comparing them to the synth-foods their father would understand. "This is like the protein-paste, Dad, but it is way, way better!" Marcus said, pointing at the lasagna.
John just smiled, his eyes glistening as he fought back tears. "It is the best birthday ever," he said softly. He looked at the incredible meal, then at his children's excited, hungry faces. "Come on, you guys eat first. I... I do not even know how to eat these fancy things." He gestured for Lyra and Marcus to serve themselves.
But Dorian knew. He knew his father was not confused. He was making sure his children, who had so little, got to eat their fill first. He let out a small, knowing smile, his heart aching with a profound, bittersweet love for the man.
…
BANG!
The sound of a fist smashing into the polished obsidian of the conference table was like a cannon shot in the silent, high-tech meeting room. Marshal Hetros Rex, his massive, Neman frame radiating pure fury, stood glaring across the table. The twelve gleaming insignia on his collar, signifying his supreme command of the Accord Army, seemed to vibrate with his anger.
"How many times," he roared, his voice a deep, gravelly growl that shook the very air, "will you use my troopers to do your personal shits?"
Across from him, Fleet Admiral Crix Halcard remained seated, his arms crossed casually over his chest. His own twelve insignia, representing his absolute authority over the Accord Navy, glimmered in the cool, artificial light. He looked at the furious Marshal with an expression of bored, aristocratic disdain.
"He was a terrorist," Halcard said, his voice flat and dismissive. "He was on his way to becoming a prominent figure of dissent. His candid remarks about The Celestarch and the Vizier of the Ministry of Educational Alignment were more than enough to have his entire family tree eradicated."
"IT DOES NOT MATTER!" Rex bellowed, leaning forward on his knuckles. "It is not your jurisdiction to command my troops without notifying me while they are on planetary ground! Do I have to bring one of my warships into your precious hyperspace lanes and do whatever I want without notifying you?!"
"Let the BSO do their job," Halcard said with a cool scoff, completely ignoring the threat. "I did what the Celestarch expects me to do. And I suggest you do the same."
A soft, almost musical laugh cut through the tense standoff. Deputy Director Ivis Aigalle, her own six insignia gleaming on her crisp, grey uniform, sat between the two men, a picture of calm amusement.
"Fufufufu," she chuckled, her eyes crinkling in a smile that did not hold a trace of warmth. "It does not matter now. We have already handled the fallout from the incident. But," she added, turning her gaze to the Admiral, "I do agree with Marshal Rex on this one. Would it not be better if we all worked together and did all of this smoothly next time?"
Fleet Admiral Halcard just scoffed. "You just want your job to be less work."
Deputy Director Aigalle's smile widened. "Fufufu, so eager to please the Celestarch," she said, her voice a silken, condescending purr. "But remember, this is the last time the BSO will be covering your tracks, Fleet Admiral. We cannot have a rogue admiral going around killing whomever he sees fit. The era has changed. The network has expanded. Sooner or later, your particular brand of ruthlessness will be needed, but for now, let us work on upping our communication game, shall we?"
…
"Come on, Rita," Gil's voice was a low, pleading rumble. "You are the only pianist who could ever keep up with my conducting. You know what I want from the instrument before I even ask for it. The others have already agreed to come back for this one project."
Rita, a woman with the same striking white hair as Gil but whose face was a mask of cold, regal indifference, did not even look up from her datapad. "No, Gil. It has been a long time since I have touched a piano. You would not want my shaky hands anywhere near one, let alone in our orchestra."
"HAH! There it is!" Gil exclaimed, a triumphant, desperate glint in his silver eyes. "You still think of us as 'our' orchestra. It is not just me, Rita. It is you, and the others."
"Your orchestra," she corrected, her voice like ice. "Clearly, I have misspoken."
"Think about it," he pressed, leaning forward. "The White Beast and the Ice Queen, a collaboration on another project, one last time."
Rita remained unresponsive, her silence a wall of solid ice.
Gil let out a long, weary sigh. He reached into his coat and placed a small, elegant AudPod on the table beside her. "Please," he said, his voice now soft and vulnerable. "Just listen to it. Do not just throw it away again. For my sake."
Rita finally looked up from her datapad, her expression one of pure, glacial annoyance. "Alright. Now can you let me have my peace?"
Gil stood, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "I will come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the next, until you say yes or no."
"I have already said no," she stated, her voice flat.
"But you have not heard it yet," he insisted. "Just listen to it. And mind you, this is a sixteen-year-old kid playing on a holo-piano on his producer's desk. It is not as sophisticated as what your usual ear is used to."
"Leave this old woman alone, Gil."
"I have still got fire in me," he said, his voice a low, passionate growl. "And I know you do, too." He turned and left, leaving her alone in the quiet, opulent room.
She stared at the AudPod, a small, elegant piece of technology on the vast, empty table. Her gaze then drifted to a framed photograph on the mantlepiece. A picture of her and a man with a warm, kind smile, her late husband.
She picked up the photo, her gloved fingers tracing the man's face. "Should I play again," she whispered to the image, "when you are not here to watch me?"
She looked back at the AudPod, then back at the photo. "Would you... like to listen to a young blood's song with me?"
She paused, as if listening for an answer that would never come. She placed the photo gently back on the mantlepiece, a new, fragile resolve in her eyes.
"For all the years he helped me... and you," she murmured to the empty room.
She picked up the AudPod and, with a hand that was not quite steady, she tapped play.
…
Half of the Kepler family was already asleep. Lyra and Marcus, exhausted after recounting every detail of their school lives to their equally exhausted but endlessly patient father, had been tucked into bed hours ago.
Dorian saw John sitting on the couch, watching a game of grav-ball. He took the plate of leftover lasagna from the cold box. "Mind if I join you?"
"Sure," John said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "The Nexon Ultras are about to win the cup this year. I am sure of it."
Dorian sat down, taking a bite of the cold lasagna. "Hmmm, yes, the Ultras, huh? You would think they would have hired a Zynar as a keeper by now."
"Meeh," John grunted. "Having long limbs does not mean you can use them right."
After a while, the game ended. The Nexon Ultras lost by two points in the final seconds.
"Ahhhh, dang it!" John groaned, slumping back into the couch. "It will be next year. I am sure of it."
Dorian chuckled. "I still cannot believe you support them after decades of failure."
"I know," John said with a weary smile. "But I love them. And once I love something, I love it forever."
Dorian smiled. "Yeah, too sappy for me. I am a cool type of guy." He stood and took his empty plate to the sink.
"Oh, I am cool, alright," John called after him. "If you had seen me back in my day, you would not believe I was not a celebrity."
"Yeah, yeah, sure, Dad," Dorian said, turning on the water.
John chuckled and began to shuffle through the channels. He landed on Nexon Prima TV, the local news broadcast for Nexus Prime. The channel's slick, geometric logo faded, replaced by a news anchor with a severe haircut and a practiced, somber expression. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: TERRORIST THREAT NEUTRALIZED IN NEXON SECTOR 9.
Dorian, who had been washing his plate, froze, his back still to the screen.
"And in security news," the anchor began, her voice a calm, authoritative drone, "the Accord Legion today successfully neutralized a high-level terrorist threat in the lower levels of our own city. The Zynar, identified as Jal Lyabr, a known operative for the Outer Rim Liberation Front, was directly responsible for the bombing of an Accord fuel base in the Lonuro sector last year."
A warning flashed on the screen: VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED - GRAPHIC CONTENT. The screen then cut to grainy, chaotic footage. It was shaky, clearly taken from a trooper's helmet cam. A massive, fiery explosion ripped through a futuristic military base, sending debris and bodies flying. The audio was a hellscape of panicked shouting, the sharp crackle of Radiant Carbine fire, and the screams of wounded soldiers. The camera panned across the devastation, lingering for a moment on the smoking, armored bodies of Legion troopers being carried away on stretchers.
"This brutal attack," the anchor's voiceover stated grimly, "resulted in the tragic loss of seventeen brave Legion troopers and officers who gave their lives in service to the Accord. Due to the confirmed intelligence and the subject's known history of violent resistance, the Legion operatives on site made the difficult but necessary decision to neutralize the threat with extreme prejudice before he could inflict further harm on the citizens of Nexus Prime."
The screen cut back to the anchor's calm, reassuring face. "The Celestarch himself has issued a heartfelt message to the people of Nexus and the families of the fallen."
The screen changed again, this time to the serene, opulent office of the Accord's supreme leader. The Celestarch, an ancient, wizened figure whose face was a mask of benevolent authority, looked directly into the camera, his expression one of deep, paternal sorrow.
"My dear citizens," he began, his voice a soft, grandfatherly balm. "Today, we were reminded of the price of our peace. We mourn the brave souls we lost in the Lonuro attack, heroes who made the ultimate sacrifice so that we may live in security. The swift action of our Legion today on Nexus Prime is not an act of aggression, but one of protection. It is the steady hand of a surgeon, removing a cancer before it can spread." He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through the screen. "To those who would sow chaos and fear, know this: our resolve is unwavering. Our grief will not beget fear; it will forge a stronger shield. We will continue our mission to ensure prosperity and security for all, and we will honor the memory of our fallen by building a brighter, safer future. The Accord endures."
Dorian stood at the sink, the water running over his hands, but he was not washing anymore. He had seen it. He had been there. The Zynar was not a high-level terrorist. He was a terrified man, eating a bowl of noodles, who was about to surrender.
But his words, his truth, meant nothing. Not to the Accord. Not to the galaxy. He was just another ghost, his story will be rewritten and erased before it was even told.
**A/N**
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~🧣KujoW
**A/N**