The night air was heavy with stillness, the kind that made even the smallest sounds feel amplified. The sky stretched endlessly above them, a canvas of deep indigo spattered with countless stars that burned brightly against the darkness. Michael walked alongside his father, their footsteps crunching softly over the gravel path. The quiet between them wasn't the kind of comfortable silence that often passed between family members who knew each other well. It was something heavier, something that carried the weight of years lost and the scars of grief that hadn't fully healed.
The walk led them away from the warmth and laughter still echoing from the house. Tanya's voice carried faintly through the open windows, singing a familiar melody, blending with the distant hum of life from the neighborhood. The occasional bark of a dog, the soft murmur of a nearby television drifting through an open window, and the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze all filled the stillness of the night. Black's father had led him out here for a reason, though he hadn't yet said a word, and the tension hung between them like an unspoken truth.
The path wound through familiar territory, past the old acacia trees that Michael had once climbed as a child and the fence he'd always dared his friends to jump. The memories were etched into the landscape, but they felt distant now, like relics from a past life he could barely grasp. The air was crisp, each breath a reminder of the quiet that had fallen over his family in his absence.
Michael's father walked with a stiffness in his stride, his hands flexing and releasing as though he were trying to keep something contained. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed forward, but the tremor in his shoulders betrayed him. It wasn't until they were far from the house, where the stars seemed to press in even closer, that his father finally spoke.
"You know," he began, his voice rough, each word measured, "when you disappeared, it nearly broke her." He didn't need to specify who he meant—Michael could hear the weight in his voice, could feel the grief his father was trying so hard to contain. "Your mother… she held us together, held everything together. But it cost her more than you'll ever know."
The guilt Michael felt was almost suffocating. He had imagined his return a thousand times, but he had never prepared himself for this—the reality of the pain he had left behind. He glanced at his father, whose face was a mask of controlled emotion, but there was no escaping the anger that lurked beneath.
"I thought I'd lost you too," his father continued, the calm in his voice starting to fracture. "I tried to accept it, to find some way to prepare myself for a life without you. And then you come back, after all these years, and I don't—" He stopped, drawing a ragged breath, his fists clenching at his sides.
Michael felt the urge to apologize, to explain, but words felt hollow in the face of his father's pain. Instead, he kept walking, matching his father's pace, listening as the anger gave way to something even more raw.
"I'm angry," his father admitted, and the honesty of it cut through the still night. His voice trembled, each word raw with emotion. "Angry that you left, that you had to go and be the hero, to save everyone else. But what tears me apart the most is that there was no one there who could save you. No one to protect you when it mattered."
He paused, drawing a shaky breath, his fists clenching at his sides as if trying to hold onto something solid. "I'm angry at myself," he continued, his voice cracking. "Angry that I let you go, that I stood back and watched you become this... Ranger, this warrior, knowing it was something I couldn't protect you from. I'm your father, Michael. I'm supposed to keep you safe, but this Ranger thing—it's a force I can't fight, a world I have no power over. And it kills me that no matter how hard I try, I can't shield you from it."
He turned to Michael, his voice softer but no less resolute. "I'm terrified that if you're called away again, there won't be another blessing waiting for us. I can't protect you from that, and it has haunted me from the moment the military informed us that you had returned."
Before Michael could respond further, a soft hum emanated from his morpher. The device glowed briefly, and in a cascade of blue light, Bastion materialized, his holographic form standing tall beside them. The AI's presence was both commanding and calm, a reflection of the unyielding bond he shared with Michael.
Bastion's expression was serious, his gaze meeting that of Michael's father. "I have made mistakes in the past," Bastion said, his voice steady and solemn. "But I vow to do everything in my power to ensure Michael returns safely to his family from this day forward. Your son is not alone, and I will not fail him again."
Michael felt the tension in his father's shoulders ease, if only slightly. He placed a firm hand on his father's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and understanding. His father looked back at him, eyes still heavy with concern but now tinged with a glimmer of hope.
The moment lingered, the connection between them palpable. Then, as the weight of the conversation began to settle into something more bearable, Michael lifted his eyes to the sky. The stars above shone with a brilliant clarity, unimpeded by any hint of pollution. The domed city's translucent barrier arched high above them, almost invisible in the night, its porous surface allowing an unbroken view of the heavens.
Despite all the advanced technology shared with Earth from the alliance races, moments like these—of simple beauty, of awe—still took his breath away. The dome stood ready to solidify and shield them if needed, but for now, it remained open, a protective shell that seemed to embrace the stars.
"The sky's never looked so clear," Michael murmured, the words carrying a sense of wonder and appreciation for the peace that, even if fragile, felt real.
His father followed his gaze, the lines of worry on his face softening. Together, they stood beneath the dome, under a sky so vivid it felt like the universe was just within reach—a moment of calm, a fleeting but precious gift.
Michael lingered on the pristine sky, a testament to the atmospheric cleaners and ozone generators working tirelessly. Despite the ongoing assaults by the Elvanurus—raids that aimed to disable the very machines keeping Earth's air clean—those devices still did their job. The irony wasn't lost on him. The Elvanurus were supposed to be lovers of nature, weren't they? At least, in every story he had ever read, elves were guardians of the land, defenders of the wild.
"They're supposed to be nature lovers," he thought, the bitterness clear in his voice. "So why do they want to poison us? To suffocate us?"
"You're right", his father said. "And somewhere out there is the Terra Venture." His eyes seemed to shine with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "I wonder how the domes are fairing. Put my heart into them. I just hope those grease monkeys haven't messed up my hard work."
Michael turned to his father, a faint smile touching his lips. The mention of the Terra Venture—the colossal space colony that had carried Earth's hope and resilience into the stars—felt like a thread connecting past and future. His father's pride in his contribution was palpable, a reminder of everything they had built and fought for, both on this world and beyond.
They stood there, the stars above and the city around them a testament to survival and determination, each carrying the weight of memories and dreams.
The two men found a park bench in front of the Bastet monument, a silent guardian watching over the city, her stone eyes calm and unyielding. The air felt heavier here, as if the weight of past struggles and prayers still lingered. Michael's father lowered himself onto the bench first, exhaling slowly, and gestured for Michael to sit beside him. The moment was thick with unspoken words, but his father wasn't one to dance around the truth.
"I'm going to be honest with you, son," his father began, his voice low but carrying an edge that made Michael brace himself. "Because you're too old for me to hide it, and I need you to understand what you did to your momma."
He paused, staring straight ahead at the monument, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. "You left her alone for ten years. Ten fucking years." The curse cut through the night, raw and bitter. "Ten years, she cried every night. Ten years of begging, wishing, praying to God that you'd come back. Ten years of watching other children grow up and leave home, while hers... hers never came back."
Michael swallowed, his mouth dry, but he stayed silent. His father wasn't finished.
And every goddamn Sunday, that blue fellow would come around." He exhaled, a sound that was half a laugh, half a broken sigh. "I hated seeing him, hated that he was a reminder of everything we'd lost. But God bless him, because we needed it. We needed the warmth, the memories, the feeling of someone who'd actually touched you, who'd fought beside you, who carried a piece of you into our home."
He clenched his fists, his knuckles going white, and his eyes grew shadowed. "But there was fear, too. Real, bone-deep fear. Because every time he stepped into this house, I could see it—the devil that had sunk its claws into him. There was something in Blue's eyes, something twisted and wrong, like a man dancing on the edge of damnation. I knew that look, son. I've seen it before, in soldiers who came back from war with something broken inside them. Men who'd stared into the abyss and let it crawl into their souls."
"The fear that whatever had tainted him had poisoned your soul too... it kept me up at night, Michael. I dreamed of you coming back, but not as my son. I saw you twisted, carrying that same darkness, that same cold emptiness I saw in his eyes."
He swallowed hard, his voice straining to hold back the emotion. "Your mother saw hope when he visited. She believed that as long as he kept coming back, it meant you could too. But me? All I saw was a warning. A harbinger of what war does to a man. And I prayed, Michael. God, did I pray. But I knew, deep down, that if it had infected you, if that evil had gotten into your soul... there'd be nothing I could do to save you."
Michael sat there, the darkness around them pressing in closer. His father's words were raw, carved from the deepest places of fear and love. The Bastet monument loomed behind them, a silent stone sentinel to a city that had known too much loss. Michael felt the weight of it, the realization that his father's anger was a thin veil for a terror so profound it had left scars on his soul, too.
Michael's father leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head bowed as if the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. His voice, when he finally spoke, was frayed, tinged with the exhaustion of ten long years. "He came back, Michael," he whispered, the words cracking under the strain. "Blue came back every Sunday, like clockwork. Even with the devil dancing in his eyes, he came back to us."
He looked up at Michael then, his face drawn and weary, eyes glistening with a sorrow he'd tried so hard to bury. "Why didn't you?" His voice broke, and he exhaled shakily, the dam of grief threatening to burst.
Michael's father drew in a long, shaky breath, then straightened, forcing himself to compose the emotions that had so nearly undone him. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the traces of tears, and set his jaw with a look that carried both love and desperation.
"Your mother won't say it," he began, his voice steadier now, though still thick with the residue of pain. "So I'll ask. Stop being Black." He turned to Michael, his eyes searching, pleading. "Become Michael again. Build a life here. Find a good woman, have babies, and watch them grow up. Put more of you into this world."
He paused, his hand clenching into a fist on his knee, as if grasping for the last fragments of hope. "Because the world sure as hell needs it," he said, the words carrying a raw, undeniable conviction. "It needs more of you—the son we love, not the Ranger who gave everything until there was nothing left."
The silence that followed was different now, less heavy but still full of meaning. Michael could feel the truth in his father's plea, the desire for a future that didn't involve losing his son to war again. It was a vision of life—of love, family, and renewal—that seemed almost foreign after everything he'd faced. But as he sat there, beneath the open sky and the unwavering gaze of the Bastet monument, he couldn't deny the longing he felt for it, too.