My voice is measured but heartfelt. Legal testimony, yes—but also truth. I lean slightly forward. “I love them. I intend to protect them.”
The courtroom stills. The judge studies me. Sammy clenches Nessa’s hand. I feel the weight of every moment I’ve prepared for—being seen as protector, partner, witness.
I step back, letting my words land like legal ordinance. The acoustic after that clarity is profound.
My suit may be coarse. My speech machine imperfect. But tonight, I am more than a warrior—I am witness, advocate, defender.
And I will not falter.
The courtroom’s hush presses in like a vice as Nessa steps onto the stand. She’s graceful, eyes clear with resolve, but I can see the tremor in her shoulders—the weight of every skeptical gaze. Her voice, however, doesn’t shake. It’s calm, purposeful.
“Your Honor, I want what’s best for Samantha,” she begins. “Her father—Buford—has not consistently shown up. There have been visits, yes, but little involvement beyond that. No school paperwork signed, no doctor’s appointments attended, no bedtime stories. It’s... it’s been me, every single day.”
I watch her fingers tighten around the rosary I gave her—the same one she clutched the night Buford first reappeared. She glances at me once, determination burning in her eyes. Then she presses on.
“I work full-time. Bills are stressful, yes—but I’ve never faltered. My daughter eats well. She’s in scouts, her grades are good. She knows she is loved. I can’t promise perfection, only my unwavering commitment.”
There’s a collective stillness in the courtroom. Even Buford’s lawyer falters, scanning testimony notes more nervously than before. That moment, Nessa stands like the hero of her own narrative—keeping her daughter safe and thriving in a fragile world.
When it ends, she returns to the table, and he calls me up next. My heart hammers. I rise, every inch of me a Medal of Valor unadorned. I step to the stand and face the judge.
“I am a neighbor. A friend,” I say, voice measured but sincere. “I’ve lived beside Nessa and Samantha for months. I’ve observed her dedication—her five-o’clock dinners, her myriad school drop-offs, her unwavering bedtime routine. I’ve seen how Samantha thrives under her care. I’ve seen... love.”
The word trembles on my tongue, but I let it stay.
The courtroom holds its breath—and I step closer.
“And I would testify this every day, in every language, on every planet I’ve known,” I affirm. “Ms. Malone is more than fit to raise her daughter. She embodies the stability, love, and character that every child deserves.”
My gaze drifts to Sammy—she meets my eyes, a flicker of validation in her wide amber gaze. I give her a small nod.
I sit, leaving behind silence so deep it echoes. In that stillness, I can feel the truth of our argument—the fierce devotion we've built together—not just as makeshift family, but as a bond sworn by choice and shielded by integrity.
Judge clears her throat, scribbles notes. The next testimony—expert witnesses, school personnel—will come. But the core of our case stands solid: mother and daughter, flanked by an unexpected ally who chose to stand when others walked away.
I look at Nessa—proud, exhausted, unbreakable—and realize the fight is far from over. But for now, this is our triumph: love spoken into the sterile courtroom air—and making the coldest place in the world feel like home.
The courtroom air is thick—like pre-combustion mist—each inhale tastes of sharp nerves and sweaty fabric. I stay seated as Nessa testifies, her voice stronger than I dared hope, slicing through Buford’s manufactured narrative. I can practically feelthe weight of every skeptical gaze bearing down on her like artillery fire.
Her shoulders tremble with fortitude, voice clear and steady, recounting late nights working overtime, bedtime vows to Sammy, and the steady hum of small victories in an unstable world. Every time she says “my daughter” my chest clenches, dissonant chords of pride, fury, and a dawning affection so deep it makes my scaled heart feel exposed.
When the judge finally directs her to sit, I rise. Each step echoes like a war drum. Facing the room, the cold, clinical smell of polished wood and stale coffee assaults me, but I breathe it in. This is another battlefield, and I am ready.
Walking to the stand, I catch Nessa’s eyes—there, amid the chaos, a spark of trust. I nod to her, a silent promise.
The courtroom silences, expectant. I grip the witness rail, feeling its worn patina under my fingers, as though holding a threshold between two worlds.
“I am a neighbor,” I begin, voice controlled, measured. “A friend.” My Vakutan accent flares slightly but each word is clear. I bring to mind the phrases Sammy drilled me on—earth words twisted into human melodies.
“I’ve seen how Vanessa raises her daughter—with strength, patience, and integrity.” I sweep my gaze to include Sammy, fiddling with a bracelet at the defense table. “I’ve seen how Samantha thrives under her care. I’ve seen… love.”
A loaded moment.
I pause, letting the word land like a warhead, its explosion silent yet seismic. Eyes narrow, pens stop scribbling.
“And I would testify this every day, in every language, on every planet I’ve known.”
The courtroom exhales. A captive silence expands around me—rich with acknowledgment and witness. In that stillness, I feel the tension bleeding out, replaced with a fragile unity.
