I step back, seat myself, and focus on Nessa; her chest rises and falls in slow, steady relief. Sammy sneaks me a thumbs-up through glassy eyes.
Across the aisle, Buford’s lawyer blinks, unsettled. I sense the tide has turned. This wasn’t about intergalactic secrets—it was about truth. About family. And I’ve spoken it.
As the judge calls the next witness, I return to my seat and settle into the tense hush. This point could define everything. But tonight, for a moment, we stand unbeaten.
The cross-examination begins with a deliberate pause—Buford’s lawyer leaning in like a predator sensing uncertainty. His voice drips with feigned concern. “Mr. Wilmont, what exactly is your relationship with Ms. Malone? You’re not family. Why are you here fighting this custody battle?”
I remain seated but my posture stiffens. I’ve learned that in battle—and in law—control is power. The courtroom’s fluorescent lights feel like spotlights, isolating me, the alien among humans. I fold my red-scaled fingers into a human pose I’ve practiced in front of Sammy’s drill mirror.
“My relationship with Ms. Malone,” I begin, voice even, “is that of a neighbor—and a friend.”
He tries again. “But you weren’t summoned. You volunteered. Why?”
I lean forward, lower my voice. Every ear in the room tunes in. “Because I saw injustice. And I could not stay silent.” My words land still, but they dig like blades.
The lawyer’s eyes sharpen. “Injustice? Do you fancy yourself a vigilante? An alien crusader who steps into human affairs?”
If there’s one thing that unites warriors across galaxies, it's the unwavering conviction that action must follow awareness. I lock his gaze.
“In my world, family—and what they deserve—are not protected by distance or species,” I say. “If I ever sniffed aroundyour intentions, Mr. Mussels, there would be far less courtroom and far more hospital.”
Silence. The judge’s pencil hovers mid-note. The bailiff clears his throat like a fired gun. Buford’s lawyer literally swallows. I let the moment stretch.
Nessa’s eyes are wide, but softened. She hides a tight smile at the sides of her mouth. Sammy punches the air from the back row before realizing she needs to stop. The judge clicks a pen and finally regains control.
“House counsel, your next question,” she directs quietly.
As the lawyer recovers and leans forward, I relax slightly—but the threat remains woven in the air. This is no longer about alien stranger; it’s about standing up for a family being ripped apart.
After a few routine clarifications ("I am not a violent man"—"Yes, I understand court protocol"), the judge declares the hearing adjourned. Papers shuffle, chairs creak, people rise.
I stand swiftly, making eye contact across the aisle. Nessa's hand slips into mine as we exit. No words needed—our fingers speak volumes: solidarity, shared victory, fragile hope.
Outside, the porch lights cast soft, golden pools on the steps. Crickets trill in jubilation. The humid air feels warmer, softer—like the world just exhaled.
Nessa doesn’t speak. Her shoulder brushes mine; her grip tightens. The warmth radiates through my synthetic sleeve.
I want to say something colossal—something that captures the gravity of today. But words falter. So I just squeeze her hand gently, thumb tracing a small circle in her palm.
She leans into me, and I feel her breath—soft, rhythmic—against my neck. Her presence grounds me more than any battlefield ever did.
Sammy emerges, eyes bright as hit with midnight marshmallows, holding her mother’s other hand. I crouch, meet her eye-to-eye.
“You were awesome,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
I nod and wrap an arm around both of them. This trio—an alien warrior, a resilient woman, and her hope-filled child—stands united against darkness masquerading as law.
The judge’s decision is pending, but in this moment, we’ve already won: trust, respect, protection—these are our spoils of war.
After a long silence, I let the words slip: “Thank you—for believing.” My voice is small, vulnerable.
She looks up, wary yet hopeful. “I didn’t know how to fight this without you,” she whispers.
“We fight together,” I say. “Always.”
Sammy yawns dramatically, and we laugh. Nothing about being an interspecies family in middle America is normal. But it’s ours. And that matters more than anything the courtroom could decree.
As we walk inside, I match my steps to theirs, weaving us into a shared rhythm. Someday, I’ll write it in Vakutan poetry. Tonight, I just live it: embedded, tethered, chosen by freedom—and by love.
