My first stop, a Holonet café in a glittering downtown block. Neon flushes through glass panels, holographic adverts flicker across walls. I order bitter coffee dark enough to burn, strongenough to steel the bone. Steam coils from the cup. I rest the pack at my feet and pull up the public feed on the holo-screen overhead. The anchors flash into the frame—my name, her face, her voice. The segment I resurrected plays again: the mutiny, the mass graves, Kanapa’s speech, the hidden evidence. The video blurs at edges; light flickers. But I see her eyes—the same fierce steel—commanding the lens. The room’s chatter hushes. I drink deep, taste ash and caffeine, let it burn in me. I press my cheek against the pack. I want to scream.
A waitress with a holo-name tag “Sia” refills my cup. I don’t taste sweetness. She hovers, eyes flicking to the screen. “That’s Anchor Matthews, right?” she whispers. I nod. She pulls the slate closer. “People are saying she’s brave. Or stupid.” She shrugs, voice low. I nod again, mind too shaky to speak.
Encrypted channels. Old friends. I scratch the registry until it bleeds data. It’s not easy—my identity’s been scrubbed, my network erased. But a war buddy owed me a deep favor from a planet conflict two moons ago. He routes me into a secure registry. Bits of address fall into my palm. The sector. The block number. The apartment floor. The gate code—an old relic I used to plant surveillance on hellholes. My hand shakes as I store it.
I ride a transport train through the rain-slick streets. Neon reflections pool in gutters, street vendors boarded up, air smell sharp with exhaust and ozone. My pack jostles against my back; each movement sends a slow jolt through my nerves. I clutch a handle, feel the groove worn in from years of use. It’s been mine. The shape of me is still in that pack.
I stand across the street from her building. Tall concrete, glass balconies shining dull under streetlights. Rain slides down the façade. The sidewalk pavement gleams. The buzzer panel glints metal. I step under an awning, tilt up my head. The gate code pad is just there. My hand moves toward it.
Then the front door opens. She steps out. Her hair drawn back, coat cinched at the waist. I lean forward, breath catch. She’s older. Stronger. Beautiful in bones I remember. And there—a girl beside her. A small child with blonde hair curling in the drizzle. But the eyes—those gold ones flicker in the rain’s gleam. She walks ahead with a wobble, small boots tapping on wet pavement.
My pulse jumps. My hand freezes over the buzzer. I swallow the wind in my throat, taste salt from rain and tears I haven’t shed yet. My legs tremble—want to push forward, want to call out. But I don’t. I stay behind the lamppost across from the gate.
Amy glances over her shoulder, sees me. For a heartbeat, time warps. Rain drum slows. Her eyes widen. Recognition. Fear. Relief. Anger. A storm behind her stare.
She steps toward me. I step off the curb. Rain beats down, cloaking noise. The world shrinks to our gap. The holo-screens across the street flicker behind her. I smell rain, pavement, her perfume—a faint scent I stored in memory.
The child tugs at her coat.
Her voice small, “Mommy?” She edges closer. Amy’s lips part. She watches me approach. The wind whips between lanes. Cars splatter past.
I lift a hand, palm open. Rain drips from my scales, the raindrops glint. “Amy,” I whisper. Dry voice. But audible.
She halts. Her free hand raises to her mouth. Her coat clutches at her. The child’s grip tightens.
I step onto the wet sidewalk. The pack shifts. My legs ache. Each step cracks under tension. The distance between us closes. Streetlight glints off gold eyes.
She opens her mouth. I want to close the distance. To tell her that I lived. To tell her I’m here.
She says it first.
“Darun?”
My heart combusts. The name tastes like blood and promise. I nod. Rain drums on both of us. The world around me becomes a blur.
She’s shielded by instinct, “You—how—” Her voice cracks.
I don’t answer. I take another step. Libra steps forward too, small. Amy stiffens. I halt.
“Mommy, is that him?” the child asks. The word trembles in the night air.
Amy turns to her, eyes shining. “Yes. That’s him.” She turns back to me. “You’re here.”
I nod again. My chest is tight. My pack—my burden—feels lighter and heavier at the same time.
Amy’s voice quiet: “You survived.” She steps forward. I step toward her.
The rain muffles the gap between us. My pulse crashes. We stand a breath apart. No touch. No barrier but distance and years.
Then she lifts her hand slowly—her fingers glint. I mirror. The rain splashes over both palms. We lean—and the space slams shut.
I don’t pull her. She doesn’t pull me. We just meet. Rain pulses on us. Streetlights flare. The child watches from the stairwell.
The floodgates crack open. Memory and longing and of all the names we lost and kept.
I pull back first. Her eyes are shining. Mine too. The air smells like rain and hope and broken things gluing themselves back together.
She whispers, “I thought you were gone.”
