She takes it without hesitation, long fingers over mine. “Uncle?Blast,” she corrects, puffing out her tiny chest.
Uncle?Blast. Of all the names. My insides twitch.
“Alright then, Uncle Blast here,” I say. “Ready to learn the spinning shield toss?”
Her grin splits the dome’s light. “Yes!”
We float out to the central pit. Grav’s at half-level—just enough to make spins and jumps feel like weightless dancing. I unclip a training shield from the rack—diamond weave edge, glowing rim. The buzz of the energy field hums against my glove. I hand the shield to Ripley.
“Watch me first,” I say, twisting in the air, one foot planted on the rail, tail curled for balance. I spin, toss the shield, and catch it behind my back. Silent whoosh. Land.
She stomps feet, laughing. “Your turn!”
I reach for her waist, lift her until I’m shoulder-height. She wraps arms around me. I raise the shield over us.
“Hold on,” I say.
We spin. Two full rotations. Then I flip the shield across to an adjacent rail. It sticks with a softthunk. She whoops.
“You did it, Uncle?Blast! You’re the champion!”
I set us down gently. She jumps off, shield clutched.
“Now you,” I say.
She stands, legs shaky, shield heavy in her arms. I coach:
“Spin to the left. Let your core do the work. Turn, then toss gently, aim for the rail—soft but sure.”
She breathes quick:inhale-exhaletwice. Her braid swings. She launches. Shield arcs. Misses by inches but hits the wall with a reverberation. She spins again, flustered.
I float beside her. “Try again. You got this.”
I guide her stance, adjust her grip. She nods, concentrating. When she tosses again, it snaps into the rail with a perfectclick.
She screeches. I pick her up, spin her in the low-grav air. The world tilts.
“Uncle?Blast rocks!”
Rhea claps from the bench. Tears blur in her eyes—joy and something else. Regret maybe.
I drop to one knee and hold out my hand to Ripley. She jumps on, shouting.
“Piggyback!”
I lift. Her arms lock around my neck. I stand, hoist her up high. The park’s lights blur into streaks. I carry her around the pit like we own the moment.
“Look, Mama! Uncle?Blast carry me!”
Rhea stands, awkward. She waves. I glance quickly. Her lips tremble. I swallow.
Later, we take a break on a floating bench. Ripley’s fizzing with energy, breathing hard, face flushed pink, sweat beading at her hairline. The taste of the cotton candy still clings to her tongue.
Rhea sits across from us. I sit beside Ripley, shield propped between us.
Ripley says, “Mama, can I eat more candy?”
Rhea smiles weakly. “After dinner.”
