“Congratulations, soldier,” I say. “Looks like Alliance paternity leave is about to get real awkward.”
I reach forward and end the recording before I can overthink it.
Lazarus confirms receipt an hour later.
Three days after that, he shows up in person.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands me a tablet.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“After-action footage,” he says. “From Voltar’s unit. He authorized the release.”
My heart slams into my ribs.
I tap play.
The feed is chaotic—smoke, gunfire, shouted orders in half a dozen languages. Voltar is there, unmistakable even through the noise, armor scorched, fists red with someone else’s blood.
The message notification pings.
He freezes.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he listens.
I hear my own voice echoing faintly through the feed, distorted but clear enough.
Congratulations, soldier…
Voltar throws his head back and roars.
It’s not a battle cry.
It’s not rage.
It’s joy. Raw and uncontained.
The enemies nearest him scatter like startled animals.
“I’M COMING HOME!” he bellows, voice tearing through the chaos like a promise carved into stone.
The feed cuts out.
I sit there, stunned, tears streaming down my face and a smile I can’t stop.
Lazarus clears his throat. “He put in for immediate reassignment.”
I look up. “And?”
“And,” he says carefully, “Alliance paternity leave statutes are… quite strict.”
I laugh through my tears.
The city outside hums, alive and quiet and waiting.
And for the first time since the sky swallowed him whole, I believe it.
