Chapter 12 Jav
JAV
“You know these things are going to give half the kids nightmares, right?”
Garkin’s voice is flat as he pokes at a particularly malformed plush alien, its three bulbous eyes stitched unevenly, giving it a permanently startled expression. The thing lets out a mechanical squeal when prodded—something between a dying warbler and a small engine trying to restart. I grin.
“Perfect. Teaches resilience.”
We’re neck-deep in the novelty aisle of a warehouse discount outlet tucked between a hover tire re-treading shack and a fried vat-slug food cart. The place smells like old helium balloons and melted glitter glue. Neon signs flicker overhead like they’re winking out Morse code in slow death spasms.
Garkin picks up a different plush toy—this one looks like a dismembered octopus in neon camouflage. “You sure we can’t just buy normal stuffed animals?”
“Normal’s subjective,” I say, flipping through bins of misfit toys. “These? These have character.”
He scoffs. “They’ve got trauma, Jav.”
I grab a box of individually packaged glitter eggs that chirp “You’re special!” when thrown against a wall. Into the cart they go.
We’re here for “kindness gifts.” I figured if I’m going to sell the idea of Intergalactic Empathy to a bunch of sugar-fueled kindergartners, I might as well go all in. It doesn’t matter if these toys are terrifying. They’re colorful, they make noise, and most of them are nontoxic. Close enough.
“We could be watching the docks,” Garkin grumbles. “You know the League’s been sniffin’ near the Dorsa Lane shipments.”
I pause with a jar of holographic slime in my claws. “We’ve got eyes there. I want Kindness Week airtight. No distractions. You think Ben’s gonna forget the guy who gave him a singing slug plushie?”
Garkin looks unimpressed. “That’s your strategy? Creep your way into fatherhood through bribery and mildly cursed toys?”
I grin. “I prefer the term ‘emotional investment.’”
He groans. “Boss, you’re risking your entire reputation to… impress a preschooler and his ex.”
“No,” I correct him, grabbing a handful of scented sticker packs. “I’m proving I can be part of something good. And if Kairo happens to notice? Even better.”
We arrive at the school with arms full of plastic bags and synthetic joy. The building’s quieter than usual, like it’s bracing for the storm of glitter and well-meaning chaos we’re about to unleash.
The hallway smells like paste, hot paper, and desperation.
I step over a glitter spill by the art room and head toward the multipurpose space where the “Empathy Lounge” will be set up. My shoes stick slightly with every step—someone’s overzealous with the glue again.
Ben’s there already, crouched near a corner reading nook, trying to arrange a circle of mismatched cushions into something resembling intentional design. He turns when he hears me and waves so enthusiastically I think his arm might detach.
“Mr. K! You brought the stuff?”
“Got the whole shipment,” I say, lifting the bags like a conquering hero.
He runs over to grab a bag and peers inside. His eyes light up like it’s harvest festival morning. “These are so weird! I love them!”
“You’ve got good taste.”
We dive into setup. He lines up the alien plushies like a tiny general assembling his troops. I set out the glitter eggs and try not to crush the stack of empathy scrolls with motivational messages like YOU’RE A STAR, EVEN IF YOU SMELL!
Ben hums while he works. Not a tune I recognize—probably something he made up. It’s off-key and perfect.
He asks me to help hang the “Kindness is Contagious!” banner. I lift him on my shoulders so he can tape one end up high, and he laughs the whole time, his small hands clutching my horns for balance.
Then, just as I lower him back to the ground, he says it.
“I wish you were my dad.”
Soft.
Careless.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My world stops.
I freeze, banner still half-hanging behind me, tape in one hand, time forgotten.
He’s already back to organizing the plushies, chattering about which ones look like they eat feelings and which ones should have names like “Captain Hugface.”
I press a hand to the wall to steady myself.
My breath feels thick, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. My heart’s hammering. My mouth’s dry.
I can’t answer.
Not truthfully.
Not without unearthing secrets that’ll shake us both.
So I say the only thing I can manage.
“Yeah, kid. Me too.”
Later, when the chaos winds down and cleanup begins, I offer to walk him to the carpool lane. He nods sleepily and climbs up my back like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
His weight settles across my shoulders—warm, trusting, right.
He leans against my head, still humming that strange, perfect song, and my heart’s a warzone. Love, guilt, fear, hope. All of it, tangled and raw.
As we turn the corner, Kairo’s just stepping out of the front doors.
She sees us.
Her eyes go wide. Her posture stiffens. For a second, she doesn’t move.
Then she looks at Ben—curled contentedly against me, half-asleep, holding the handle of my horn like a security blanket.
Something flickers in her expression.
Not anger.
Not quite.
It’s something softer. Something more dangerous.
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something—then closes it again.
I smile at her.
And for once, she doesn’t look away.