Chapter 19 Valtron
VALTRON
Iwalk into zero‐G park feeling like I might puke.
No fight this time. No flares, no camera lights, no roaring crowd.
Just chilled air, soft music echoing around the spherical dome, and kids wearing neon jump‐suits bouncing off walls like rubber.
Gravities shift, walls curve, the smell of ionized air tangles with sweet cotton‐candy sold at kiosks. I’m not built for this. Not yet.
But then I see her.
Ripley.
Blonde knees scraped, hair pulled into a messy braid, eyes bluer and brighter than any star I’ve ever racked for. She waves.
“Mister Blast!” she yells, voice cracking in the best way. My name. My brand. I wince.
Rhea nods from the bench. The park suit doesn’t hide the tension in her shoulders. She calls me “Valtron” when she thinks no one’s listening. I don’t know how long she’s held back—her guard, her grief, the years she’s stacked up like armor. Today all of that’s just thin cloth.
I straighten my back and walk to Ripley.
“Hey, champ,” I say, voice lower than I expected. I hold out my hand.
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 soft thunk. 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-exhale twice. 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 perfect click.
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.”
Ripley sighs, “Okay.”
Then she leans into me.
“Mister Blast… thanks.”
I look at her. Under the lights I see every freckle, every messy braid, every inch of innocence and fearless fire.
“Just Blast works,” I say.
She grins.
Rhea clears her throat. I turn to her.
She says softly, “Thank you.”
I nod.
Then I risk the question.
“Could… could I see her more?”
Rhea’s eyes dart away. The air feels thick. Sweat and anticipation and unspoken years.
“I… I’d like that,” she says. “But…” Her voice catches. “There’s things you don’t know. Things I didn’t tell you because I thought you were dead.”
Her gaze finds me. “And maybe things you don’t deserve to forgive.”
My face burns.
I don’t speak.
I just turn to Ripley. Rest my cheek on the top of her head. She wiggles.
“Uncle Blast, show me the mega spin!”
I dive back into park mode. She shrieks. The moment is razor‐sharp.
I glance at Rhea—bench, arms wrapped around herself, watching us. My heart twists.
That night I lay in my quarters, lights dimmed but tv still flickering news reports of NovaCast spin control and arena sponsorship fallout. My body aches from play but my mind races.
I think about the shield toss, her laughter, her “Uncle Blast” address. The way she gripped me, trusted me.
I think about Rhea, sitting there in shadows, trying to decide.
I think about the years I lost.
And the years I’ve got to catch up.
In the dark, I whisper, “Start small. Start slow.”
I don’t know if she hears.
But I mean it.
Ripley’s out cold on my chest.
We’re curled up on Rhea’s couch, the lights dimmed low, just the ambient hum of the building’s life-support systems humming beneath us. The kid’s breath is slow, steady, her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I won’t.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever again.
Rhea sits across from us, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Watching. The lines around her eyes are softer now, the brittle weight in her shoulders eased just a little. She looks tired—but not alone.
Not anymore.
“I’ll take her,” she whispers.
I shake my head. “She’s fine.”
She watches me a beat longer. Then she nods, pushes off the couch, disappears down the hall to prep the kid’s room.
I stand slow, easing Ripley into my arms like she’s a live wire wrapped in silk. She doesn’t stir—not even when I tuck her under the starlit coverlet or pull the bramblebear from her fingers and place it beside her.
Her mouth twitches. Dreaming.
Rhea leans in the doorway, arms crossed.
“She’s… strong,” I say.
“She had to be,” Rhea replies. Her voice cracks just slightly. “We both did.”
Our eyes lock.
There’s this pause—this impossible stillness where time thins out and the only thing between us is history and everything we didn’t say.
I step toward her.
Slow.
Measured.
“I can be the man you need,” I say. “Not just the fighter. Not just the weapon.”
Her chin lifts. Brave. Raw. She doesn’t deflect this time.
She just whispers, “Show me.”
Later, we lie tangled in dim starlight.
No arena crowds.
No medals or ranks or bloodied fame.
Just skin and breath and softness.
We didn’t rush. No claws, no heat borne from panic or war. This was different. Slower. A reclamation.
Every kiss is deliberate.
Every sigh, sacred.
Her fingers tremble the first time they trail across the old scar above my heart. I take her hand, hold it flat to my chest, let her feel the rhythm there—uneven, steady, stubborn.
Her tears come quiet.
Just one or two, caught between her lashes when I kiss her shoulder. I don’t ask why.
I just hold her.
Like a vow.
Like I never plan to let go again.
We don’t talk much. Just linger in the spaces between words. Her breath against my neck. My palm pressed to the curve of her back.
She clings to me when it’s over.
I press my forehead to hers and whisper, “We’ve got time now.”
She closes her eyes and exhales like she almost believes it.
Dawn filters in like a soft confession.
I’m up first, limbs stiff but soul light.
Rhea sleeps beside me, her hair a tangle of gold and shadow, breath warm where it curls near my collarbone. I turn my head, careful, and look across the room.
Ripley’s door is cracked open.
I pad over, barefoot and silent, lean against the frame.
She’s sprawled out like a champion, blanket kicked off, mouth open in the most unladylike snore I’ve ever heard.
And my chest cracks wide open.
It’s not just pride.
It’s not just love.
It’s this ache—this fierce, protective, overwhelming ache—that punches through every shield I’ve ever built.
She’s mine.
And somehow, impossibly, I’m hers too.
I don’t want medals.
Or empires.
Or vengeance.
Not anymore.
I want this.
A morning like this.
A chance.
Maybe, gods willing, a future.