Chapter 17
RYCHNE
I’m in the garage, adjusting the nanotech mesh around the makeshift weapons vault, when I feel it—a tension like a high-voltage wire coughing to life.
I pause, fingers suspended over the plank, as a guttural rumble interrupts the early morning calm.
Through the open doorway, I see it: a beat-up Ford Bronco-lift, engine chugging like a wounded beast, sputtering across Nessa's driveway. The metal bumper is held together with layers of duct tape and desperation. It’s like witnessing a coalition cruiser crash-landed in suburbia.
A portly, unshaven man emerges—camo sleeveless shirt stretched over beer-rounded abs. His boots glint with dried mud, and the air behind him smells of stale cigarettes and warm cheap beer—Calibrated, I note, to reek “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Yet somehow, the stench screams concealment.
Buford Mussels. Sammy’s biological father.
The moment his foot hits the gravel, I log it all.
The way his shoulders slump back even though he’s grinning.
The swagger that’s more animal bluster than confidence.
Nessa stiffens as she steps onto her porch.
Her posture locks; her hands ball into fists.
I can taste her tension from across the lawn, even though I don’t breathe the same air.
Sammy, perched near her mother’s side, shrinks back. Her face twists—fear mixed with loyalty. I see her mental shields slip into place, gear shifting to “protective daughter,” ready to deflect or fight.
I don’t need a translator module. I sense the unconscious pull in abusive familiarity: a man who thinks smiles and half-truths can smooth over a mess.
Buford saunters forward, clearing his throat like he owns the boardwalk. “How’s my girl today? Lookin’ good, Nessa.” The grin on his face is the kind you carry when you believe your name’s stamped on the universe. He points at Sammy. “And you—got a big strong man next door now, huh?”
He creeps his gaze toward me. The way he looks tells me he thinks my place in this country is ornamental. Something you wave at when you're done with whatever rural fidelity you believe you own.
Nessa stiffens further. “He’s not your concern, Buford.”
He shrugs, stepping onto her lawn. Gravel crunches under his boots.
He flicks his cigarette stub into the dirt.
“Oh, I got concern all right. I want to see my daughter. Spend some time with her.” His smug smirk cracks open before I hear his next words, measured and loud: “And make sure you know who’s steppin’ up as a real man. ”
His eyes flick — not at me, but at the house, the garage, my bent posture as I tampered the vault door. He smells money, danger, territory.
Nessa stands up straighter. I smell her fear—spicy, genuine. My instincts flare like battlefield sensors. Instinct tells me: He’s unwelcome. This is mine. Protect.
Buford drifts closer, invading her aura. I feel a shard of anger jam behind my ribs. I step forward silently, closing the invisible gap.
He notices me then—my posture, my height. He blinks. I stand in human guise—Richard J. Wilmont, suburban neighbor—but I see something twitch in his eyes. Pride warps into assumption: I’m a washed-up accountant or some nonsense.
He grins and edges forward. “Nice to meet you—”
“Please leave,” I say, voice calm but low, the promise of violence under each syllable. My light passes across my face, and I see his grin shift. That look of entitlement fading. Delusion of ownership dissolving.
Buford coughs. “We ain’t done talking.” He draws himself up, chest puffing like a bull.
Before he can launch any more empty threats, Nessa steps between us, smooth and solid.
“Buford, you’ve got limited visitation and you know it,” she says, voice steady. “I’ll call my lawyer if you even think about causing drama here.”
His grin tightens. “Lawyers? Court orders? Girl, I get more money in a month than you see in a year.”
He turns to me, eyebrow raised. “You good with that, accountant-man? My daughter thinks you’re the sentinel of suburban security.”
I step fully into the yard now. My gaze shifts to Nessa, then back to him. My jaw sets. I smell aggression—like raw electricity heading into discharge.
“I’m good at protecting kids,” I say. My tone is ice over flame—measured. “Especially others’ kids.”
His face twitches. His pride crumbles, but stubbornness holds it together.
He glances at Nessa again. Then down at Sammy. He softens for a split advantage, like a predator shifting weight before an attack.
He takes a step toward Sammy, and I respond. I open my posture—chest forward, shoulders back. I stand not to threaten but to stand guard.
“Don’t,” I breathe low. A command. Clan-shaped, absolute. My proximity is small—five feet—but energy flows across the space and rattles his psyche. He registers it.
Buford blinks. His bravado fades. The rock wall of my stance unsettles his swagger.
He coughs again, nervously. “Aw, hell.”
He steps back. “I’ll… just be gone. For now.”
He turns and walks to the Ford without a glance back. It roars to life and lunges away, backfiring through sputters.
Nessa exhales, voice whisper-soft. “Thank you.”
I nod. I shift back into Richard—my stance relaxes. I watch the truck disappear down the street, dust trailing in its wake.
Sammy emerges from behind Nessa and leans forward. “That was epic.”
I swallow warmth. The shield drops.
She races ahead and scoops me into a fierce hug. I hesitate—then cradle her.
Nessa crosses her arms, eyes flicking between us and the street. I catch her gaze. I sense gratitude—but also the firewall she’s maintained. I won’t violate it.
The morning birds resume their chatter. Hurricane calm sweeps the lawn.
I release Sammy. She bounces away. Nessa approaches.
“Thanks,” she says again.
I nod, voice quiet. “Always.”
She meets my gold stare, hesitation lingering, but filled with trust I didn’t earn fully—not yet.
I stand down. Battle sensor deactivates.
I’m here to protect. But more than that—I’m here to stay.
I don’t retaliate. My claws remain retracted, muscles relaxed, breathing even. I hold back the warrior’s desire to fling him through the fence—or worse. Instead, I step into the front yard, meeting Buford’s retreating gaze with calm determination.
He halts mid-step by his sputtering Ford, the engine idling like an angry creature.
Dirt smudges his camo shirt, and his eyes narrow.
He’s sizing me up again—maybe expecting me to flinch.
Instead, I offer him a polite nod, Earth-style.
“Good morning,” I say, voice measured, clipped to avoid misunderstanding.
Buford squints. He smirks. “You that weird-ass accountant?”
I nod again. “I am an accountant of war. I mean, taxes. Earth taxes.” I pause. The tension twitches through the air like a taut wire—waiting to snap.
Nessa’s glare narrows across the lawn, her posture radiating “stop helping.” I lift my shoulders in a small shrug, maintaining composure. Buford cocks his head.
“You don’t look like no accountant. You look like a cartoon wrestler.”
My lips twitch into a slight smile and—just for a heartbeat—a single fang glints at the corner of my mouth. “Thank you.” My tone is light but firm. I allow his insult to float by unchallenged, redirecting his aggression.
The temperature of the moment changes. Buford shifts— his entitlement flickers for an instant, uncertainty pressing at the edges of his swagger.
He’s used to being the alpha, the one who owns a girl simply by biology.
Now he’s facing someone who isn't cowed by his presence.
Someone who glows with a quiet, contained power.
I can feel the moral gravity pulling me to maintain civility—for Nessa’s sake, for Sammy’s sake, for the delicate truce we’re building. If I give in to violent retribution, I lose more than control—I compromise her trust.
He clears his throat. “Alright, accountant. Just keep your distance. Back off, or I’ll get the courts on my side.” His voice is a quiver wrapped in bravado.
“I respect the legal frameworks of this territory,” I respond, voice smooth, almost conversational. “But I also respect this home. It is not yours to enter without invitation.”
Nessa exhales sharply, her shoulders relax slightly. She steps forward, not protective but protective in a way that shifts the energy—a reminder that the frameworks of Earth include boundaries, not just laws.
Buford snarls like an animal losing his lead.
He steps back to his truck, the engine sputters to life once more.
He glances at Nessa, sees resolution in her eyes and strength in mine.
The message is clear: we will not back down.
The truck lurches forward and crawls down the street like a wounded beast making its last stand.
Nessa and I stand on the lawn—neighbors bound together in some fragile alliance. Sammy peers out the window, adrenaline flaring in her eyes, and waves. I raise my hand lightly. She smiles—grateful for a father figure who doesn’t just physically block threats, but embodies restraint and respect.
I turn to Nessa. Sunlight dances off my scales—even my hidden identity shivering behind the veil of skin. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she steps closer, their boundaries now intertwined.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice quiet but direct. No need to specify what for. Boundaries defended, respect asserted, love shown not by aggression but equilibrium.
I place a hand gently at my side. The heat of the morning sun warms the back of my neck, and the air hums with suburban noise—lawnmowers, birds, distant laughs. The disparity between cosmic conflict and Tomorrow Tree Drive is almost laughable.
But in this lull, I feel the bond tighten—not out of fate or cosmic decree but out of respect. Because I protected what mattered, not by obliteration but by presence.