Chapter 29
RYCHNE
Ikneel on the front porch with grocery bags at my feet—produce, bread, a carton of almond milk—and the late morning sun feels warm on my armor-like suit.
Not the image inducer, but the warmth is real all the same.
I take a breath, steadying myself. Today is about more than battles I can win with fists or flame; today is about a quieter kind of strength.
Buford Mussels is coming over. Again. I watched him back away yesterday, eyes still wide like he’d seen the devil and decided devils can be verbal.
He tried not to leave, but he slipped away.
That’s the moment I decided. Giving someone a chance matters—especially when you’ve been offered one yourself.
I was that displaced warrior, a survivor flung through time, brought into a life I never expected.
Nessa didn’t have to stay. Sammy didn’t have to accept me.
But they did. And so I give Buford a chance—even if part of me wants to tell him to stay gone forever.
A deep breath and I shove open the screen door. Inside, I hear the faint hiss of the fridge, the hum of the compad on the kitchen island. Nessa’s in the mudroom, setting down her tote. She looks at me with that kind of concern I’ve come to recognize and feels in my chest like steam.
“He’s coming,” I say softly, voice low enough that only she hears.
I’ve seen how this affects my daughter—the tension, the fear. But she said it best yesterday: this is our weirdo now. I want more than fear for her. I want an example of forgiveness, even if it’s messy.
The doorbell rings, and I see fear flicker on Nessa’s face before she steps back. I feel it too—memories of courtroom chaos, of Buford’s threats, of the way he could have stolen more than custody. But I also feel something else: possibility.
I nod to her. She squares her shoulders and answers the door.
Buford stands there, stained tank top, sunflower seeds half-chewed, the same posture that used to scream “entitlement.” But now I see something else—hesitation, shame, maybe even fear. Next to him, Sammy sets her backpack on the floor and steps inside without a word, already sensing the tension.
I step forward. Not armored. Not armored by violence. Just me, scaled and strange and human enough.
“Mr. Mussels,” I say, voice steady. “Thank you for coming.”
His lips part around a crumb of seed. “Uh… you’re welcome,” he says. His gaze flickers down at my scales, then back up at my eyes—no fear, just raw curiosity.
Nessa sets the bags on the counter. Sound of saran wrapper. Clink of glass jars. Home life, mundane and comforting.
“What’s this?” Buford nods toward the bag.
“Groceries,” Nessa says tightly. “Lunch supplies.”
Something about the normalcy deflates the storm in the air.
Buford rubs the back of his neck. “Right. I… I just wanted to say—I know I screwed up. Big time.”
Nessa exhales slowly. “You did.”
Nearby, Sammy shifts, almost imperceptibly, clinging to her mother’s leg.
I step closer. “You want a chance,” I say softly to Buford. Not a threat. Not a statement of power. A possibility. “I can offer that.”
Buford’s eyes jump to me. “You… you sure? After everything?”
I nod. “Yes. You have a daughter who deserves someone who shows up. Who learns. Who starts again.” My voice feels odd—like I’m speaking for myself as much as him. “I was given that chance. I choose to pass it on.”
Buford blinks. I see the muscle under his shirt tense as he fights tears or shame or recognition. He opens his mouth, closes it.
He says, “Alright. I… I’ll try.”
There it is. The stark truth. He’s human, flawed, frightened—but he’s trying.
Nessa exhales, and I sense her fighting tears behind her eyes. “That’s a start,” she says gently.
Smiles—small, broken—cross their faces. The space warms. It smells like possibility: toasted bread, baby powder, suburban summer mornings.
We stand there, three adults and a child caught between broken pasts and hopeful futures. Redemption isn’t fireworks. It doesn’t come in victory roars. Redemption comes in moments like these—quiet, trembling examples of choosing again.
Buford clears his throat. “So… what do I do now?”
I glance at Nessa, who gives me a nod. I step forward, still in my skin that’s not human but not alien anymore. I put a hand on his shoulder—gentle, firm.
“Start by being present,” I say. “Listen. Learn. Be patient. And don’t leave again.”
He meets my gaze, and I see something shift—fear giving way to resolve.
Sammy breaks the moment, sidling next to me. “Did you save Dad?” she asks, voice soft.
I smile down at her. “I’m trying,” I say. She nods and gives my arm a squeeze before looking back at her father.
We cross over to the kitchen table after I unpack the groceries. Nessa offers lemonade for everyone. We sit. Sunlight through the curtains. Cicadas outside.
Buford looks at the groceries and then me. “You got any coupons?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I can learn Earth discount systems. We can optimize budgets.”
He cracks a real, tiny smile. “Alright, space accountant.”
Sammy laughs. The tension loosens like a held breath.
They dig into sandwiches. I marvel at the taste of earth-grown tomatoes. Simple. Real. The kind of sensation I risked everything to experience and now treasure for every second.
Redemption is not for poets and fools. It’s building lunches and lessons, and showing up after storms. It’s choosing again—and again.
Today, I offer it. Tomorrow, we see.
We sit together, first steps into a future both uncertain and utterly ours. And I think, redemption isn’t just about us anymore. It’s about building a family strong enough to forgive, to learn, to survive—and to thrive.
And I, warrior of worlds, stand ready for it.
That night, I pull up to the roadside bar where the sun bleeds through sticky windows, painting the stale linoleum in orange-red melancholy.
Inside, the air presses heavy with stale beer and regret.
Buford’s hunched at a corner booth—his default posture—surrounded by empty bottles like they’re old friends. He’s alone, as usual.
I straighten my posture, trying to remember that this isn’t war. This is something more human, more fragile. I push the door open and it groans, insults spilled and laughter recoiling somewhere beyond the neon sign haze. I slide into the booth across from him.
He glares—not surprised I’m there. Just irritated. Predictable emotions under predictable skin.
I lean forward, tone soft but firm. “You don’t get to be a father again just because you filed papers. But you can stop being a failure.”
Buford snorts, eyes narrowing into cigarette ash dimples. “Yeah? And what do you know about being a father, space accountant?”
I swallow. I know what it means to be afraid of failing someone you love—even if that someone is of another species. “I know what it means to protect what you love. I lost worlds, Mr Mussels. But I didn’t lose them again. I’m not letting that happen here.”
The bartender clanks a glass behind us, but Buford glances away, trying to seem unaffected. I let the silence sit heavy between us a moment.
He grumbles, voice low: “What, you gonna teach me how to hug? Or how to buy my kid shoes instead of beer?”
A flicker of humor. Progress.
I say quietly, “I don’t think you’re beyond help. It won’t be easy, but you can be here—really here—for your daughter. I’ll help you. For her. But if you ever hurt her again… I won’t be forgiving next time.”
My voice is calm, but the underlying threat is clear: sober or not, I'm watching.
He sips his drink, the liquid glinting amber in the neon glow. His voice rattles loose: “You think I want to screw this up? I tried carrying her once—back when she was three—and I swear I just… I wasn’t enough.”
His words jab a dagger through my chest. Because I know what that feels like: the guilt of failing someone you love because you're broken inside.
I reach out and place a scaled hand—through my image inducer—on his. Solid warmth. “Being a father isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about showing up every day. Apologizing. Learning. Being consistent when it's hardest.”
He grips back, unsure at first—but holds my gaze. “And you—you think I can do that?”
I lean in, voice a little softer than I’ve ever allowed myself. “I know you can. I believe it. Because I believe in second chances. I was given one by people who didn’t owe me anything. I earn mine every day. You have one now.”
He breathes out, rough, and I watch the anger drain from his eyes. Maybe shame, maybe relief, maybe both.
He pushes back from the table and stands. The neon flickers in his weary face. He nods once. “Alright. For her, I’ll try.”
I stand too, meeting him. No triumph needed here—just resolution. I feel that fragile cord of possibility stretch taut between us.
He turns toward the door. At the threshold, he glances back. “Thanks… for making me less small.”
I nod. “She’s worth big things.”
He disappears out the door, but the night holds something softer now.
I stay a moment longer, feeling the weight lift. No victory cries. No cheering crowds. Just a man finding the courage to be better. That—maybe—that’s the strongest fight I’ve ever been in.
I leave the bar smelling of cigarette smoke and possibility, stepping out into warm darkness. The world hasn’t changed in a day. But maybe, one small seed has taken hold.
And that's enough for now.
I wake in the middle of the night to the soft glow of streetlamps slicing through the curtains and the sound of muffled footsteps and hushed laughter drifting from the kitchen. Nessa must have gone down with Sammy—classic mother-nighttime intervention.