Chapter 36
DARUN
The back rehearsal room behind the broadcast stage hums with borrowed life.
Overhead fluorescents flicker faintly; a dull hush clings to cables, monitors in standby, and the faint smell of coffee and leftover late-night grease.
Amy sits at the edge of a long table, cue cards spread before her, holo-screens dim.
Libra lounges on the couch in the corner, legs curled, wearing her toy headset—tapping at her imaginary controls, eyes bright.
She is part audience, part producer, all heart.
I shift my weight on unsteady legs, every muscle still awakening from disuse.
My new civilian coat feels stiff, unfamiliar, sleeves bunched at my wrists.
But I wear it anyway. It feels like armor turned gentle.
I clear my throat, fingers brushing the surface of the cue cards, words I drafted late into the night with Amy’s hand against mine. The paper creases beneath my touch.
Amy watches me. Her eyes are soft—but full. “You don’t need to be polished,” she says in a low voice, leaning forward. “Just be you.”
I flick a glance at her. I taste the tension on my tongue. “That’s easy for you to say,” I growl, voice rough. “I’m used to clenching, hiding behind steel. I don’t know how to stand bare in public.”
She slides one card toward me: “I was buried by silence — I fought to speak the truth again.” She nods, softly, encouraging. “Package matters—so they’ll listen. But that doesn’t mean lose the edges.”
I lift the card, stare at the words. They burn. I swallow. My heartbeat drums. The room hums.
Then Libra chirps over her headset, “Five seconds to airtime!” She jumps up, nearly toppling off the couch. Amy and I share a tight look—relief, apprehension. She gives me a faint smile. My pulse jumps.
Amy hits a holo-switch. Projections flicker—test patterns, the title card “Darun’s Return”, cameras swiveling to life. The studio feeds light and glow backward into the room. Everything hums, trembles.
I stand. My boots echo on concrete. I pace a step forward, then stall. The rows of dark seats beyond the rehearsal glass stare like an empty void. Amy’s eyes flick to me, steady. I inhale the scent: dusty stage curtains, warmed metal, distant coffee.
“Good evening,” I begin, voice uneasy, cracking. “I’m Darun Vakutan.” I swallow. Silence. I feel the weight of my name. “Three years ago…”
My voice fails. I catch myself. Heat surges in my cheeks. The echo seems to mock me. I glance at Amy. She leans forward. Her presence steadies me. She gently says: “Say what you felt. Not what you polished.”
I draw breath. Try again. “I felt lost. I felt silence crushing me. I watched my world spin without me—without you. But I never stopped trying to speak truth again.” My voice shakes, but I hold the pitch.
In the blue glow, I see her face flicker—pride, fear, memory. And Libra’s eyes gleam across the room.
We run it a second time. This round, words come firmer.
I talk about the ambush, the lies, the cost of silence.
I speak of civilian families lost, voices erased, and how I clawed out from the ash of my own death.
My fingers tremble over lines I thought I'd never say aloud.
Amy helps gently, nudging me past stumbles.
We shape sentences until they cut deep, but clear.
Libra sits up, headset dangling, calls, “Ready, Daddy!” She beams. My heart splits. I grin back. She cheers. I crouch beside her after rehearsal and tousle her hair. “Best producer I ever had.” She laughs, full and free.
After we finish, Amy stands beside me, touching my shoulder. The studio fades behind us; hallway lights hum. I inhale. I taste adrenaline, possibility, fear.
She says softly: “You were real up there. Not hollow.” Her voice catches.
I press my lips. “Because you pushed me.”
She studies me. “We will do this on air.”
I nod. “Together.”
Night comes. We lie side by side in the dark of our bed, the apartment breathing quiet around us.
The windows are cracked, night air drifting in cool, smelling of pavement and distant rain.
The hum of the city hums under the hush.
I turn onto my side, watch the ceiling cracks drift in the light between blinds.
I turn to her. Her face curves in half-shadow. She breathes easy. I reach for her hand. Our fingers interlace. My palm warms her skin. Her warmth anchors me.
I whisper: “I’m scared.”
She shifts closer. “Of? Of war returning?” she asks.
I shake inside. “No. I fear losing this peace. Losing us.”
Silence. Only hum of distant life.
She squeezes my hand, her voice quiet but firm: “Then hold it. Fight for us. I believe you deserve this.”
I swallow. “I want this. I want us.”
She lifts her head. Eyes glint. She reaches up, brushes hair from my brow. “Then it’s yours.”
I lean in. We kiss—slow, certain. No rush. No hesitation. Just contact. Just breath and closeness. The secret between us still lingers, but for once, I feel that it might wait. Because tonight, we are here. No armor between us. Just skin, spine, scars, and promise.
I sleep then—not in vigilance, but in something resembling peace. I hold nothing but memory, possibility, and the weight of a name I’ll speak when I’m ready.