Chapter 8: Destiny
The static-charged air of the pedestrian tunnel faded behind them, replaced by the closer, danker humidity of the residential sector’s environmental system. Wataru peeled off at the junction for the mechanics’ dormitories with a final, worried clap on Saku’s shoulder.“Don’t let the old man’s ghost stories get to you. You’re not gonna do anything stupid.”
Saku just nodded, the motion feeling automatic. He watched Wataru’s lanky frame recede, then turned down the narrower corridor that led to his family’s apartment block.
The door to Unit 7B was unremarkable, a slab of reinforced polymer with a faint scuff at knee-height from a childhood mishap involving a retrieved Deadzone artifact (a glorified, possibly toxic soda can) and an overzealous attempt at polishing. He keyed in his code.The door hissed open.And the world changed.
The familiar, oppressive hum of the perimeter static was gone, swallowed by a wave of warmth and the rich, profound scent of kelp and bonito.Miso soup. His miso soup, the way Aunt Aoi made it, with extra wakame and thinly sliced green onions floating on the surface.
The flickering blue haze of the holographic news feed on the wall was muted. In its place, the soft, golden glow of two real, wax candles flickered from the small central table, their light dancing over the laminated surface and the three bowls set there. A small, slightly lopsided pastry with a single candle sat beside his bowl.“Surprise!” The word came in unison. Aunt Aoi emerged from the kitchen nook, her hands covered in a checkered oven mitt, her face beaming. Uncle Jun was already at the table, having clearly failed at the ‘hiding’ part of the operation. He sat with his bad leg stretched out, a paper party hat perched precariously on his scarred, balding head. A second, pristine hat sat waiting on Saku’s stool.
“You… you forgot your own birthday, didn’t you?” Jun chuckled, his stern voice softened by genuine amusement. “Head always in the cloud layer, never in the cupboard where the good snacks are.”
Aoi swatted at him with an oven mitt. “Don’t tease him!He’s a scholar! A prodigy!” She bustled over, her movements still possessing a trace of the field medic’s efficiency, and pulled Saku into a hug that smelled of soy sauce and fabric softener. “Happy birthday, Saku-chan.”
Saku-chan.He hadn’t been called that in years. The crack in his composure, the one Daiku’s story had started, widened a little. He felt a confusing rush of warmth and a childish urge to cry. He stood stiffly for a moment, then let himself relax into the hug.“Aunt Aoi.Oji. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense,” Jun boomed.“Eighteen!You’re a man now. Well, legally. You still drink milk straight from the carton, so the jury’s out.” He gestured with his chin.“Sit.Eat. The soup gets cold, the pastry gets sad.It’s a whole tragedy.”
The next half hour was a gentle, glowing pocket of time. The miso soup was perfect.The pastry was sweet, a rare luxury of real sugar and starch. Jun told a ridiculous story about his early exosuit training, involving a misfiring stabilization thruster and an unintended, head-first tour of a commanding officer’s private vegetable patch. Aoi reminisced, her eyes misty, about how Jun, then a brash young pilot they called the “Flying Star,” had crashed his damaged suit mere feet from her triage tent. “He was bleeding everywhere, and the first thing he said wasn’t ‘help’ or ‘pain,’ but ‘Did you see the spin I did? The hang-time was magnificent!’”
“It was,” Jun insisted, grinning through a mouthful of pastry. “Aoi here just frowned and slapped a compression bandage on me like I was a leaky pipe.Fell in love right there. Nothing more attractive than a woman who’s supremely unimpressed by your near-death experience.”
Saku laughed. A real, unforced laugh that pushed Daiku’s grave face and the photo of the lost cadets to the back of his mind.He felt… present. The warmth of the soup in his belly, the silly paper hat scratching his forehead, the sound of their voices layering over each other in the cramped, safe space. He saw the fond look that passed between his aunt and uncle, a silent language forged over decades of shared history and loss.
It was Aoi who gently steered the conversation forward, her tone shifting from nostalgic to practical. “So, graduation is in what, 3 weeks? Have they given you your final placement simulation?”
Saku nodded, chasing the last slippery onion around his bowl.“Sector 11-G.Edge of the Kita-ku Deadzone. High-density spectral residue, but minimal reported Shade movement in the last cycle. They want a precision clean-up, not a frontal assault.”
Jun grunted, nodding appreciatively.“Good.A thinking mission. Your father always favored the brute-force approach. Charged in, made a lot of noise, got the job done but left a mess for others. You’re better than that.”
The mention of Hiro landed in the room like a dropped tool. The cozy atmosphere didn’t shatter, but it cooled, the candles seeming to flicker differently with one question; “Talking about that. So when is Hiro gonna come?” His aunt said.
Jun shrug, “Commands never got back to me. Seems like the deadzone there is in a mess. But I’m sure he will arrive in a few days.”
The spoon in Saku’s hand felt suddenly heavy. He set it down carefully, the clink against the ceramic bowl too loud in the quieting room.The warmth in his stomach curdled.
Saku face hardened, the network of scars standing out in the candlelight.“He what?After all this time? He thinks he can just waltz back in for the applause?”
“Jun,” Aoi murmured, a warning in her voice.She looked at Saku, her eyes pleading. “He’s still your father, Saku.Maybe… maybe he wants to make things right. To see the man you’ve become.”
The words erupted from Saku then, not with a shout, but with a cold, quiet clarity that surprised even him. They were not his words alone; they were echoes, shaped in another, grimmer office hours earlier.“Make things right?” Saku’s voice was flat. “He doesn’t want to make things right. He doesn’t want to see the man I’ve become.He just wants to see the accomplishment. The ‘most decorated Cleaner’s prodigy son.’ A fast, easy bit of reflected glory to add to his collection.”
He pushed his stool back, the legs scraping against the floor. The paper party hat slipped off his head and fluttered to the ground.He didn’t notice.“Instructor Daiku told me something today. He said some people live their lives too fast.They chase the flash, the quick win, the record. They burn so bright they don’t see anything else around them.And then they burn out. They leave nothing but static.” Saku’s green eyes, usually so vibrant, were dark pools in the candlelight.“That’s him.That’s my father. He chased the glory, the fast life, the next big clean.Not a wife.Not a son. Just the next high-score.And now that I’m about to be one? He wants to swing by and take a bow.”
He looked from his aunt’s stricken face to his uncle’s grim, understanding one.“He never cared about the man. He only cared about the medal he thought I’d be. I don’t want to see him.”
The finality in his tone left no room for argument. He turned and walked the few short steps to the slit of a hallway that led to his room.His movements were controlled, precise, each step a deliberate act of containment. The quiet anger wasn’t a blaze; it was a deep, hard freeze, locking everything awkward and warm and painful solid inside him.
He closed his bedroom door behind him with a soft, definitive click. The sound sealed him into the familiar, spare space—the diagrams of exosuit schematics, the ranked performance charts, the singular, small window looking out at the adjacent blank wall.
Outside, in the reclaimed warmth of the main room, the two candles guttered. One went out, sending a thin plume of grey smoke towards the ceiling. The other fought on, its flame trembling, casting long, dancing shadows over the untouched pastry and the two silent figures left at the table.