Request by basilthepizzabagel
He’s already waiting when you'd make your final goodbye to him.. what use to be him waiting on you right outside of yours and his shared residence was now a final send off after you had made the decision of leaving him and everything else behind just for them.. the very thing he despised
Tall, Composed, Dressed in command black, not a single buckle or seam out of place. His shoulders are squared in that way you've always recognized — part posture, part instinct, part ritual.
He says nothing at first. Just staring right at you with his cold mechanical eyes that held something else
Then his gaze drops to the insignia etched into your uniform wearing the sigil showing your affiliation and alliance to his enemy. Sector nocturne
“You made your choice,” he says firmly.
But he doesn’t speak again right away. His eyes linger on the sigil. And when he finally does speak, his voice is different — not flat anymore, but edged.
You blink, feigning confusion. “What?”
He steps forward, just slightly. “How long have you been one of them?”
You say nothing. The silence answers for you.
He exhales through his nose, sharp. Like the sound of steel leaving its sheath.
“This wasn’t a defection,” he says, more to himself than to you. “This was a reveal.”
You offer a faint smile. “You were always good at spotting weaknesses. But you never learned to see disguises.”
A silence stretches between you. Heavy. Clean.
“I thought I’d taught you better than this,” he continues, not with anger, but with something quieter. “To stand with discipline. With structure. With purpose.”
“You did,” you reply. “But your definition of purpose was small. Predictable. Theirs isn’t.”
He studies you like he’s trying to find some trace of the cadet who once recited code by firelight and dissected enemy strategy at thirteen like it was a game.
“You are my child, even while you may not be by blood I raised you to be just like me and potentially take my seat in power in the future"
You offer a faint smile. “Exactly. And I didn’t want your seat.”
His brow furrows — not in confusion, but tactically trying to see through you psychologically
He takes one step forward — not threatening, not emotional, just... deliberate..
“Sector Nocturne is the enemy” he says. “They'll only use you for their gain and only manipulate you and mold you into a mindless cogin their machine
he continues trying to speak reason into you “what about everything we had together. You were like my own blood to me. I raised you as if you were my own child how could-"
"What we had was nothing more. You were just a obstacle to get through to this moment. Nothing you can do or say will change my decision, your far from right of what I'll be to them.. you'll see son enough"
You say grimacely turning away before he can say anything else being left in the dust of memories that was nothing to you anymore
You walk past the point of no return, toward the very Director of Sector Nocturne who had come to retrieve you and essentially take you back to where your now home was and would be far from there and far from him
He just stands there, staring at where you left, like if he waits long enough, you’ll come walking back to him..
But that doesn’t stop the ache.
Not the sharp kind. Not the kind that bursts and burns. No, this is worse — slow, sinking, hollow. The kind that sits behind your ribs and doesn’t leave..
He exhales, shaky, dragging a gloved hand over his mouth. The wind bites at his shoulders, but he barely notices. All he can hear is your voice echoing back in his head — cool, collected, certain.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And that’s what kills him.
Because he raised you to be decisive. To be clever. To see through lies and walk your own path.
You just didn’t choose his.
And still — damn him — part of him wants to believe this isn’t real. That you’ll come back. That you’ll remember the long nights in strategy rooms, the sparring at dawn, the way you used to look at him like he was something solid in a shifting world.
But that’s all dust now, isn’t it?
He presses his hand to the insignia on his chest — not in pride. In grief. Like it might anchor him.
He swallows hard, composes himself— because thats what leader do, beginning to walk back toward the outpost.
But for him, something’s gone quiet inside. Something heavy. Something like hope, flickering low.
And even though he knows better…
He still looks back, one last time.