A Series of Conversations #5: A Conversation Between Father and Son

I followed Marcus to the “fancy” conference room, the one reserved for guests the company wanted to impress or to add emphasis to whatever new policy they were pushing out. The only times I had been in the fancy conference room were when the villain reform program had been announced and to meet with my father.

As we walked, my thoughts kept straying to Neveah. Watching her recoil back into herself at the mention of my father had been hard to watch, but I couldn’t blame her. My father’s visit felt like an intrusion on the pleasant bubble of friendliness she and I were building, away from the influence of our lineage. 

Marcus turned to me as we reached the door. I knew there were rumors he could read minds even with his circlet on, but I knew he couldn’t. I had been around him at my lowest moments with my darkest thoughts, and he would have reacted differently to me if he could read them. 

“Ready?” He asked me as he placed a hand on the door.

I nodded, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

Marcus ushered me in, and he followed behind, but before he could close the door, my father’s voice sent him away:

“Thank you, Blackmailer. I am sure you have other duties to attend to.”

I turned to look at Marcus. He had kept his face neutral at the use of his dead name, but I knew that must have hurt. I looked back at my father.

“Marcus, father,” I corrected, holding his intense stare as I did so, “His name is Marcus.”

My father stared at me a beat too long before shrugging. “Goodbye, Marcus.”

Marcus nodded at me before quickly leaving the room. My heart thumped as he left. It was nice having a friend with me, even for a moment.

“Sit down, Alan,” my father commanded.

“I can’t stay long, I have some urgent work waiting,” I lied as I sat down.

“This won’t take long. What is your assessment of The Traveler?”

No ‘hello’, no ‘how are you’. I halted the urge to roll my eyes before I replied:

“Neveah has managed to escape her father and is working to become her own person.” 

“Hmm,” My father replied non-committedly. 

We sat in silence for a while. My father did this regularly, and I was never quite sure if it was a mind game or if this was normal for him as an alien to ignore someone mid-conversation. When I was younger, the silence infuriated me; now it just irritated me in a way I could tolerate, given that I spoke to him only a few times a year.

While he was quiet, presumably gathering his thoughts, I did the same. I thought of Neveah and how I had just described her. I admired and respected her for escaping her father, especially after hearing the rumors of the abuses she suffered at his hands. I wondered if she would ever feel comfortable enough with me to tell me what he had done, what he had made her do. Maybe we could compare notes on what it was like having fathers from the same alien planet. What it was like to lose our human mothers so young.

Shit, maybe she could teach me how to escape the yoke of a-

“Very well,” my father said suddenly, interrupting my reverie. “It sounds as though, at least for now, The Traveler is not a threat.”

“Neveah,” I corrected as I stood up. 

I froze as I noticed my father staring at me intently, appraising me openly. What the fuck had I said?

“Yes, Neveah,” he spoke in a flat, calm tone. 

He turned away, and his eyes began to glow white as he started searching the galaxy for the cries of those in need of a hero. I was dismissed.