Staring Up Above Part 2

Three months since the sun's explosive demise, and the world beneath us still bore the scars of devastation. The Pacific stretched endlessly below the floating ship, its dark waters eerily still, mirroring the somber mood of those aboard. The fortress had taken on the role of humanity’s reluctant guardian, drifting across territories to assess the damage, retrieve vital materials, and cling to the hope of resurrecting the sun.

The corridors felt quieter than usual as I wandered them, my footsteps echoing softly against the sterile floors. It wasn’t the silence that bothered me—no, I had grown used to that. It was the oppressive hum of the ship’s systems that seemed to buzz louder with every unanswered question swirling in my head. Dad, Lumina, the fragile balance of survival—it all weighed on me like shadows that refused to let go.

Turning a corner, I caught sight of familiar figures gathered by one of the observation windows. Captain Noah—though I rarely called him that—stood near the glass, his hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette straight and sharp as he gazed out at the stars. Beside him stood Diego, head of security, and, unmistakably, Elias Volkov—the Chancellor himself. The sight of them together sent a jolt through me, though I quickly masked it.

Volkov’s voice was smooth and deliberate, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “And how is Aiden’s progress continuing?” he asked Noah, his words carrying the weight of unspoken authority.

Before Noah could answer, Volkov’s gaze flicked toward me, and Diego clicked his tongue, leaning in to whisper something. Whatever it was seemed to irritate Volkov, who nodded curtly before turning away. He left with Diego and the guards trailing behind, their retreating footsteps fading into the hum of the ship.

That left Noah and me in the dim corridor, the light from the observation window casting his features in a faint glow. His military coat gleamed under the artificial illumination, but his stance wasn’t as rigid as usual—there was a contemplative air about him, a rare softness.

“Man, I’d give anything for a burger right now. How about you?” Noah’s voice cut through the silence, casual yet warm. He didn’t turn to look at me, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of stars outside.

I sighed, stepping closer to the window. “I guess so,” I admitted softly, crossing my arms. The ship’s food was technically better than the rations I’d been making at home, but it was designed for efficiency, not enjoyment. As I stared at the stars, I couldn’t help but feel the same aching emptiness Noah’s words carried. The sky was beautiful, yes, but there was something missing—something vital.

Noah let out a long breath, his gaze distant. “You know, Elias and I met in high school. Astronomy club. We spent hours staring at the sky, mapping the stars, studying the constellations. Back then, the sun was just… there. Reliable. Unchanging. And now—” He hesitated, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “Now I wonder if we’ll ever see another sunrise.”

The weight in Noah's voice pulled my attention from the stars. There was something haunting about his words, like a quiet grief wrapped in nostalgia. I studied him from the corner of my eye—the hardened lines of his face, the subtle tension in his jaw—and for a fleeting moment, I thought I could see past the stoic captain to the boy who once stared at the cosmos with wonder.

The raw honesty in his tone caught me off guard. It wasn’t often that Noah let his guard down, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to match it. “Do you think it’s possible?” I asked quietly, my voice trembling slightly. “For humanity to bring it back?”

Noah was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I think… humanity is capable of incredible things when it has no other choice,” he said finally, his tone steady but laced with a sadness I couldn’t quite place. “But whether or not we deserve it… that’s a different question.”

“I don’t think any of us did,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “The sun was just… always there. You don’t realize how much you need something until it’s gone.”

Noah glanced at me then, his sharp yet thoughtful gaze meeting mine. “You’re wiser than you let on, Delia.”

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Definitely not. If anything, I got it from Lumina. She’s got enough optimism for both of us.”

His smile widened slightly, a glimmer of warmth in his otherwise stoic demeanor. “She’s a good kid. You’re lucky to have her.”

“I know,” I said simply, the truth of it settling in my chest. Despite everything, Lumina was my anchor—my reason to keep moving forward. And maybe, just maybe, she was a reminder that there was still something to fight for in this broken world.

The thought settled over us like a shadow, the weight of survival pressing harder with every passing second. I wanted to say something, anything, to cut through the silence, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I leaned against the wall, letting the cool surface ground me.

“You’re worried about him,” Noah said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Who?”

“Your dad,” he replied, his tone gentle but certain. “It’s written all over your face. I’ve known him a long time, Delia. He’s a good man. A stubborn one, sure, but he cares about you. About Lumina. More than you know.”

I didn’t respond right away, the knot in my chest tightening. “Then why didn't he come when we really needed him?” I said finally, my voice trembling despite myself.

Noah sighed, turning toward me for the first time. “Some people think the best way to protect the ones they love is to keep their distance. To carry the burden alone so no one else has to. I’m not saying it’s right,” he added quickly, seeing the flash of frustration in my eyes. “But it’s how he copes. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”

I looked down at my hands, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. “It just feels… unfair,” I admitted softly. “Like he’s trying so hard to save the world that he’s forgetting the part of it that’s right in front of him.”

Noah didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low, thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe he thinks that saving the world *is* saving you. Doesn’t mean he’s handling it the best way, but… it’s worth considering.”

We fell into a companionable silence after that, the hum of the ship filling the void. Out the window, the stars continued their endless dance, indifferent to our struggles.

The tension between us lightened slightly, though the weight of our conversation still lingered. For a while, we stood together in silence, the stars outside continuing their quiet dance, indifferent to the struggles of those who watched them. Somehow, though, the silence felt less suffocating than it had before.

Then Noah shifted, his tone lighter now, teasing. “You know, I’ll bet Aiden’s up to something ridiculous right about now. Probably inventing another ‘world-changing’ gadget that’s more likely to explode than work.”

The mention of Aiden drew a small laugh from me, unexpected but welcome. “Yeah, probably,” I said, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little.

Noah smiled at my reaction, his gaze warming. “If he tries to rope you into one of his experiments again, let me know. I’ll confiscate his entire lab.”

“Oh, I’ll hold you to that,” I replied, a faint smirk tugging at my lips.

Before I could register what was happening, the corridor erupted into motion. People flooded past us in a rush—scientists, technicians, engineers, all moving with an urgency I hadn’t seen since the fortress launched. Their footsteps pounded against the metal flooring, voices rising in excitement, their conversations tangling into indistinct chaos.

I spotted Franny among them, her short frame practically bouncing with the energy of someone carrying news too big to keep contained. I raised a hand in greeting, but the moment she caught sight of us, her momentum faltered.

"Delia and..." Franny’s voice stiffened slightly when her gaze landed on Noah. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—"

Noah waved a dismissive hand, his expression unfazed. "It's alright," he said, adjusting his stance slightly. "Now Callen, what’s so urgent that everyone’s rushing like the world isn’t already ending?"

Franny sucked in a sharp breath, practically vibrating with exhilaration. "It's Doctor Kotton," she announced, the words bursting from her like she physically couldn’t hold them back. "He's done it."

I blinked, caught off guard by the mention of Dad. That was unexpected. Franny’s excitement was unmistakable—her eyes gleamed with something close to reverence as she gestured for us to follow.

"Come on!" she urged, already turning on her heel. "You need to see this!"

We didn’t hesitate. Noah and I fell into step beside her, weaving through the corridors as the fortress buzzed with the collective thrill of discovery. The further we went, the louder the noise became—the hum of conversation growing into cheers, laughter, the unmistakable sound of pure awe.

The moment we stepped into the main laboratory, I understood why.

The crowd parted just enough to reveal the centerpiece of their attention—hovering in the air, suspended like something out of a dream, was an object that defied explanation. It pulsed, a miniature fireball, its glow vibrant and impossible, casting flickering gold and orange hues across the faces of the gathered scientists.

I stared, mouth slightly open, as my brain fumbled for the right words. "What… is that?"

"This," Franny declared, practically bouncing with enthusiasm, "is the work Doctor Kotton has been developing. A mini fusion arc reactor. This—" she gestured grandly toward the floating sphere, "—is the device that will recreate an artificial sun."

Her voice was nearly drowned out by the cheers that erupted behind us, the celebration mounting as more people joined the spectacle, the reality of their collective achievement sinking in. I could feel the thrill in the air, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down in a way that made everything feel bigger—more important.

And yet, as I took a hesitant step forward, my stomach twisted.

Dad.

He was here, standing just beyond the crowd, surrounded by his fellow scientists, nodding at their congratulations with practiced humility. His hands were still dusted with traces of work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, focus unwavering even in the face of the admiration being thrown his way.

He looked… exhausted. But satisfied.

He had done it. He was saving humanity.

So why—why was it that, as I drew closer, I could feel my entire body tensing, my movements growing stiffer with every step?

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? This was everything we needed—everything humanity had been scrambling for since the sun had exploded.

And yet, as I stared at my father—the man who had spent these past months buried in his research, completely devoted to this impossible task—I couldn’t stop the thought from creeping in.

He had worked so hard for the sake of humanity. He was achieving the impossible.

But all I could think about was how he hadn't been there for Lumina. Or for Mom.

The weight in my chest tightened, my fingers curling slightly at my sides.

The scientists around us were celebrating like they had pulled off a miracle. But as I stood there, my throat felt dry, my thoughts tangled in something far less victorious.

Maybe, just maybe, saving the world wasn’t the same as saving the people in it.