The walk away from Sector Gamma-13, from that squalid, soul-crushing apartment and the monstrous, almost theatrical indifference of Scott's parents, was a blur of numb disbelief, a silent, stumbling retreat from a battlefield of familial cruelty.
Judy held the urn containing Scott's ashes close to her chest, as though it were the last anchor keeping her grounded in a world that had suddenly twisted and revealed its cruelest truths just beneath the surface. It carried the weight of our shared horror, a heavy, suffocating blanket of shock, and a grief so profound it felt like a physical illness. The city sounds – the whir of cars, buses, the distant chatter, the hum of commerce – seemed to recede, muffled by the ringing in my ears.
We ended up at the old Northwood Park as if guided by some instinctual, homing pigeon sense for solace. It was a place miles away in both distance and spirit from the sterile, calculated gleam of Future World and the oppressive, decaying gloom of Scott's neighborhood. Northwood was a relic from a happier, perhaps simpler time in our lives, a sprawling expanse of actual, soil-grown grass and ancient, gnarled trees whose names – Whispering Oak, Three Sisters Elm, Old Man Willow – we'd memorized as children, each a landmark in our shared world of youth. There was a creek, still flowing with water, where we'd sailed countless paper boats on grand, imaginary voyages, and a worn, sun-bleached wooden bench under the massive, drooping branches of that same Old Man Willow. It had been our unofficial headquarters for years, the site of whispered secrets, ambitious plans, and the occasional scraped knee.
It felt like the only place we could possibly go at this moment.
We sat there, on that familiar, weathered bench, the cool metal of the urn a stark contrast as I placed it gently between us. The twin suns, Solara and Helios, were beginning their slow descent towards the jagged city skyline, painting the underside of the clouds in breathtaking strokes of fiery orange, deep rose, and soft, melancholic lavender.
The clamor of the city was a distant, muted roar here, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic chirping of unseen nocturnal insects tuning up for their nightly symphony. For a long, long time, we just sat in silence, the sheer, unadulterated awfulness of what we'd witnessed back in that apartment too profound, too raw, for immediate words. It was a horror that settled deep in the bones, a disillusionment that tainted the very air we breathed. How could people be like that? How could parents?
"I just… I can't understand it," I finally said, my voice rough, raspy, breaking the fragile quiet like a stone dropped into still water. The words felt inadequate, pebbles against a mountain of disbelief. "How could anyone… how could a mother… look at her own son's remains and feel… nothing? Worse than nothing. That… that resentment." I said, trailing off, shaking my head, the image of Mrs. Rose's hard, bitter face, her dismissive gesture, seared into my memory. The question hung unanswered in the cooling air, heavy and unanswerable.
Judy stared at the urn, her usually bright eyes clouded with a mixture of sadness and a righteous anger that made her clench her jaw tight. "He deserved so much better, Nick. So, so much better than that. I keep saying this like a broken recording, but it's true." She took a shaky, shuddering breath, the kind that comes after the worst storm has passed, but the devastation remains. "We can't let this be how he's remembered. We can't let them, their coldness, their… monstrosity, be the final remembrance of his life and who he was." Her voice, though quiet, vibrated with a fierce sense of justice.
A new resolve, cold and hard as diamond, began to crystallize amidst the wreckage of our grief. Scott's parents had not just failed him in death; they had clearly failed him in life.
They had abdicated their role, their responsibility, their very humanity, with a casual cruelty that was almost more shocking than the violence that had taken Scott's life. That meant it fell to us. The responsibility was ours now, a sacred trust to honor Scott's memory.
"We'll do it ourselves," I said, the idea forming with a sudden, unexpected clarity even as I spoke aloud. "A proper send-off. A memorial. Not some sterile, state-mandated disposal, but something real. For us. For his real friends. For everyone who actually knew him, who truly cared about him."
"Yes," Judy agreed immediately, a flicker of that determined, unyielding light returning to her eyes, chasing away some shadows. "We will. We owe him that."
We went back to my place later, the urn carefully secured in Judy's bag, its presence a silent, constant reminder. The house was quiet; my parents were out for the evening at a civic function, and Sophie and Emily were at a late-night study group at the city archives, cramming for their advanced history exams.
We spread out on the living room floor, pulling out our old school yearbooks, their pages filled with awkward photos and earnest inscriptions, our employee contact lists from Future World, our datapads, and began to make a list. Names from the past, faces from the present. Friends from our early school days, the ones who remembered Scott's gap-toothed grin and his surprising skill at three-dimensional chess. Kids Scott had stood up for when playground bullies got too rough, his quiet courage a shield for the smaller, weaker ones. Teammates from the local soccer hover-ball league remembered his surprising agility and his infectious team spirit. Colleagues from the park, the ones who had shared a laugh, a grumble about a demanding supervisor, or a stolen moment of camaraderie with him during a long shift. Each name evoked a memory, a small, precious fragment of Scott's life.
And then, Judy paused, her stylus hovering over a name on the Future World staff directory she'd pulled up. "What about Dr. Volkov?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the suspicion we both felt towards the man. "Scott mentioned talking to him that day, remember? That Dr. Volkov had been… almost kind, in his own strange way. And he's a senior figure at the park, one of its founding geniuses. It might seem odd, even disrespectful, if we didn't extend an invitation, given Scott was an employee who apparently had some interaction with him."
I hesitated, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. The thought of Volkov, with his unsettling nature, reclusive mindset, and the heavy cloud of suspicion that hung around him in our minds, being present at something so personal and sacred to Scott's memory, felt… wrong. Profoundly wrong. Inviting Volkov felt like inviting a wolf to a sheep's funeral, a potential predator in the grieving flock's midst. But Judy's expression was firm.
"Think about it, Nick," she said, her voice low. "If he is involved, seeing him react to genuine grief, away from his lab, might tell us something. If he's not, it's a courtesy. Either way, information is information." Her logic, as always, was hard to argue with. If Volkov was involved in Scott's death, his reaction in a less guarded, more human setting, surrounded by genuine grief, might betray something, a flicker of guilt, a moment of unease. If he wasn't, then it was, as Judy had pointed out, a matter of professional courtesy that might, just might, yield... something. An unexpected insight, a piece of information, however small.
"Maybe," I conceded, the word tasting like blood in my mouth. "It could also be a chance to… observe him, sure. See how he reacts, away from the park, in a more… human setting. If he even comes. He's not exactly known for his social gatherings with people you know. Strangely, he still has assistants following him around during matanice, right?" It felt like a long shot, a strange, almost perverse sort of probe, but at this point, with so few leads, every angle, however improbable, was worth considering. So, a polite, formal, and carefully worded invitation was dispatched to Dr. Volkov's official park email account.
Just as we were finishing up the list, the front door opened, and my parents walked in, their faces tired but smiling from their evening out, followed a few minutes later by Sophie and Emily, laden with datapads and looking equally exhausted from their studies.
Mom spotted the metallic urn on our coffee table first, where we'd placed it reverently while we worked. "Oh, that's an interesting piece, Nick," she said, her smile still in place as she set down her purse. "Is it new? Some kind of modern art for your business venture? It would look lovely with some bright lumina-flowers."
The innocent question, so far removed from the grim reality the urn represented, hit me like a physical blow. My throat tightened. Judy looked down at her hands, her own face paling. I took a shaky breath, the air suddenly feeling too thick to draw. "Mom… Dad… Soph, Em…" I began, my voice heavy with an almost unbearable awkwardness. "That's… that's not a vase. It's… it's Scott." The name felt like a lead weight on my tongue. "It's his ashes. We… we found out his parents… they weren't going to… So, we're planning a funeral for him."
The smiles vanished from my family's faces as if wiped away by an invisible hand. Explaining the rest – the horrifying, almost unbelievable encounter with Scott's parents, their callous indifference, the way his mother had thrust the urn at Judy – was one of the hardest, most painful things I'd ever had to do.
Mom's eyes filled with tears that spilled silently down her cheeks, her hand flying to her mouth. Dad, usually so stoic, so composed, looked genuinely shaken, his face grim, his jaw tight with a controlled anger that I recognized as his own brand of deep sorrow. Sophie and Emily were pale with shock, their optimism momentarily extinguished, replaced by a dawning, horrified outrage that mirrored our own.
"That boy…" Dad finally said, his voice thick with an emotion I rarely heard from him, a deep, resonant sorrow. "Scott Rose… he was like another son to us, another member of this family. It seemed he spent nearly as much time here as he did at his own home. For his parents to behave in such a manner… it's beyond comprehension. It's monstrous. It's an abandonment I cannot fathom." He looked at the urn, then at us, his expression softening with a deep, paternal sympathy that was a balm to my raw grief.
"Listen," he said, placing a comforting, heavy hand on my shoulder and then on Judy's, his touch grounding. "A while back, when land prices were more reasonable, before the last boom, your mother and I purchased several plots in the family lot out at Willow Creek Memorial Gardens. It's a peaceful place. There's space. More than enough.
If you'd like, Scott can rest with us and our families after we all pass on in that resting ground. He deserves some dignity, that much respect. He deserves a place where he's wanted, even in death." Dad gave a sad, gentle smile. "An urn won't take much room. We can arrange for a simple headstone with his name, perhaps that rose symbol he was always drawing. If that works for you both, we can make it happen quickly, the day after next. He was family, and he'll be honored as such."
Tears pricked my eyes, blurring my vision. Judy's eyes were overflowing, silent streams tracing paths down her pale cheeks. The unexpected kindness of my father's offer and my family's warmth and unquestioning acceptance in the face of such profound ugliness were overwhelming.
It was a lifeline in a sea of grief and confusion, a small island of decency in a world that had suddenly shown its cruelest face. We accepted, our voices choked with a gratitude too deep for words. Plans were quickly, quietly made: a small, private graveside service, followed by an informal gathering back at our house for those who wished to share memories, to celebrate the friend we had lost, then lower him in at the burial grounds.
The day of the service was somber, the sky an appropriate, bruised purple-gray, a heavy blanket that mirrored the weight in our hearts. A small group gathered at Willow Creek Memorial Gardens, its manicured lawns and weeping willow trees offering a quiet, dignified beauty. There were a dozen or so of Scott's school friends, their faces young and etched with a bewildered sorrow. A few tearful colleagues from Future World, their colorful park uniforms starkly out of place in this solemn setting (Lily Cruise was inconsolable, clutching a small, wilted, and slightly crushed red rose).
My parents stood with us, their presence a quiet pillar of support. Sophie and Emily were there too, their usual ebullience replaced by a respectful attitude in remembrance of Scott.
To our surprise, Dr. Alexander Volkov arrived alone just as the service was about to begin, dressed in a dark, old, tailored suit that seemed to absorb the meager light around him. His demeanor was quiet, unobtrusive, and respectful. He offered his brief, formal condolences to my parents, then to Judy and me, his eyes holding a flicker of something that might have been genuine sadness or perhaps just a carefully practiced solemnity.
During the simple service, as a few of us, including myself and Judy, shared brief, heartfelt, often tear-choked memories of Scott – his infectious laughter, his unexpected kindnesses, his ridiculous, groan-worthy jokes, his unwavering, fierce loyalty – Volkov stood slightly apart from the main group, under the shade of a distant cypress tree, observing, his expression unreadable, a study in stillness.
When it was time, he stepped forward and laid a single, perfect white bloom – some Lunar Orchid, I thought, its petals like sculpted porcelain – on the freshly turned earth beside the small, polished plot where Scott's urn would be interred. Later, Judy, who knew a surprising amount about floral symbolism, would tell me those orchids sometimes symbolized a peaceful journey into the next life, or perhaps a wish for happiness and new beginnings. A strange choice, possibly, for a man like Volkov, or a deeply, unexpectedly meaningful one. With him, it was impossible to tell.
Later, back at our house, as people mingled in the living room and kitchen, sharing quiet stories, looking at old photos we'd pulled out, their voices a low murmur of shared grief and fond remembrance, Judy and I found our opportunity. Dr. Volkov was standing alone by the large picture window in the living room, looking out at the rain-slicked garden, the scent of damp earth and the murmur of conversations a stark contrast to the sterile silence we imagined surrounded his usual work.
The white orchid he'd brought for Scott was still held loosely in his hand, as if he'd forgotten to leave it at the grave, or perhaps couldn't bring himself to part with it just yet. He seemed lost in thought, his usual sharp intensity softened by a visible layer of melancholy that made him look older, more vulnerable than we'd ever seen him. This was our chance, perhaps our only chance, to speak to him outside the oppressive, watchful, and heavily secured atmosphere of Future World.
We steeled ourselves, years of shared history and unspoken understanding passing between us in a single, brief glance, and approached him. The rehearsed questions, the subtle accusations, the desperate need for answers warred with the strange, somber intimacy of the occasion.
"Dr. Volkov?" Judy began, her voice softer than she'd intended, almost hesitant.
He turned, his eyes focusing on us slowly, as if surfacing from a great depth. There was a flicker of surprise in their gray depths, quickly masked, then a carefully neutral, almost weary expression settled on his features. "Ms. Dusza. Mr. Brandt." He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of formal acknowledgment. "A sad day. A great loss. Scott was… a vibrant young man."
"We… we wanted to thank you for coming, Doctor," I managed, the probing, accusatory questions we'd mentally prepared feeling suddenly inappropriate, almost disrespectful in the face of this quiet, shared grief, in the sanctity of my own home filled with Scott's mourning friends. I might have added, "He mentioned you once, said you talked about... big ideas."
Volkov looked down at the Lunar Orchid, the petals trembling ever so slightly between his fingers, as though absorbing the weight of his memory. In that moment, I couldn't tell if he was about to confess something—something terrible, hidden behind layers of grief and poise—or if we were simply witnessing a man momentarily stripped of all defenses.
My gut coiled with distrust, but my heart—a traitorous, aching thing—lurched with recognition. This wasn't just about gathering information anymore. It was about wrestling with the horrifying possibility that monsters might bleed, too. In his hand, its perfect white petals seemed to glow faintly in the dim afternoon light. Then he looked back at us, his eyes holding a strange, distant, almost haunted sorrow. He glanced towards the mantel, where a photo of Scott, grinning, sat beside a small memento from our childhood adventures.
A shadow crossed Volkov's face. "You know…" he began, his voice low, almost a whisper, effectively preempting any further questions we might have had, seizing control of the conversation before it had even truly begun. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, or perhaps his courage, his gaze drifting past us for a moment. "I lost my wife… my child… many years ago. My Elara, and our little Anya. The light of my life, the very center of my universe, extinguished in an instant, a random, senseless tragedy." My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't what I expected. This wasn't in any of the park gossip or vague corporate profiles.
The stories of Volkov, the reclusive genius, the potential suspect – none of them included this raw, devastatingly human pain. His gaze drifted past us again, to some unseen point in the distance, a place filled with old ghosts. "And now, this young man… Scott. He had such a spark, such an unbridled, almost defiant enthusiasm for life, the future, and all its possibilities.
He reminded me, in some small, poignant way, of the light I lost, of the potential that was stolen from me." Volkov finally met our eyes again, and for a fleeting, unguarded moment, we saw not the reclusive genius or the suspected villain, but a man hollowed out, almost consumed, by an old, unhealed, and clearly profound grief. "In a way," he said, his voice barely audible, so quiet we had to strain to hear it, "it feels like I've lost a son and now another member of the family all over again."
A son? Scott? My mind reeled, struggling to process the implications. Was this a confession of a deeper connection than we knew? A subtle, manipulative deflection? Or the genuine, unvarnished agony of a man seeing a painful, tragic echo of his own devastating past? The carefully prepared accusations, the sharp, pointed questions I'd wanted to hurl at him, the ones about security logs and restricted projects, dissolved on my tongue, replaced by a confusing, unwelcome wave of... something akin to pity? It was disorienting, sickening, to feel empathy for a man we suspected of something so terrible.
My gut screamed murderer — loud, primal, undeniable. But his words, steeped in such raw, undeniable grief, struck like a blow to my own sorrow, cutting through the certainty I'd clung to. Rage, once sharp and righteous, faltered under the weight of something I hated to admit—compassion. Was I being manipulated? Or was I standing face-to-face with a man whose wounds mirrored my own? The clarity I thought I had shattered, leaving behind only jagged pieces of doubt and a swelling ache I couldn't name. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath me.
The words, delivered with such apparent sincerity, such unexpected vulnerability, hung heavy in the air, stunning Judy and me into a rare, shared silence. The carefully prepared questions about Scott's work at the park, about strange projects or unusual access, about Volkov's whereabouts on the night of the murder, all died on our lips, feeling suddenly crude, callous, and utterly out of place. How could we interrogate a man who had just bared such a profound, personal pain, who had seemingly, heartbreakingly, equated Scott's loss to that of his own flesh and blood?
Volkov held their gaze for another moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his own – was it relief? Regret? Then, he seemed to recollect himself, the mask of polite, distant sorrow settling back into place, the brief glimpse into his tormented soul vanishing as if it had never been.
He offered a small, sad smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach the eyes. "He spoke of you both, you know, with a warmth that was notable. He saw you as true friends. He valued that connection immensely." With that, he gave another slight inclination of his head, placed the Lunar Orchid carefully on a nearby table among the other condolence flowers, its white petals a stark contrast to the darker blooms, and quietly excused himself. He melted into the background of the other mourners with an almost preternatural ease and then, shortly after, departed altogether, leaving behind only the faint, sweet scent of the orchid and a host of deeply unsettling questions.
Judy and I were left standing by the window, the murmur of the other guests a distant hum, our minds reeling. My chest tightened with a sensation I couldn't name—part unease, part reluctant sorrow. Was Volkov truly mourning Scott? Or was this just another layer to the enigma he wore like a second skin? Was his grief a mirror, reflecting some shared humanity? Or a mask, crafted with the precision of a man who had lived in shadows too long?
I wanted to believe him. That maybe he wasn't the villain we suspected. That maybe his pain was real. But another part of me—the part still raw with loss and rage—refused to let go. Refused to forgive. Refused to forget that Scott was dead, and someone had made it happen.
We had no answers, though. Only more questions, deeper, more complex, and infinitely more unsettling than before. The mystery around Dr. Alexander Volkov had just become infinitely more complicated, more personal, and far less clear-cut.
Our resolve to find the truth and get justice for Scott remained, burning as fiercely as ever. But now, it was tinged with a confusing, unwelcome flicker of doubt, a disturbing uncertainty, and perhaps, a dangerous, insidious seed of empathy for the very man we believed might be our friend's murderer. The lines, once so clearly drawn in our minds, had begun to blur.