Mikey hears voices—shouts of concern muffled like they're underwater. He feels strong arms lifting his head, setting it gently back down, a touch that steadies him. The world drifts in and out, until at last his body stiffens and he pulls in a sharp breath. His eyes pry themselves open.
The sun is setting.
A purple-orange glow spreads across his bedroom, the light spilling through the wide window and painting streaks across the chrome walls. He sits up slowly, rubbing his temple, the room swimming in and out of focus.
"My head… god…"
A sound cuts through the haze. Movement coming from the kitchen. Mikey freezes, his breath lodged in his throat. His eyes widen, heart hammering as he staggers upright. With a trembling hand, he taps the panel beside his door, and the chrome slides up with a mechanical hiss. The hallway beyond yawns open, cold air brushing against his skin. His bare feet slap against the marble as he walks forward, cautious, each step echoing in the silence. He rounds the corner—
And his heart stops.
A man stands at the sink, tall and broad-shouldered, skin the shade of warm bronze. His bald head gleams beneath the overhead lights. Sleeves rolled up, blue dress shirt fitted perfectly, his jacket tossed neatly over the back of a chair. He hums a low whistle as he scrubs dishes, just as casual as any evening after work. The sound dies as he notices Mikey's footsteps.
"Dad…?"
Desmond turns. That same smile—white teeth flashing wide, the kind of grin Mikey thought he'd never see again.
"Son… you're awake! Finally!" He sets the dish aside, drying his hands on a towel before stepping forward, his stride full of warmth. "What happened? You didn't show up for graduation. We found you passed out cold."
Mikey stumbles forward, lips trembling, his vision blurring with tears.
"Dad…"
"Yeah?" Desmond's brow furrows in concern.
"Dad…"
"Yeah, what's up, son? You okay?" He lets out a shaky, confused laugh, trying to lighten the weight in his boy's voice.
Mikey can't take it anymore.
"Dad!"
He crashes into him, arms locking tight around the man's chest. It's real. He feels it—the muscle under the fabric, the warmth of his father's body, the faint cologne his mother loved so much.
"Whoa, kiddo," Desmond chuckles, startled, but his big arms come around Mikey without hesitation. "What's all this?"
"Dad… I missed you so much…" Mikey's voice breaks, raw.
Desmond laughs softly, trying to mask the worry in his tone. "You saw me last night, didn't you? Already missed me?"
Mikey doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know what's real, doesn't care. All he knows is his father is here, breathing, solid, and he can hold him again. His tears stream freely down his face, soaking into Desmond's shirt.
"Dad… how are you alive? What the fuck is happening?"
Desmond stiffens, pulling back slightly to search his son's face. "First off—watch the language. Second… what are you talking about?"
Mikey grips his father's arms, eyes frantic. The realization cuts him open. Today was the day his father died. The day he hadn't listened to Amelia's warning, and it had cost Desmond his life.
Not again.
"Dad, you gotta get out of here. Back to the Silo. Now."
Desmond laughs nervously, but confusion clouds his face. "What?"
"They know, Dad. Payne Morrison knows. We have to leave!" Mikey tugs at his father's arm, desperate, trying to pull him toward the door. But Desmond plants his feet and resists, pulling his arm free.
"Knows what?"
Mikey's breath comes short, his words tumbling out.
"That you're a Defector."
Desmond's face goes still, unreadable. His voice lowers, heavy.
"Son, what are you talking about—"
"I know everything, Dad!" Mikey's voice cracks, his panic spilling over. "About Bobo, Luce, Ryo, Amelia, Tobi—all of them. Savior, the Silo, the Council, all of it! There's no time! Payne knows, and he's gonna—"
"Gonna what?"
"He's gonna kill you, Dad! Just like he killed Mom! What is wrong with you?!"
The words hang in the air, jagged and sharp. Desmond studies his son, eyes narrowing, searching. Slowly, he sets a heavy hand on Mikey's shoulder.
"Your mother? What the hell are you talking about? Are you okay, Mikey?"
"No! Dad, wake up! Now's not the time for your undercover shit—"
"Everything okay?"
The voice stops him cold. It's soft, familiar and musical in nature. Mikey turns his head, heart seizing in his chest. His eyes go wide as if he's seen a ghost.
Because he had.
Standing in the doorway is a woman in a flowing blue sundress. Her long brown hair falls in soft waves, swaying with the slight draft from the open door. Emerald eyes shimmer as they meet his, the same eyes he had memorized as a child. A mole rests on her left cheek, exactly where it always had been. She's beautiful and alive. Mikey's knees nearly give out.
"M… mom…?"
Darla, his mother. Older than he remembered, but unmistakably her. She should be gone, buried seven years ago when he was only eleven. Yet here she is—alive, breathing, radiant.
'What… Mom? She's alive? How? What about the accident?! Was... was it all a dream? Did I imagine everything?'
She tilts her head, eyes soft with concern.
"Are you alright, baby?"
Mikey lurches forward but his knees buckle and he collapses to the floor. His palms slap the marble as he gasps for air. His body shakes, unable to hold his own weight. Darla's eyes widen, and she rushes forward, sinking to her knees beside him. She gathers him up against her chest, her arms strong and warm.
"Baby, what's wrong?"
Mikey clings to her, sobbing uncontrollably. His tears dampen her dress, his fists knotted in the fabric.
"Mom!"
She strokes his hair, voice soft. "Did you have a bad dream, Mikey?"
The question breaks him further. All the weight, all the guilt, crashes down like a collapsing wall. He wanted this more than anything. Needed it to be real. To undo every scar carved into him by her loss. He looks up at her necklace—the same one he kept after she was gone. And there it is, right where it belongs. Her bracelet on her wrist. Her wedding ring on her finger.
Nothing missing.
Nothing stolen by death.
"Y-Yeah… it was horrible…" Mikey gasps through his sobs. "I lost you, Mom. I lost Dad. I failed you both… I'm so sorry."
Darla tightens her embrace, pressing her cheek to his hair, refusing to let go. She doesn't understand, but she holds him all the same. Behind her, Desmond approaches, confusion and worry etched deep across his face. He kneels beside them, resting a hand on Mikey's back. Together, they surround him, their warmth encasing him, their love anchoring him.
Mikey weeps harder, his mind unraveling at the seams. The line between reality and illusion blurs until he cannot tell which is which. All he knows is this moment—his parents alive, their arms around him—is everything he has ever wanted.
The reality he longed for.
And the one he fears was never real at all.