Bradley's POV
Have you ever had one of those moments where the world just stops making sense? Where you're standing still, watching events unfold around you, but your mind can't quite catch up? I found myself in a situation just like that today.
Hi, my name is Bradley Mark Naird. You can call me Brad, and no, I'm not a bully like a certain blonde jock from the movies. My situation is vastly different. I'm what you might colloquially call a 'Transmigrator'. How I figured that out is an interesting story. In my previous life, I was a 17-year-old, school-going, parent-fearing, steady-grade-making, average nobody, until one day in 2022, the pandemic of our time chose me as its next victim.
The next thing I know, I'm blinking against a harsh, sterile light. My consciousness is a confusing fog, but I feel a gentle, soothing presence nearby. I'm being held, and I barely manage to glimpse the person holding me when I'm shifted.
From my blurry, newborn perspective, I saw my mother. Her name was Maggie Naird. Her rich, dark brown hair was damp and stuck to her forehead, and her face was pale with exhaustion. Tucked into the sterile hospital gown, her physique seemed soft and gentle. But it was her face that captured me: her warm, hazel eyes, shining with unshed tears of joy, crinkled as she gave me a smile the most radiant thing I had ever seen. She looked tired, beautiful, and overwhelmingly happy. She murmured something soft and loving as she looked down at me.
Then, a massive shadow fell over us. A man with a jawline that looked like it was carved from granite and a haircut so sharp it could cut glass leaned into view. This was my father, Mark Naird. His long sleeve shirt was impossibly crisp, but the look in his dark eyes was anything but disciplined. It was a raw, potent mix of terror and absolute awe.
"Let me hold him, Mags," he said, his voice deeper than I expected, and surprisingly gentle.
His hands felt massive yet gentle, they were almost trembling as he took me from my mother's arms. Being held by him felt like being cradled in a warm, secure fortress. As he stared down at me, his rigid military posture seemed to melt away, replaced by the simple, unguarded wonder of a man meeting his son for the very first time. And in that moment, I, a 17-year-old from 2022, was reborn.
"Bradley…my boy", he whispered.
"Our son", Maggie joined him in staring at myself.
I didn't stay quiet as most transmigrators are presumed to do because my lungs were filled with water I had cried the length and breadth of a beast to clear them out. After being handed over to my parents I was barely able to keep my eyes open. Their gentle soothing finally sent me into that sweet sleep. That was when I was born 28th June 1997.
…
My early years were a strange balancing act. While my parents navigated the challenges of parenthood, I attempted to act as a baby should. Given the circumstances, it quickly became clear I was not cut out to be an actor. My attempts at baby talk probably sounded less like "goo goo gaga" and more like I was trying to explain fiscal policy, which earned me more than a few concerned looks from my mother.
It was during these years that I confirmed I hadn't been reincarnated into a normal life. I had transmigrated into a world eerily similar to my own, but one where the lives of certain television characters were playing out as reality. My father's name was Mark Naird, and he worked in the Air Force. These were the first few hints that began to jog my memory, but the pieces didn't truly click into place until I was three years old.
The final, undeniable confirmation came with the birth of my sister. When my parents brought her home from the hospital, wrapped in a pink blanket, they told me her name was Erin. That's when the lightning struck. Erin Naird. I was in the world of the show Space Force, and my father was the future General Mark Naird. I'd already gathered that Dad was building a strong military career, but knowing his specific destiny certainly helped put things in perspective.
Surprisingly, the novelty of it all wore off rather quickly. Aside from my family being unwitting TV characters, this world and my previous one were nearly identical. But I knew I was set for a comfortable life, and not just because my dad was on a fast track to a general's star. In my past life, I was a casual trader. I knew enough tips and tricks from watching the markets to make a fortune from the economic ups and downs that I knew were coming for the United States, and the world at large.
Until the age of six, I spent most of my time between my parents, my sister, and school. Erin soon became the most precious thing in the world to me. Being three years younger, she would follow me everywhere for company, her adoring eyes always looking up to me. We had our own little escapades, seeing as both Mom and Dad were busy with their own demanding careers at this point. I learned that my mother was a Financial Consultant for the Pentagon, which is where my parents had met. Mom was still passionate about her job; she had not yet become the homemaker she was in the show's timeline.
This gave Erin and me plenty of time to grow closer, our bond forged amidst a flurry of maids, babysitters, and nannies in our Washington D.C. home. School was a bore, mostly because I already knew everything being taught. I realized early on that the other kids were too childish for me to form any real friendships. I was cordial with some, but none I would truly call a friend. We had family friends—the McCords and the Daltons—and I genuinely liked Stevie, Harrison, and Alison, but the age disparity left much to be desired. In hindsight, I saw the seeds of a great friendship forming between Jason and my sister, Erin.
I was becoming too cynical for my own good, thinking my future knowledge was a shield that made me invincible. The rude awakening came one night in 2003 when my mother rushed into our room, her face pale as she woke us. The United States was going to war with Iraq. I knew this would happen, and I wasn't particularly worried because I knew the outcome. But my arrogance was shattered the day I saw my father return from his first tour. His body was wrapped in bandages, his arm in a sling, his face etched with a pain that went deeper than the wounds. His F-16 had taken heavy fire, and he'd only survived because of the backup from his wingmen.
Seeing my father, my hero, in that debilitated state made me realize that even if I knew the script of this world, I wasn't a god who could control the details. My own mortality was staring me in the face as my sister cried, her small hands clutching my shirt. My mother hugged us both tightly, trying to calm Erin while reassuring us that everything was going to be okay. In that moment, I wanted to be as far away from the military and its wars as I could be. Yet, a wave of immense pride washed over me when my father later received medals for his bravery. I was torn. I wanted to be like him; I wanted to make both my parents proud.
In my search for purpose, I spent my days studying, thinking, and playing with my sister, while Dad recovered from his injuries, anxious to get back on active duty. On one of those quiet afternoons, he walked out to the backyard, a basketball tucked under his good arm. He nodded towards the hoop on the garage.
"Come on, Brad," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual. "Let's shoot some hoops."
I followed him onto the cracked pavement of the driveway. The ball felt heavy and unfamiliar in my hands. I threw it towards the net. It was a clumsy, awkward shot that bounced hard off the backboard and into the neighbor's flowerbed.
Dad chuckled, a low, warm sound. He winced slightly as he moved his injured shoulder. "Easy there, champ. You're not launching a missile. It's all in the wrist. Here." He guided my hands, positioning my fingers on the seams of the ball. "Square your shoulders to the basket. Bend your knees. And when you shoot, follow through. Like you're reaching into a cookie jar on the top shelf."
I tried again, mimicking his instructions. The ball sailed in a graceful arc and… swish. It went straight through the net. My eyes went wide.
"Whoa," I breathed.
"See? It's not about strength. It's about form," Dad said, a proud smile on his face. He passed the ball back. "Again."
We spent the next hour like that. He'd rebound with his good arm and offer quiet corrections, and I'd shoot. Swish. Clank. Swish. Swish. Something clicked. The repetitive motion, the focus, the satisfying sound of the net—it quieted the noise in my head. For the first time, I felt truly present in my 8-year-old body, not just piloting it.
"You're a natural at this, you know that?" Dad said, leaning against the garage door to rest.
"Just lucky, I guess," I mumbled, sinking another shot.
"No, it's not luck," he insisted, his voice serious. "You listen, you analyze, you adjust. That's a skill. It's what makes a good pilot. And it's what's making you good at this."
I froze, the ball held tight in my hands. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a pilot, Dad." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
He looked at me, his gaze understanding, not disappointed. He nodded slowly. "Maybe not," he said quietly. "And that's okay. A man's gotta find his own sky to fly in, Brad. Your mom and I… we'll be proud of you no matter what that is." He pushed off the wall and gestured at the ball. "But listen to me. You've got a gift for this. A real touch. You keep this up, you could go pro one day. I'm serious."
He passed the ball back to me. His words echoed in my ears—find his own sky. I looked from the hoop to my father, who was watching me with an encouraging expression I hadn't seen since before the war. I dribbled once, twice, bent my knees, and shot.
Swish.
Maybe, just maybe, I'd found my sky right here on the ground.
…
Washington D.C. | 2008
I stand in the Hall of the Joint Chiefs, the air thick with tradition and respect, as my father is called to the dais. He is presented with the star he has chased for his entire life. Today is the day. After 24 years of gruelling work—of rigorous training, strategic planning, and flawless execution—my father has finally achieved the penultimate step to his dream. He has been named an O-7, a Brigadier General. The lone star, shining and sharp, is pinned to his shoulders.
His voice is steady and clear, filling the silent hall as he takes his oath.
"I, Mark R. Naird, do solemnly affirm that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office of the Brigadier General of the U.S. Air Force, so help me God."
The hall erupts in applause. My mother's eyes are shining with pride, and even Erin, who doesn't fully understand the weight of the moment, is clapping with a huge smile. A few media interviewers swarm him for quotes, and after entertaining them for as long as his patience allowed, my father gently shoves them aside to join his family.
…
Later that evening, at a celebratory dinner in his favourite D.C. steakhouse, the four of us are buzzing with excitement.
"A toast," Dad says, raising his glass of water to match ours. "To the future. And to Los Angeles!"
"To Los Angeles!" we echo.
"I still can't believe it," Dad says, a rare, unguarded grin on his face. He loosens his tie. "Space Systems Deputy Commander. We're going to be at the absolute tip of the spear, developing the technology that will define the next fifty years."
"Well, you're not the only one with a new job," Mom chimes in, her smile just as bright. "I got the final offer from Sterling, Price, and Associates this morning. Partner track, West Coast division. They handle some of the biggest aerospace contractors in the country."
"That's amazing, Mom!" I say, genuinely thrilled for her. "And the new house? I looked it up on Google Maps. It's got a half-court in the backyard."
Dad points at me with his fork. "And your coach sent that highlight reel to the staff at Northwood Junior High. Said they were 'very interested' in an East Coast point guard."
Amidst all the happy chatter, Erin has been quietly pushing her mashed potatoes around her plate. She's been quiet all evening. Mom notices immediately, her expression softening.
"What's on your mind, sweet pea?" she asks, reaching across the table to touch Erin's hand.
Erin looks up, her lower lip trembling just a little. "I don't want to go," she says in a small voice. "All my friends are here. What about my soccer team? The Vipers just won the championship."
The table falls quiet. I feel a pang of guilt for getting so wrapped up in my own excitement.
Mom gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "Oh, honey, I know it's scary leaving your friends behind. It's a huge change. But think of it as a brand-new adventure. We'll find you the best soccer team in all of California, and I bet they have sunshine for practice almost every single day."
"Yeah, Erin!" I jump in. "And we'll be, like, forty minutes from Disneyland! We can go all the time! Plus, I'll help you set up video chats so you can talk to the Vipers every single day if you want."
Erin looks from me to Mom, a little bit of light returning to her eyes at the mention of Disneyland. "Really? Every day?"
"Scout's honour," I say, holding up three fingers.
Dad leans over and puts his arm around her. "We're a team, Erin. The Naird family. And the first rule of our team is that we always stick together. Now, we're going to go to L.A. and we're going to be brilliant."
She manages a small smile, and for the first time all night, she takes a big bite of her potatoes. The crisis was averted. We were a team, and we were heading west.