Forced Retirement

Robert T. Jeschonek

 

 

            Hericane was pursued by her murderously psychotic super-hero father, Epitome, for over an hour before she finally realized that he thought he was chasing himself.

            It was something he said that finally tipped her off, and it was not exactly hard to interpret.  “You don’t think I’ll kill you because you’re me?” he screamed as he flew after her at lightning speed.  “Then you’re dead wrong!”

            This just brought up another question.  Instead of asking herself, “Why is my father trying to kill me?” Hericane now wondered, “Why is my father trying to kill someone he thinks is himself?”

            She asked herself this question as she felt Epitome’s hand close around her ankle, catching her in mid-flight.  He hurled her out of the sky with a mighty swing, sending her plunging toward the city below.

            It was a fall her cape would not survive.  With a great effort, Hericane managed to spin around and shoot back up, narrowly missing the lofty spire of the Wesley Building. . . but an antenna on the spire snagged her white cape and ripped it from her shoulders.  Not for the first time, she was glad she’d designed the cape as a tearaway piece; otherwise, it might have yanked her back to slam into the building.

            The delay from such a collision would have given Epitome that one extra heartbeat he needed to catch up and pounce on her.

            As powerful as she was, Hericane knew that once her father pounced on her, she might not survive for long.  Hericane was easily one of the five mightiest super-powered people on Earth. . . but she had a non-powered mother, so she was one generation diluted from the pure source of her father’s blood.  Epitome was the apex of the pyramid, the strongest of the strong, the king of the superhuman gods.

            And he had lost his mind.  The man who had defeated such super-criminals as Heat Death, RNA, Noble Rot, and the Walking World War had fallen victim to his greatest enemy.

            Alzheimer’s disease.

            Hericane flew as fast as she could away from the Wesley Building and her father, though her seventeenth sense alerted her that he was following at high speed.  Frantically, she tried to think of a strategy to escape him, but she drew a blank. 

As often as she had succeeded in high-stress situations, whipping the bad guys with ingenious impromptu battle plans, this time was different.  This time, her opponent was her father, who was incredibly powerful even at the age of seventy-two. . . and even if she did come up with a plan to beat him, the last thing that she wanted to do was hurt him.

            Hericane’s hands were tied, while Epitome had the complete freedom of a disease which, in him, had led to something like insanity.

            A sudden, sharp pain struck the middle of Hericane’s back, knocking her from her beeline flight path.  She recognized the effect of Epitome’s “dagger eyes” power, which had already hit her at least ten times that day.

            The key to neutralizing “dagger eyes,” she knew, was to break out of Epitome’s line of sight.  Hericane did so by flashing down and hard to the left, putting a tall office building between her and her father.  The pain stopped immediately.

            Spotting an opportunity to escape more than just the “dagger eyes,” Hericane stopped suddenly on the far side of the building and ducked back against the wall.  Her costume -- a head-to-toe one-piece with chameleonic properties -- immediately changed color and texture to match the brick surface against which she was flattened.

            Epitome shot past in a streak of red and silver and kept going, as if Hericane were flying between the skyscrapers somewhere up ahead.

            As she watched Epitome fly off, Hericane wanted to let out a big sigh of relief. . . but she remembered how acute his hearing was and puffed out a few tiny breaths instead.

            Hericane was by no means convinced that Epitome would not see through her ruse and come back for her.  Nevertheless, she took the opportunity to rest for a moment, regaining her strength while she tried to come up with a plan.

            And tried not to think about her roommate, Mardi. . . otherwise known as the super-heroine, Mardi Gras.  Mardi Gras, who had taken the first hit when Epitome had blown down the wall of their apartment.  Mardi Gras, last seen trapped under debris and bleeding from a head wound.

            Mardi Gras, the woman Hericane loved.

            Hericane’s stomach twisted, and her heart hammered harder.  She had to get back to Mardi fast, had to make sure she was all right.

            But before she could do that, Hericane had to stop her father.  If she headed for the apartment, and Epitome followed her, she would just be endangering Mardi further.  Mardi’s powers enabled her to bombard people’s senses with riots of noise and color and smell and texture. . . but indestructible, she was not.

            Epitome, on the other hand, was indestructible.  He had the strength to bench press North America, and he had hair follicles that could jump right off his body and drill through concrete or snip chromosome chains on command.  He could fly like a jet fighter plane, just an eyeblink slower in his old age than Hericane.  Then there was his trademark “Bonus Round,” an adrenaline-burst crisis state in which he surfed the gamut of way-out powers, a new one every five seconds, as if he were surfing channels on a TV set.

            With all he had going for him, Epitome would have been unstoppable even if he had been in his right mind.  Now that he’d lost it to Alzheimer’s – most of it, anyway – Hericane had lost the option of talking sense into him, making him less controllable and more deadly than ever.

            Epitome did not even have any weakness, other than whatever had brought on the Alzheimer’s.  His enemies had only ever managed to hold him at bay with threats against innocent civilians.  Even if Hericane had been willing to employ such threats, she had a strong feeling that they would now be useless against her father.  If he was delusional enough to try to kill his own daughter, what were the chances that he would stop his rampage to protect bystanders or hostages?

            Not that he had ever seemed to care much for his daughter in the first place.

            Hericane detached from the wall and decided to head for help.  If she could make it to the Power Structure headquarters in nearby Paratown, the heroes stationed there would surely race to her rescue.  Apparently, the heroes who were based in her own home turf of Isosceles City were all away on business or home sick in bed, as none of them had popped up to lend a hand.

            Unfortunately, just as Hericane drew a bead on the route that would lead her to Paratown, she heard the telltale nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that heralded her father’s approach.  The screech was a by-product of his use of certain powers simultaneously. . . in this case, flight and electro-breath.  By the time a target heard the screech, it was too late for the target to get out of the way.

            This time was no exception for Hericane.  Even expecting (dreading) that sound’s recurrence if (when) her father figured out her ruse and doubled back for her, she still did not have time to get out of the way of the bolt of lightning bursting out of Epitome’s wide-open mouth.  Even possessing the gifts of super-fast reflexes and high-speed flight, she could not evade the sizzling electrical strike.

            Searing current burned through her body like wildfire.  Hericane stiffened and dropped like a stone, eyes fixed on the bright blue sky above her as she fell.

            She saw her father plunging after her, fists bunched forward and face etched with fierce determination.  Sunlight reflected from his silver breastplate, throwing spots in Hericane’s eyes.  She had always thought the breastplate had made Epitome look noble and powerful, like a Roman centurion. . . but now, it made him look mechanical and menacing.

The red fabric of Epitome’s costume, which once had stretched tightly over bulging muscles, rippled in the wind over his shrunken, old man’s body.  Shrunken, but nearly as powerful as ever.  Nearly as deadly.

            And his own daughter did not see even the faintest flicker of recognition in his eyes as he glared down at her.

 

*  *  *

 

            Hericane soon realized there was a positive side to Epitome’s not remembering anything about her.  Thanks to his memory gap, he wasn’t prepared for the super-powered trick or two that she had up her sleeve.

            Like the one she called “the big breakup,” which is what saved her life this time.

            Fifty feet or so above the ground, Hericane had the presence of mind to trigger “the big breakup.”  In mid-fall, at the flip of a mental switch, she blew her entire body apart into its component cells.  A fountain of red and pink leaped upward, streaming around and past plunging Epitome as he howled in surprise and anger.

            Epitome was blinded for an instant, which was just long enough for him to crash into the street pavement below.  Before he could rocket back out of the impact crater, Hericane’s cells rushed back together, coalescing in their original form, and she bolted off toward Paratown.

            As Hericane flashed across Isosceles City, she wondered yet again if Mardi was all right. . . and she dug deep for ideas on how to deal with Epitome.  The only idea that kept coming back to her again and again was that Epitome would be impossible to deal with this time.

            Not that that would be any different from any other time.  Hericane had only ever known him to be distant.  Cold and remote.  At best, he had been an unreadable, occasional presence in her life, unable or unwilling to make any but the most perfunctory connection with her.

She had guessed it was because of her sexual preference for women, though that would only have applied to her in an obvious way since her teenage years.  She did not have a similarly logical reason for why he had acted ambivalently toward her as a child.

            Then again, he had not exactly been willing to make connections with anyone else, either.  He had always been known as the greatest super-powered hero in the world, but he likewise had a reputation – especially in the hero community – as the unfriendliest guy in the business.  He had never gone out of his way to socialize with colleagues or try to improve his image, and he had never seemed to care what anyone thought of him.

            The truth was, he had never had to care.  He was the mightiest man alive.  No one could tell him how to act or what to do.

            That was why, at first, Hericane had almost been grateful for the Alzheimer’s.  The intermittent memory loss of the disease’s early stages had softened Epitome’s sharp edges, even occasionally made him seem vulnerable.  For the first time in years, he had phoned Hericane out of the blue and shown up at her apartment unexpectedly.  Though he had done so by mistake and had not seemed entirely certain whom he was talking to or visiting, Hericane’s heart had still quickened at the sound and sight of the father who was finally turning to her in his hour of need.

            Hericane had not been the only one to notice and appreciate the difference in Epitome.  His super-heroic peers had noticed changes in him as well:  overt friendliness; eagerness to partner with other heroes for adventures; and an unprecedented (for Epitome) willingness to let others take the lead in dangerous situations.  None of this had been characteristic of the old Epitome.  Behind his back, people had even joked that they liked the new Epitome better than the old one. . . though some had not seen his changes as a laughing matter.  Some heroes had realized early on that Alzheimer’s and the mightiest man alive would be a volatile combination.

And they had turned out to be right.

Epitome had begun to have outbursts of anger in public.  He had said and done inappropriate things without explanation or apology. He had begun to make mistakes, serious mistakes that would have killed civilians if not for the intervention of other superhuman heroes.  Twice, he’d forgotten who the bad guys were and had turned against his partners.  Bedouin, Haiku, and Mr. Séance all had broken limbs to prove it.

By the time the super community had seen enough and staged an intervention to convince Epitome to retire, it had been too late.  He had become almost completely irrational.  From the look on his face that day, Hericane had wondered if he’d even understood a word that was said to him.

            It was then that the super-heroes had learned the answer to a question that they’d never before thought to ask:  Who can make the most powerful man in the world retire?

            Answer: Nobody but the most powerful man in the world.

 

*  *  * 

 

            Since Epitome’s disappearance after the failed intervention, the super-heroes had wondered what his next move would be.  None of them had guessed that it would be to try to kill his

daughter. . . and that he would seem to think, in some crazy way, that she was him.

            Hericane hadn’t guessed it, either. . . though, today, she’d correctly predicted that she hadn’t seen the last of him while slipping out of his crosshairs via “the big breakup.”  Even as she rocketed toward Paratown, she knew that eventually, Epitome would catch up to her again.

            He did so just as Hericane crossed the city limits.

            The instant she heard her father’s trademark warning screech, Hericane veered hard to the left.  Unfortunately, as always, hearing that screech meant it was too late to avoid whatever attack it signaled.

            This time, the attack came in the form of a nerve-wrecking synaptiquake and a two-fisted sledgehammer blow to her back.  As soon as they hit, Hericane screamed in pain and shot straight down like a cannonball dropped from an airplane.

            She plunged forty or fifty feet before shaking off the shock and rolling out of her fall.  Swooping upward, she sprang into a fighting stance and spun around, looking for her father.

            She couldn’t see him anywhere.  As she turned and scanned the heights, training all twenty-one senses on her surroundings, she wondered if Epitome had activated his Bonus Round of unpredictable powers, and one of those powers was a stealth mode.

            Just as Hericane was thinking that, she felt waves of compressed air buffeting her from behind, pushed ahead of a dozen approaching, airborne objects.  She whipped around in time to see twelve bricks hurtling toward her and pulverized each of them with a hyper-fast chop of her hand.

            Hericane did not react quickly enough, however, to deflect or dodge the next mass to fly toward her.  The bricks had been a diversion.

            Epitome came next.

            He blasted shoulder-first into her midsection, knocking the wind out of her and blowing her back and down.  Before Hericane could catch her breath and retaliate, he slammed her at high speed against what felt like a slab of solid granite.

            Then through it.

            Looking out from her haze of pain, Hericane saw that Epitome had driven her through a power plant smokestack and kept on going.  He was still propelling her backward, toward who-knew-what obstacles.

            Toward who-knew-what pain.

            “I won’t let you kill me!” said Epitome.  “I won’t let you do what I did!”

Then, suddenly, the clear blue sky turned psychedelic.

Hericane squinted at the flashbulb bursts of light and the riotous swirls of pulsing color that bloomed all around her.  A cacophony of discordant sounds, like an orchestra the size of a city tuning up all at once, exploded from nowhere at what felt like ear-bleed level.

Hericane’s heart pounded, but not from shock or pain.  Her heart pounded because she knew at once who was responsible for the chaos.

As Epitome let go of Hericane, snapping his eyes shut and clamping his hands over his ears to try to block the sensory assault, Hericane relaxed and let herself fall.  As she expected, Mardi Gras was there to catch her.  Mardi Gras, who had let loose the storm of light and color and sound that had shaken mighty Epitome.

The instant she landed in Mardi’s arms, Hericane threw her own arms around Mardi’s neck and hugged her hard.  The bells on Mardi’s red and gold jester’s costume jingled as Hericane squeezed.

“Thank God you’re all right,” said Hericane.  “I was scared he’d hurt you.”

“He did,” said Mardi, “but I still got your back, baby.  And I got help, too.  Look there.”

Hericane turned and followed Mardi’s gaze to a glowing disk of energy that was whirling nearby.  As she watched, though the disk was flat, and no one hovered in the air behind it, a black-gloved hand punched out of the disk’s center.  The hand was followed by an arm strapped with timepieces from wrist to shoulder, and then a face emerged.

A face that Hericane recognized.

“Overtime!” said Hericane, watching as the familiar costumed hero slid out of the disk.  The insignia on his chest was a stylized image of clockwork gears, representing his particular super-powered specialty:  time travel.

When a second man began to emerge from the disk after Overtime, however, Hericane did not at first know who he was.  The newcomer was younger than she or Mardi or Overtime. . . in his early twenties, perhaps.  He wore a gleaming white costume with ruby trim and a crimson cape.

The most striking thing about him, though, at first, was his hair.  It was bright blonde, shining like spun gold, and cascaded in a perfect, smooth fall all the way to the middle of his muscular back.

“Who’s he?” said Hericane, her eyes glued to the new arrival as he cleared the disk.

“A new recruit,” said Mardi.  “Courtesy of Overtime’s latest time-chute.  He’s a real Epitome expert, you might say.”

Hericane continued to stare at the long-haired newcomer. . . and then, suddenly, her attention was snatched away by a familiar blaze of pain in her side.  Even as she realized what it was, she knew there would be worse to come.

When “dagger eyes” struck, she knew her father would not be far behind.

Sure enough, just as Hericane tried to twist away from the painful beam, Epitome flashed up from below and snatched her from Mardi’s arms like a football.  On his way past, Epitome cuffed Mardi on the side of the head, sending her spinning away toward the ground.

As Epitome clasped Hericane against the hard metal of his breastplate and carried her off, she hauled back one fist and hammered it into his jaw with all her strength.  Epitome responded with a head butt that knocked Hericane senseless.

As Hericane struggled to regain control of herself, he raised her high overhead.  He looked as if he were ready to hurl her to the ground below.

“I won’t let you kill me!” he said, visibly shaking.  “I won’t let it happen again!”

Then, just as suddenly as Epitome had snatched her from Mardi, someone grabbed Hericane from Epitome.  It was the newcomer who had followed Overtime through the chute.  He flashed Hericane a blinding smile as he swept her away from her father.

Though Hericane had thought he’d looked handsome from a distance, she decided that he looked stunning up close.  The smile, the bright green eyes, the creamy skin, the golden

hair. . . all of it mingled in artful perfection, as impossibly ideal as a retouched photo or a painting.

He turned to her, and she was lost in his gaze.  She was held firmly by his intense personal magnetism. . . and something else.  Only after he had set her down on the roof of a factory where Mardi was waiting did she know what it was.

Familiarity.

The man leaped away before Hericane could say a word to him.  He headed straight for Epitome, who hovered some distance away with a frown of deep confusion on his face.

“I know him from somewhere, don’t I?” said Hericane.

“You might say that,” said Mardi Gras.

At that moment, Hericane heard the familiar screech of her father’s powers in action. . . and everything fell together.  Her eyes widened and a chill raced up her spine as she figured out who the long-haired man really was.

Because her seventy-two-year-old father was not the one using his powers at that moment.

But the long-haired newcomer was.

“Oh my God,” Hericane said in a hushed voice.  “It’s him.”

Mardi Gras put a hand on Hericane’s shoulder and squeezed gently.  “Yeah, it is,” she said.  “We figured it was the only way.”

“My father’s younger self,” said Hericane.  “Overtime brought him from the past.”

Mardi nodded solemnly.  “He’s the only one powerful enough to stop Epitome.”

The sky flared as the young Epitome blasted his older counterpart with a bolt of electro-breath.  The old man fell back fast, then caught himself and pressed forward against the crackling stream of energy.  The confused look was gone from his face, replaced by grim determination.  “How many times have I put you down today,” he snarled, “and you just keep coming back for more!”

Young Epitome cut off his electro-breath to answer.  “This is the first time we’ve met,” he said.  “You don’t remember because you’re sick.”

When she heard this exchange, Hericane understood another of the day’s mysteries for the first time.  Throughout Epitome’s attacks, she’d wondered why he’d thought she was him. . . and further, why he was trying to kill her if he believed that she was him.

Now, she knew.

“He never kept pictures around the house,” she said.  “I never knew he looked so much like me when he was young.”

“He sure did,” said Mardi.

Hericane nodded slowly.  “When he came after me, he didn’t think I was him as he is today.  He thought I was him from years ago.  He remembered coming forward in time as a young man to fight himself as an old man.”

“He knew this would happen all along,” said Mardi, “but he ended up making it happen.  By attacking us to try to head it off, he forced us to get help from the only person who could stop him.”

“Himself,” said Hericane.

As she and Mardi watched, old Epitome drove a fist at young Epitome’s stomach, then another at his chin.  Both blows glanced off seemingly without impact, as young Epitome hovered calmly in place without so much as a wince.

The next time old Epitome took a swing, young Epitome caught his fist with one hand and held it effortlessly in place.

“Listen to me,” said young Epitome.  “You are sick.  You need help.  Let me help you.”

Old Epitome struggled against his young counterpart’s grip, working to free his captured hand.  “You’re a liar.  You won’t help me.  I remember how this all ends.”

“You have Alzheimer’s disease,” said young Epitome.  “You don’t know what you remember anymore.”

“I remember!” said old Epitome, still straining to wrench his hand free.

Without a twitch of effort, young Epitome steadily pushed his older self’s fist away from him.  “You almost killed your own daughter because you thought she was me!  Still think you’re in your right mind?”

For an instant, old Epitome looked down at Hericane and Mardi on the factory rooftop.  Even from a distance, Hericane thought she glimpsed a flicker of clarity in his eyes.  Then, it was gone, if it had ever truly been there.  Old Epitome started to glow with an aura of hazy, golden light.

“No!”  Hericane launched herself off the rooftop toward the action.  “Don’t do it, Dad!”

She knew exactly what that golden aura meant.

Old Epitome was not going to surrender.  Instead, he was pulling out all the stops.  He was going into the Bonus Round.

So was young Epitome.  With his older self activating a rapidly changing sequence of unpredictable powers, what else could he do?

For a moment, the young and old Epitomes hung in the sky, their combined auras swelling and brightening.  Then, the auras shifted from gold to red, and the men exploded away from each other.

They charged back together immediately, each glowing with a different light and surging with a different power as the Bonus Round fully engulfed them.

Hericane intended to hurl herself between them and cut the battle short, but Overtime rocketed up to block her path.  When Hericane tried to swerve around him, he grabbed hold of her and froze her in place with the Pause Inducer mounted in his gauntlet.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.  “That’s a fight you don’t want to be in the middle of.”

Hericane wanted to correct him, tell him that she had to try to save her father, but she was on pause and could not speak.  All she could do was watch helplessly as the young and old manifestations of her father battered each other with a stream of destructive powers.

Both Epitomes changed powers in the blink of an eye, switching from one to the next every few seconds.  It was a dizzying whirl of fire and ice and cyclones and explosions and body parts that multiplied and distended and vibrated faster than the eye could see.  Even Hericane, who knew her father’s abilities well, did not recognize some of the transformations and emissions on display in the heart of the duel.

One Epitome grew to five times his original size, and the other one shot purple rays from his fingertips.  Clouds of scalding steam hissed out of one Epitome’s nose, while the other Epitome split into a dozen razor-sharp slices.

While Hericane watched, the two Epitomes flashed from nightmare vision to ink blot blasts, from plague breath to laser fists to slave rays to spiked skin.  Young Epitome’s limbs disappeared, then punched back in from another dimension, glowing orange and seemingly detached from their owner, to pummel old Epitome from different directions. 

Then, old Epitome turned into a sheet of malleable silver metal and wrapped around young Epitome’s head, sealing it in a sphere without a single opening.  Young Epitome thrashed in the air, pulling at the sphere, trying unsuccessfully to wedge his fingers between the sphere’s silver skin and his throat.  His body turned to rock, then steel, then ice, but he couldn’t break open the sphere from within.  He expanded and shrunk and stretched, but the sphere changed size and shape along with him.

Young Epitome wrestled with the smothering helmet for one more moment.  Then, he stopped fighting it.

And became a blinding ball of energy like a new sun flaring to life in the sky.

Because Hericane was on pause and couldn’t blink or shield her eyes, Overtime threw a hand over them to block the burst of light.  When Overtime pulled his hand away, Hericane saw a single figure hovering in the sky, silhouetted against a pulsing rainbow nimbus.

For an instant, Hericane thought it was the seventy-two-year-old version of Epitome, because his hair was little more than stubble, and his costume was red with a silver breastplate instead of red and white fabric.

But as the halo faded, and the man drifted toward her, she saw he was not the old man after all.  He was not quite the same young man who had come from the past, either.

For one thing, the blinding smile was gone.  “I’m so sorry,” he said grimly, looking lost.  He stared down at his costume, brushing it with his fingertips.

Hericane felt sick.  She had always wondered how the impenetrable silver breastplate of her father’s costume had been created, with its unearthly properties and unique, pebbled texture.  It must have been forged in the heart of a volcano or a star, she had thought, or in another dimension where the laws of physics were different from those she knew.  How else could an indestructible metal be shaped into body armor for a super-hero?

Now, she knew.  In addition to burning his long hair down to stubble, Young Epitome’s nova blast had liquefied the metal sphere that had nearly smothered him.  The metal had oozed down over his chest and adhered to his costume.

For fifty-odd years, Hericane’s father had worn a costume sheathed in his own remains.

“Sorry,” said young Epitome.  The confusion on his face shifted to horror.  Tears rolled out of both eyes.  He drifted close to Hericane as if he knew her, as if she could help or reassure him in some way.

Hericane felt a mild zap like static electricity as Overtime took her off pause mode.  Her body jerked as she regained the power of movement in her native time frame.

Even when she was able to move and speak again, however, she did not know what to say to young Epitome.

He continued to hover in front of her, alternately meeting her gaze and staring down at his newly minted breastplate.  His expression shifted quickly, like super powers in the Bonus Round, switching from anguish to disbelief to horrified rage to blank shock. . . though the overriding visible emotion was deep confusion.

“I think I owe you an apology,” he said slowly, returning his gaze to Hericane.  “I’m sorry for killing your father.”  He said it like a question, raising his voice on the last word.  “I only wanted to help him.”  His eyes narrowed and shunted to one side, staring into space.  “I wanted to stop him from hurting people. . . but God knows I didn’t want this to happen.”

Tears rolled down his face, and his shoulders shuddered.  He hung his head, then caught sight of the breastplate and quickly looked up again.

Hericane drifted forward and took him in her arms.  She stroked the stubble on his scalp as he sobbed silently into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” said the man who was or had been or would be her father, trembling against her.  He was younger now than she was, and she did not know him though she had known him all her life, and it was almost too strange for her to bear.

At that moment, Overtime bobbed into view behind Epitome and pointed to one of the fifty watches strapped onto his right arm.  Then, he turned and waved at the rainbow disk of a newly opened time chute spinning in midair behind him.  Time’s up.  Time to send him back.

Hericane shook her head and held on to her father.

“How can I live with this?” said Epitome.  “Knowing I did this to myself?  Knowing this is what’s in store for me?”

“Don’t close yourself off,” whispered Hericane, giving him the only advice she could think of...the advice that she had wanted to give him for decades.  “Don’t be afraid to reach out to other people.  Maybe things will be different for you next time.”

Overtime tapped Epitome on the shoulder, and he drew back from Hericane.  “I don’t know if I can take that chance.”  Epitome wiped the tears from his eyes.  “I don’t want to hurt you again.”  He reached out and ran his fingertips softly down the curve of Hericane’s cheek.  She had never known he could be so gentle.  His eyes widened and sparkled as he gazed at her wonderingly.

She felt tears of her own begin to fall.  Finally, she understood why he had pushed her away all her life.  Not because of her sexuality.  Not because he did not love her.

He had pushed her away because he had wanted to protect her from himself.

“I love you, Dad,” said Hericane, her voice catching.  It was the last time in her life that she would say those words to Epitome. . . though, from his point of view, it was the first time.

Then, Overtime took young Epitome by the hand and guided him into the swirling disk of the time chute.

Hericane should not have been happy, she thought, because, after all, she had lost her father that day.  He had died right before her eyes.

And yet, her heart was full and her tears were tears of joy, for just before Epitome slid headfirst into the chute, he looked back over his shoulder and said the one thing that she had never heard him say to her before.

“I love you, too,” he said.  And then he was gone.