Author's note (Please read before you begin!): This story is written in first person with alternating perspectives. Rock's point of view is regular text. Blues is in italics. I do not own the characters themselves, but I'm not sure whether to credit the Protomen, Capcom, or Ruby Spears... not that I'm getting any money off this anyway.

I had walked a long way to find him. It seemed only suitable that I finally caught up to him atop the cliffs overlooking the town. He was sitting at the edge, watching the headlights create shifting patterns in the streets and the house and street lights twinkle like a tangle of Christmas lights gone mad. It was a strange sight to me; from this distance, the city seemed bright and peaceful, not tattered and wrought with strife from the most recent war that nearly destroyed it.

I knew he was following me. I had silently hoped for it. I waited for him where I usually spent my evenings, watching the city from the outskirts of town. It had been too long since we had spoken. He was a hero; I was nothing, a nobody, but he always came to me when he needed advice. I never told him that I needed him as much as he needed me. He had always been the optimist; he would find the good in a situation when there was almost no hope left and push on despite the odds.

He turned to look at me. His eyes were hidden by his dark-tinted glasses, but the twist at the corner of his mouth said more than anything his voice could have. He was tired, broken, and ready to give up. Drawing back from the edge, he stood and faced me fully. He was only a little taller than I. His hair looked black in the twilight instead of the auburn I remembered.

He had grown up so much since last we spoke, yet he still wore that old blue hoodie I gave him. He had bits of leaves caught in his tousled brown hair. I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep from fixing it for him. He isn't a kid anymore. He doesn't need my help. Instead, I said the only thing that came to mind.

"Why are you here?"

"I came looking for you." I replied. The corner of his mouth twisted again, and judging by the way his eyebrows moved, I'm certain it was intended more as an apology than him being happy to see me.

"Why?"—After all this time, why now—he asked again, "Did you need another lesson in fighting? Or an answer to the sociological puzzle that you live in? I have neither. I can't fight anymore, little bro, let alone fight to help them." He gestured to the city below.

They left me to die after I saved them! How could I go back to that! Not even to help him. I could tell that I made my point, but the words came out sharper than I meant them to. Tact was never my strongest point, and sometimes my mouth gets away from me.

"I was just hoping-" He cut me off.

"I don't even have that anymore. Leave me alone." He turned to walk away. I ran after him. I'm glad he couldn't see my eyes. They are as easy to read as his, and I didn't want him to see the pain I was in. It would only cause him worry.

"Let me finish! I was hoping you would come back home."

"It's not my home. It hasn't been in a long time."

"Only because you won't let it be. Father kept your room for you. It hasn't been touched since you left." 'Father' still cared? Impossible! He's the one who sent me to fight for the city. He nearly sent me to my death! How could he do that if he cared about me at all?

"So he cares now, does he?" his tone was suddenly sharp, "Where was that heart of his when he set me up to fail? Where was HE when I fell?" It even frightened me a little how much pain and anger I still felt about that, but he wasn't even fazed by it.

"Losing you broke his heart. He has told me a thousand times that if he had realized what he was sending you into, he wouldn't have let you go." I caught up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Please, come home, even if it is just for a day."

"I'm not even welcome in the city," he replied, "You may be their valiant hero, but last I checked, I am still considered a traitor." It was a lie and a stalling tactic, and I knew it. I was making excuses and hoping to get out of an awkward meeting. I wasn't ready to face Dad, not after all I had done.

"That was years ago! Most of them have probably forgotten about that by now! Please." I could feel frustration welling up in me. I had thought it might be difficult to convince him to come home, but I had hoped that he would at least consider the idea. He turned to face me again.

"The answer is no, Little Brother." He replied. I thought I might cry.

I watched his jaw clench a moment. He looked away and I could tell he was thinking.

"Not even for a night?" I was not above bargaining at this point.

"Why is this so important to you?" I met his gaze again. He had never had much of a poker face. I could see the tears he had fought back glistening in his cerulean eyes; there was also a strange look of determination.

"I want us to all be a family again, even if it is just for a little while." There was something intense about his expression. It was like he was reading my mind through my eyes. No wonder he always wears those dark glasses.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?" You're lying, little Bro. I could always tell, and you haven't gotten any better over the years.

I nodded. I saw the tears start to well up in his eyes. Something was really wrong.

"It's Dad, isn't it?" he pressed. Again, I nodded.

"He hasn't been well for a while, but he's gotten worse recently. I was hoping you would come home, so that you two could mend your differences before…" I couldn't finish the thought. I still held onto the hope that Father would get better. With all the advances in medicine, surely someone somewhere could save him.

When he trailed off, I knew exactly what he wasn't saying. Whatever the illness was, it was fatal. He wasn't ready to face the fact that our father was dying, but he knew that this might be the last chance to get our family back together.

"Before I lose the opportunity," he finished my statement without using the word I was trying so desperately not to face. I sighed, resigned. Ready or not, it couldn't wait any longer. "Alright, Little Bro, I make no promises on how long I'll stay, but I'll come back with you tonight."

It was a long walk back down out of the hills to the city limits. Neither one of us spoke. The only sounds we heard at first were the crickets and wildlife accompanied by the crunch of our boots on rock and leaves. In the moonlight, he looked a lot like the pictures that Father kept of him. He seemed so aloof and unapproachable, despite the wind ruffling his hair and whipping the muffler around his neck out behind him like a cape. He looked like the hero he was meant to be. Then the shadows shifted again as we walked beneath a copse and the vision left with it.

The instant familiarity and silent camaraderie was comforting. Even though we hadn't seen each other or spoken in several years, it didn't seem strange to be walking back to town with him; it seemed right. I was glad for the silence. It allowed me time to think about memories and emotions that I had buried a long time ago.

We were at the edge of town before I found my voice again.

"Where have you been all this time?"

"Here and there," he replied, "Believe it or not, I never really left the area."

"You've been in the city all this time?!"

"Hey, someone had to keep an eye on you. I found a couple places in the old side of town where I could crash when I needed to. The media doesn't permeate life there like it does the modern district." He shrugged, "I was afraid to drift too far from here. I never knew when the next war would start, but I knew when it did, you would be in the thick of it, fighting for the people. I didn't want you to end up like me."

"But you said you aren't welcome in the city."

"Okay, I lied," he admitted, "But have you been to the old side of town? The officials don't bother with it anymore. It's run by whoever has the most power. They don't care who you are, so long as you don't bring the police with you or cause a fuss." He shrugged and we lapsed into silence again. People watched us pass. I could see confusion on their faces. They recognized me—I was sure of it—but as I had hoped, they didn't associate my brother with the broken-hero-turned-traitor that many of them blamed for the second war. I was glad when the door to the apartment building closed behind us and hid us from their staring. I led the way to the stairs and we began the climb to the 18th floor; I didn't trust the elevator after it malfunctioned recently.

It was a long walk in silence. I could feel the tension as people watched us pass. It must certainly seem odd for him to be with someone dressed as I was. My black duster and shades had been selected for anonymity and discretion, not for walking down the sidewalks of uptown at night. The only reason they weren't more obvious with their avoidance of us was my brother's presence. I followed him up the stairs, but by the time we reached the 18th floor, I was wishing we had taken the lift. My right knee hadn't been the same since the third war, and it was protesting worse than usual tonight.

"Father, I'm back" I called as I opened the door to our apartment. The reply was a coughing fit from his bed room. I led the way and glanced back to make sure my brother was following. My father's room was towards the back of our apartment with one window facing east. When I opened the door, the room was lit only by the lamp on his bedside table. He was in bed. Though he had been graying when I came along, the disease had turned him into a wizened, old man. He propped himself up on an elbow when he saw me in the doorway.

I watched from the shadows in the hall at first, indecisive of what I was supposed to say or do. He looked so old, so frail, lying there in bed. I almost didn't recognize him. Last time I had been home, his hair was dark and just starting to gray at the temples. He looked like he had aged twice what he should have.

"I was so worried about you," he rasped. Coughs wracked his body again. I waited until they subsided before speaking again.

Dad sounded so glad that my brother was home, but there was a sadness—a brokenness?—to his voice. It wasn't like my brother had been gone for a long time. It has been almost a year since the fifth war, and he was always careful to return before dinner. I had seen him taking the train back to the residential district every evening at about the same time.

"Father, you'll never believe who is here." My brother looked uncertain as he lingered in the doorway.

It took me a moment to find my voice, and even then, my mind wouldn't cooperate. All these years, all the questions, all the things I had planned to say, they were suddenly gone, and I felt like the kid who came back after curfew and got caught.

"Hi, Dad . . ."

"I knew you'd come home," Father beckoned him over and embraced him, "I'm so sorry. I never thought they would abandon you like that. I should have never pushed you to fight."

I couldn't find anything to say. As he released me, I reached up and took off my glasses.

"The past is the past," my brother replied. His expression was almost impossible to read. I was amazed that he removed his glasses. Even in battle, he always wore a tinted visor. I don't remember the last time I had seen his eyes. I was surprised that they're blue-green.

Father nearly doubled over in a coughing fit. My brother supported him against a black clad shoulder and looked helplessly at me. I retrieved Father's elixir from the bedside table.

I didn't know what else to do. When the fit subsided, I noticed red-brown flecks on my scarf. There were probably more on my jacket that I couldn't see. I'd never seen Dad so old and frail. Sure, his hair had gone white over the years and his face had become wrinkled, but not like this. It took one of us to help him remain upright and the other to stabilize his hand so he could take his medicine. I waited until we had him settled back into bed.

"Dad, why don't you get some rest? I should go clean up a bit," my brother suggested. I watched him retreat from the room, forgetting his sunglasses on the nightstand. I pulled the quilt back over Father's chest, and he took my hand.

"It's good to have you both back in the house…"

I retreated to my room—it was indeed still my room, like a time-capsule that had remained untouched all these years. I never felt more uncertain. Why was I even here? I sank down onto the bed, my head in my hands. Part of me was still angry and was fighting very hard to stay that way, but part of me was sad that I hadn't come home sooner.

The Wars had been hard. My jaw and my fist clenched involuntarily at the memories. Dad had always taught me to stand for freedom, to fight for those who could not. I thought I was doing the right thing when I stood against the oppressors, but few stood with me. When I fell, those who I thought were my brothers in arms dropped their guns and fled. They left me for dead. No one came back for me. I had been so mad at Dad for sending me into that living nightmare, but that embrace… In that one embrace, I realized I had been wrong for years. I had wasted years hating him while he was waiting for me to come home.