(Part XI) -2036-

{Etta}

With Broyle's help they fudged papers, documents saying he's a member of this decade's Fringe division, an agent designated to the warehouse district, assigned to the sector of illegal dealings, a duty to maintain and apprehend the civilian underground suspected of fresh water trading, commodities handling.

A list that grows longer everyday...with Nina's generous aid.

And as it has done, the Division pretends not to notice, turns a blind eye.

No creature wanting to survive bites the robotic hand that feeds. They owe it their lives.

There was a look of approval, when she'd told him this, as they'd made their way through a busy Metro Station, his perpetual pride in her silver-headed guardian obviously apparent as he'd wordlessly applauded her rebellious outfit.

God, this place is like being in a George Lucas movie, he'd said then, over the hustle of frantic passer-bys as he'd taken in his surroundings, the scrolling text that littered the glass sky-dome, the vending stations; the stands of what edible concessions were allowed civilians if they'd provided the right tokens, if they'd been well behaved for long enough. It's like an airport mall that's swallowed every installment of Star Wars.

Not understanding she'd frowned, and when he'd turned back to her, the awe in his features had fell in harsh realization, in an almost quick sadness before his quiet "...nevermind". It'd been real to him then, how much she'd never share with him, how many inside things of his cultural history would simply be lost on her.

And it'd made something inside her plunge a little, as they arrived at their checkpoint; the gate to their train into a dwindling Manhattan.

For the third time since he's been here, they'd had to deal with the transit authority. This instance, a portly Loyalist who's chubby finger had pointed at her father in suspicion, who'd rose a thick brow at the cylindrical device in the questionable man's backpack. In response, the suspected had been suave, impressive, charming in the way people are when they're use to talking their way into places.

Or out of them.

It'd been instantly apparent where she'd gotten that talent.

The insufferable agent had been cautious, skeptical, the mark on his cheek, tattooed over an old scar that moved when his mouth twitched, but finally, he'd been satisfied with his examination and allowed their passage.

"The Nazi look suits him." her father comments now, after he tosses the bag back on his shoulder, and when he folds his papers up, shoves them back in his jeans pocket, he does so while dodging the crowd with blind ease.

This remark she gets, understands because of the reams of pictorial, old war history Nina's lessons burned into her reading-eye's fascination.

And when she laughs, breathy, she feels his gratitude, the surprising leap in his chest because her familiarization brought him comfort, gave him hope.

There's more then relation here, more then a simple, deep love, that transcends two decades, and he's just witnessed the emerge, gave into the reality that not everything between them has to be so uncommon, so strangely one-sided in the moments when he forgets she doesn't know things.

And it's a bit awkward, she thinks now, leading him through the steel panel exit doors, a bit suppressing to look at him and see her father when everyone else sees her new partner, a stranger from the Bronx who joined the Force because his brother was killed by a civilian gang in year four.

At least, that's what it says in his crisply typed new ancestry, his re-written identity stamped in a dossier, a prim stack of three folder's concealing the past of three different people.

Her family.

"It must be pretty strange for you...," she remarks, as they step outside, are hit by the thick dreary air that's covered this side of the maglev tracks for too long. "Not being able to say you're my dad."

His laugh is quick, short, an eager breath long-suppressed in this reality, a humor found in the anomolous circumstances he's lived out so far.

"Not nearly as strange as being fifty something years old." he responds, taking in the numbered platforms, the bustle of waiting passengers eager to take their leave into the City.

"I always pictured me balding by now." he jokes, and it makes her laugh, as she shoves her hands in her brown bomber.

"You should feel lucky." she responds. "The natives would kill to look so young at your age."

After this he stops, and when she looks up at him, his smile is wide, peeking a straight line of teeth from behind his top lip.

"And just when I couldn't be more proud, she jokes." he says, those eye-crinkles gaining depth, "You must be my kid."

"I'd like to think so."

She tells him, competing with his grin, and it's that fuzzy-warm feeling she gets again, when his eyes shine, the one that's become customary now as he looks at her this way.

And the moment presses into both their chests, an air of mutual affection that tickles up her spine, fills her heart muscle with the sensation of a soothing massage; his hand up and down her back as she rests her four year old head in the crook of his neck.

It's all in the clearing fog of their use-to-be days.

"If by chance you remember what that smile gets you," he says, his voice light, teasing, "you should know I ran out of suckers twenty years ago."

"Guess I'll have to settle for new memories then."

Still beaming at her, he nods, and when he turns his head to the side, diverts his eyes, he runs a hand over the stubble that shadows his jaw. And when heather-blue finds her again, she realizes he'd stolen away from the moment to keep in an old one.

But there's no show it was painful, as the corner of his mouth gains new height.

"Lucky for you I have plenty of those left."

He finally says, and he surprises her, when he closes the distance between them, throws an arm over her shoulders, and hugs her, so tightly, to his side, she can't breathe.

And it's when he kisses the crown of her head, she understands the memory he'd tampered back, the overwhelm of his insides because he couldn't help again but want to hold her this way.

And she closes her eyes tight, as she presses into him too, leather and cotton and aqua a memory to her olfaction, a scent reminding her again, after twenty something years, what solace smells like.

Every time she'd fall asleep on his chest, when that warm feeling would cascade over them both, he'd show her love like this, with his lips pressed into her tiny blond curls.

And being here now, with her, felicitates that rare happiness, a secret joy lost in the beginning of this fucked-up Dystopia.

For so long, without even knowing, she missed this so badly, too.

And with a new smile, she tugs on his jacket, guides him by the waist to her left.

"C'mon, dad, our dock's this way."