Tim watched his father pray to our Lord and Savior Kevin for blessings upon their new home. Kevin heard his praise and requests. The pair left bed the next morning and were astonished at what they found outside. A huge telescope, rocket pad, and a mysterious shed had magically appeared overnight. Upon entering the shed, they discovered a set of concrete stairs leading to a huge basement. A large pile of construction materials caught their attention. They knew what they must do: build containment pods for the prisoners. They got to work immediately.

They finished just in time for the slaves to arrive. Tim had bruises on his arms from a few minor accidents, but Jim was entirely unscathed as usual. With a wicked smile, Jim ordered the prisoners into their pods, making it abundantly clear that they had no choice in the matter. They marched sadly down the stairs, wondering if any of them would ever see the light of day again. Tim followed them down the stairs to ensure that none of them made a run for it. They settled into their pods and each took in the new environment. Slightly broken but usable easels were provided for their labors.

Tim raised an eyebrow. Why not just get them brand new easels? he thought, Their morale and paintings might be a bit better if they at least had that! He felt sorry for them, but not sympathetic enough to release or comfort them. No, doting on the slaves was his father's territory. His job instead was to care for the crazy older man. Jim cheerfully urged the prisoners to start painting. They were burning the daylight they'd never see again, after all! Tim smiled, shook his head, and got to work installing a fancy security system. The last thing they needed was nosy interlopers seeing the dark goings-on of the house.

Jim left to enjoy the fancy telescope on the surface. Tim remained to think while he watched the slaves paint. The harsh lights of the hall irritated his eyes as he thought about how he had come into being. He was the product of an alien abduction. Aliens had kidnapped his father, gotten him pregnant, and abandoned the single man on Earth to care for the baby. Jim would never admit it, but anyone who got close enough (without being murdered) to him knew that he had been traumatized by the encounter. The pair had always gotten along well, but Tim blamed himself for his father's insanity. How could he not? After all, Jim had been free to destroy the world before he existed. The planet was his playground. All of that had been put on hold when Tim was born. Unlike the other offspring, Jim had actually put effort into raising Tim, and was quite fond of him. Jim's eyes always communicated that Tim was a blessing, not a curse. This did nothing to lift Tim's melancholy mood. He briefly considered making a sad painting of his own.

Jim's return interrupted his thoughts. The older man spotted a woman that had produced a terrible painting. It was just squiggles on canvas! He was furious.

"Be better at painting!" he cried.

"But sir," she pleaded, "It takes time to learn how to do this!"

"I don't care. Get better at it or I'll kill you."

"Please don't!"

She wept and went back to her task, knowing her life depended on it.

Tim shook his head and climbed the stairs. He walked back into the actual house. It was small, but more liveable than the apartment had been. There were fewer people inside to break things, after all. He curled up in bed, hiding under the covers. Tears streamed down from his face as the thoughts of self-blame returned. If only he could heal his father's trauma, if only he'd been a more independent child, if only he'd never been born at all . . . Quiet sobs wrenched their way out of his throat. Another depressive episode was taking over. His whole mind was dark and reeked of misery. He cried helplessly, unable to shake off the unwanted thoughts.

Jim heard sobbing, and it wasn't the kind he liked to hear. Normally, he enjoyed the torment of others, but this sound was too familiar. His son was crying. "Tim?" he called out. "Tim, where are you?" The man had to be around there somewhere. Jim found him in the bedroom, having a nice cry in the bedsheets.

"Hey," Jim cooed, reaching out to Tim's shoulder, "What's wrong, my boy? Did I forget to let you push the rocket buttons?"

"No, dad," Tim replied between sobs and coughs, "The dark cloud is back."

"Yeah, you're looking pretty blue," Jim examined the blue aura enveloping his alien son, "I'm sorry, I'm bad at comfort."

"Always have been," Tim said, finally cracking a smile.

"Tell me what's wrong, at least. Give me a chance to be good for once. I know I'm crazy and evil, but I care. About you, that is. Everyone else can go to hell."

Tim gathered himself before finally replying.

"Dad, I want to die. Can you kill me?"