Page 141 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

One of them adjusts a field.

Another adds variance.

A third withdraws too late, and something stabilizes.

Existence catches.

There is no grand declaration. No cosmic thunder. No sacred birth cry of the universe. There is only the abrupt persistence of a pattern that apparently should have faded and did not. The First Ones pause around it with what the archive tags, after a horrible moment of translation lag, as mild surprise.

MILD SURPRISE.

I almost laugh then. Not because it is funny, but because my mind lunges toward laughter the way a person falling from orbit might reach for a railing that is not there.

“My God,” I say. “They were surprised.”

Sira covers her mouth with both hands.

Brakk says, “I need someone to tell me I’m misunderstanding that.”

“You’re not,” I say.

“I hate that more than the uncertainty.”

“Me too.”

The words come out before I can dress them in sarcasm. That is how I know I am in real trouble. My entire adult personality is built out of skepticism, stubbornness, and carefully sharpened irreverence. I was raised among fake miracle sellers who painted cheap stones with heat-reactive dye and called them Precursor tears. I grew up watching grown adults pay money to kneel in front of tourist traps built over vending machines and bad lighting. I made a career out of not being impressed by sacred claims.

I should be ready for this.

I should be the person in this room best equipped to handle proof that reality has no noble founding charter. I have said, more times than any reasonable person should, that origins do not define value. I have argued with professors, priests, smugglers, and one very committed street prophet on Yarrow Station that a thing can begin stupidly and still become important.

Apparently, there is a difference between saying that over drinks and watching the archive of existence label the birth of the universe as an unintended persistence event.

My knees weaken.

Ghar moves before I fully sway. His free hand comes to my elbow, steadying me with careful strength. Even unraveling, even gutted in a place I cannot stitch, he notices my balance.

That nearly breaks me.

“I’m okay,” I lie.

His eyes finally drop to mine. The devastation in them is quiet, which is worse than if he raged. “No,” he says. “You are not.”

“Yeah, well, nobody likes a nitpicker.”

“Anita.”

I blink hard and look back at the archive because looking at him hurts too much. “I thought I wanted the truth.”

“You did.”

“I still do.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it. “I think I still do.”

Sira’s hand settles lightly on my shoulder. Her touch is cool and trembling. “Wanting truth does not make truth painless.”

“No kidding.”

The archive brightens, as if our emotional discomfort is a cue to continue ruining us.