>>5414794>>5414798>>5414850It isn't a long walk.
You're led to a room on the far side of the mansion where your father is being treated. Jimba says something about a 'successful decoy' to whoever it is he’s speaking with over the radio now, maybe it's still Ramba. You barely have any time to think of it before you catch sight of your mother, Casval, and Artesia being hurried down the opposite side of the hallway by a pair of soldiers, their blonde hair in stark contrast with the drab colors of the soldier's uniforms.
“Felix! Oh, you’re alright, I was so worried!” Your mother cries out, hurrying over to you and leaving the pair of soldiers in the dust.
Your mother embraces you in a tight hug, and Artesia begins crying as she joins in a moment later. Casval stands off to the side a few paces away, his blue eyes locked intently on the wooden door leading into the room your father is being treated in as Girard enters the room. The old doctor steps out of sight for a moment before waving you all in.
You rarely come to this part of your home, and the interior of this room is a strange sight, half a guest room and half like the hospital room you had to stay in when you got very sick a few years ago. A vague memory plays in the back of your mind, a half remembered conversation between your father and Jimba about the need for precautions like better armed guards and medical equipment… it flew over your head at the time.
Your father, Zeon Zum Deikun, lays under the white covers of an uncomfortable looking bed, a number of compact machines nearby monitoring his vital signs. He shifts his head the slightest amount, barely moving at all to look at you as you enter, but he says nothing. His lips start to move, but words don’t form, and it occurs to you on some instinctive level that he <span class="mu-i">can’t</span> talk. Father doesn't look like himself, there’s something distant about his gaze, his eyes are sunken and strange and there’s a pallor to his skin. It’s as if he’s already mostly gone, somehow faded from life while still just barely lingering on.
Artesia continues crying, and you almost start to as well, but you manage to blink the tears away as your mother guides you over to the bedside. Your father’s hand shifts slightly, barely opening, and you reach out to hold it. He’s cold, far too cold. Artesia joins you, her smaller hand nestling alongside yours, and soon enough so does Casval.
