Neptune - Part 3

Part 3 – Familial Bonds
Neptune's Journal 05/02/2025
Sorry for using your diary, Neptune, but we don't have any other good paper to write on. Don't worry, I didn't read any of your other entries. Or am I allowed to? I'm not really clear on your rules about this notebook. Let me know!
Food is getting lower, so I will be going into town to see what kinds of things I can pick up. Where are you right now? I guess by the time you read this, your answer will be that you're right in front of this book. Smartass. Hypothetical smartass, I mean. With me feeding you answers like this, you probably won't be answering the question anyways. It looks like you took Uranus with you.
I will take Venus with me to go get food, because she needs to learn how to be useful. Saturn and Jupiter will be able to take care of themselves here. If I'm not back by the time you read this, wait for two more hours before marking who is present.
***
I return home to see my wife, a plain looking collie recom, sitting in the living room fiddling with a mobile computer. At least she looks plain to me. I am told that she is rather beautiful, but my enmity towards her blinds me to it. I do not acknowledge her. Instead I opt to climb up the stairs to the upper level where both of my children's rooms are located, down the hall from the bedroom that Cheryl and I share. The combination of my position on the Lunar Council and my trading business affords me a decent salary so that I can provide a comfortable home to my family.
I hesitate for a moment as I pass Natasha's room. The door is slightly ajar, but the hand drawn skull and crossbones picture posted on it warns against entry. I move on for now, just slightly further down the hall to Paris's room. Her door is closed, but a little bit more inviting. I still knock before entry, but there is no response. I enter anyways. Paris, at eight years old, is my little princess. I see her, an ocelot recom like myself and in no way resembling her mother, sitting on the hardwood floor, propped up against the plain white walls. She is playing with her wood chess set. By the way that the pieces were placed, I could tell she had modified the pieces' roles in a form of fairy chess that she would sometimes play with Luke. At the moment, she is holding one of the pawns in her hand, rolling it between her fingers and examining it. She does not look like she is interested in making any more moves or in the game itself. She drops the pawn and looks up at me.
"Hi, daddy," she says softly, and I sit down next to her, careful not to displace any of her game pieces. She sees my careful movements and assures me, "The game's over. The knights are two two hoppers that capture like kings and the bishops are nightriders." I look at the board for a few moments. I see the checkmate in three, and then focus back on my daughter.
"Are you okay, Paris?" I put my arm around her, resting my hand on her shoulder. While Darryl and Samara's children were much younger than mine, the precociousness common to Sol line children of such strong bloodlines still made them excellent playmates for my children. I can tell by the placement of the fur surrounding her eyes that she has been crying.
She nods after a few moments, "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm sad that I won't ever see them again. They were my friends... and now they're gone." She leans against me and says, "Daddy, why do people die?"
I shake my head. "I'm not sure." I understand the biological reasons that recoms die, but I do not think that is what she is asking about. I hug her close and add, "I love you, princess." I let her lean on me for a few minutes silently. Just being close to a parent seems to be therapeutic for her, and heaven knows that Cheryl is not equipped to parent these children properly.
"Is it okay with you if aunt Tam stays in our guest room for a few days?" I ask after the silence has lingered long enough. I want to make sure with my children are okay with it. They are still upset and I would rather not push them out of their comfort zones.
Paris nods at my question and asks, "Is she doing okay?"
I gently squeeze my daughter's shoulder and stand back up. I don't like to sugar coat things. "This is the kind of thing that can break a person. I hope she is, but I'm worried. She needs all the support she can get right now. I'm going to go talk to Natasha, and then down to the library if you want to talk about anything."
"Okay." She starts setting up the chess pieces again, though in unusual spots, due to nature of the modified game. I walk out of her room and back towards that skull and crossbones in the hall. I love both of my children, but Natasha is always far more difficult than Paris is. I knock on the door a few times, the sound of my knuckle against wood dulled by the way the door is opened.
I hear a voice through the door. "What?"
"May I come in?"
I hear shuffling about before Natasha opens up the door to peer at me. Like Paris and I, ten-year-old Natasha is an ocelot recom. They are both mostly created from my own DNA, slightly altered with pieces of Cheryl's genetic code. I sometimes wonder if this is why she is not a very dedicated mother, but I suspect that she simply possesses no maternal instinct. Or ability to care about anyone else at all. The reason we did not go the regular route of equal combining, however, was because Cheryl's genes contain many predispositions for genetic conditions. "What do you want?" says the child before me.
She is wearing her karate uniform, and looks like she has just been exercising. Her hair is tied back, though the way it is tied makes her look like a little boy. She crosses her arms and raises her brow at me slightly.
"Natasha, do not speak to me like that," I say sternly. Her ears fold back in frustration as soon as I speak her name and she retreats into her bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.
"I hate that stupid name," she says as she starts over with her martial arts forms. I step in and look down at her, watching her motions. As is customary in my family, I had both of my children take up martial arts so that they can keep fit and defend themselves in the future. Paris chose to go with fencing and savate, while Natasha opted for karate and naginatajutsu. While Paris practices diligently, Natasha obsesses.
I shake my head at her. "It was your grandmother's name. She was incredible, you know. A strong, intelligent and passionate woman, just like I'm sure you will be someday."
"Well, I hate it. I've told you over and over that I hate it!" she says, starting to raise her voice, though she does not allow her anger interrupt her forms. She's right. She has. But usually she is not quite as upset about it as she has been for the last few days.
"Alright, Tash, I'm sorry. I don't mean you any disrespect. Let me know if you want to be called Natasha again." I sit down on her bed, brushing some dirty clothes off of it onto the floor. I hate to interrupt my children when they are engaged in their hobbies, since I remember how frustrated I was when the same thing was done to me as a child.
She finishes running through her forms and turns around to look at me. "If you're going to ask me if I'm doing okay, I'm fine."
"Mostly, I'm just saying hello and letting you know that I'll be around in case you would like to talk to me. I'd also like to ask if it would be okay if Tamara stayed in the guest room for awhile."
Her eyes light up. I know that, for some reason, Natasha is very fond of Samara. While I think that Sam has a certain charm about her, I would not say that I am enthralled with her personality. After a second or two, however, her expression dulls with the realization that the Sam who she knows is going to be in mourning. "I feel bad for her..." Natasha crosses her arms and leans against her bed. "How was she at the funeral today?" she asks with a moment's hesitation.
"She was trying to act calm, but she broke down."
Natasha looks downwards at hearing that and then nods, "Yeah, it's okay." She pauses. "I'm going to keep on going through my karate forms."
I nod and gently pat her shoulder, letting her know, "I'll be in the library until your bedtime, Tash," and walking out of her room. I head down the stairs into the living room for my daily confrontation with my darling wife. I stand behind her seat and watch her computer monitor. She is clearly aware of my presence, but shows no want to start any kind of conversation. So I begin.
"Tamara will be staying with us here for a little while."
Cheryl continues pressing the buttons on her computer, the animations on the screen making it obvious that she is playing a puzzle game. If I can even call this colourful nonsense a puzzle. "Like hell she is. Just send her to a hotel or let one of her other friends take care of her. You choose the most annoying times to be sympathetic."
I chuckle derisively, "I'm not asking a question. I'm stating what's going to happen."
"Ugh. I know your little friend is going through a tough time, but I really can't deal with Tam's weird tics. I don't need my house redecorated by an obsessive compulsive crazy person."
She still doesn't look up from the screen so I reply, "It's my house. You just happen to have the luxury of living in it. She needs to be around friends, so she's staying."
Finally, Cheryl's eyes tear away from the monitor and she says to me, mildly, "You seem adamant about this. No doubt because of your 'affinity' for androgynes. You're a sick man, Errol. Her husband is not even cold in the grave and you-"
"Shut your mouth, Cheryl."
"And you want to invite her into our home, no, invite it into your home to what? Offer your shoulder for sweet comforts?"
"You are trying my patience." I do not shout. Shouting is one of those petty things that lesser men do.
"And you're trying mine. I do not want it in my house. I don't understand how a man could pick an androgyne, and one screwed up as much as Tamara, instead of a real woman. Darryl was a good looking guy," says Cheryl, smiling slightly. She enjoys pushing my buttons, I know it.
"You are no more a real woman than a cactus is a kitten."
"And you're no more a real man than your first ancestor." She looks back at her monitor, "Whatever. There's no use in arguing with you. You'll just have her over anyways. Retreat to your library, little man."
I shake my head at her and walk away towards my library. There is no use in talking to her. The only thing she does is foul my mood. I enter my fortress, the room in the house where I know that my wife will not tread, and pull one of Neptune's poetry books off of the shelf.
I look forward to my meeting with Nova.