Private The People Who Made Me

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't bring it up immediately.

She waited until the house had settled into its usual rhythm. Tools put away. Displays dimmed. The quiet that meant the day was finished, not merely paused. Omen was nearby, occupied but present, and that mattered. This wasn't something to drop into the air and walk away from.

She stood at the counter, one hand resting against the surface as she reviewed a message on her datapad for the third time. Not because it needed decoding. Because once she said it out loud, it would become real in a way plans and projections never quite were.

"Omen," she said at last, voice even, measured, exactly as it always was when the subject mattered.

She turned to face him fully before continuing.

"My parents are coming to visit."

No buildup. No apology. No attempt to soften it with humor. She watched his face as she spoke, not searching for panic, just noting reactions the way she always did. Data first. Interpretation later.

"They'll be here in six days," Aren added. "They asked. I said yes."

A brief pause followed. Not a hesitation. Space.

"They know about you," she continued calmly. "Not everything. Enough to understand that you are part of my life and not temporary." Her tone did not waver, but there was something deliberate in the way she said it, as if making the statement precise was a form of respect.

She set the datapad down.

"This is not an inspection. They are not arriving to interrogate you or me. They are curious. They are… persistent. And they will want to spend time with us together."

Another pause, shorter this time.

"I am telling you now because you deserve notice," Aren said. "And because if this is something you want to talk through, we should do that before they arrive."

She met his eyes, steady and unflinching.

"You are not required to perform. Or impress. Or be anything other than yourself." A beat. "But I won't pretend it isn't significant. It is."

Then, more quietly, without softening the words themselves.

"They matter to me. And so do you."

She didn't rush to fill the silence that followed. She waited, grounded and present, giving him the room to react however he needed to.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen was making dinner when Aren came over and said, "My parents are coming." She would hear his ass clench as he fully stood up, the look of fear clearly in his eyes as he looked over at her. His ass mangaged unclenched a bit as he sighed in relief when Aren said they had a week to prepare. "At least we have time to prepare..." The One knows he would need it to get his head on straight.

He couldn't help but wonder what they really knew about him. "So they don't know about..." With a vague gesture to his face, Aren could tell what she was getting at. Having their daughter date a clone probably wasn't on their bingo card for Aren's future.

Managing to sit down on one of the kitchen stools without toppling over, Omen rubbed his forehead as he tried to get his mind around this visit. As far as he had been concerned, Aren's parents had just been a figment of his imagination. Something Aren had made up to hide her identity as a replica droid. And yet, they were coming here in the flesh. "How long are they going to stay? Do you atleast know what I should make for them?" Aren could clearly see the Clone was nervous. This would be the most dangerous and difficult battle of his life. Unlike most combatants he had faced, he couldn't retreat from these two people in Aren's life.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't flinch at his reaction.

She watched it happen the way she watched systems spin up under stress—filed the tension, the stiff posture, the too-quick questions. She let him finish, let the nerves burn themselves out just enough to be addressed, before she spoke.

"Yes," she said calmly. "They know about you." Not cruel. Not abrupt. Just precise.

"They know you're a clone. They know you fought. They know you didn't grow up with parents, or choices, or a childhood that looks like theirs." A pause, measured. "They also know you're the man I chose."

She stepped closer, close enough that he had to look at her, resting one hand lightly on the counter beside him—not trapping him, just anchoring the space. "They are not coming to interrogate you. And they are not coming to be impressed." Her mouth curved faintly. "If that were the goal, I would've warned you to stop cooking immediately."

As for the rest, she exhaled once, quieter now. "Probably a week," Aren said. "They don't plan well when it comes to visits. They arrive, assess, linger, then decide when they're satisfied." A beat. "You don't need to entertain them. You don't need to perform."

Her eyes softened, just slightly. "My mother will ask questions. Direct ones. She does that with everyone. My father will watch and say very little, and then remember everything you did wrong and everything you did right." Another pause. "Neither of them bites."

She reached out then, fingers brushing his wrist—grounding, steady. "You don't need to be anyone else," Aren said. "You don't need to win them over. You need to be honest, and you already do that better than most people."

Then, because she knew him, she added, "And for food? Make what you always make when you're nervous. Something warm. Something filling. They'll appreciate effort more than perfection." She straightened, giving him space again.

"This isn't a battle," Aren finished quietly. "It's a visit. And you're not facing it alone." She watched him for a moment longer, then nodded once.

"We'll get through it."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen knew Aren would have talked to her parents about him at some point, and he didn't mind that. He also dreaded the coming questions about their past. He managed to put on a smile as he glanced at her, her hand anchoring him like it always did. "Well, at least they didn't walk in on us in their house. That would have been... awkward..."

Aren's statement about their parents not coming to question them or be impressed, just to get to know him, filled the Clone with some comfort. At least until she said her cooking joke, which made him narrow his eyes and reach over to playfully flick her forehead."I guess I get to ask why they raised such a mean-spirited girl since they are coming here." The Tech really should have upgraded his hands to have better flicking power.

At Aren saying her parents were staying for a week, the Clone had to tamp down a groan. "Figures... Their stares will probably wish they would bite me instead... Do they want to stay here or are they getting a hotel?" For the love of the Ones, he hoped it was a Hotel since he didn't want to give his and Aren's privacy away to host her parents. And yet he would do it if he had to for Aren's sake and the family she loved.

A slight smile sprouted back onto his face as she reassured him. Leaning in to kiss Aren's forehead, he whispered softly. "Thanks, Love. I needed that." He gave her a squeeze for his seat as she said that he just needed to cook basic comfort food for them all, and her parents would be happy enough with that. "So, my buying enough food for 4 people for a week would be enough effort? Guess emptying my wallet will be worth happy in-laws then." Jokes aside, he would have to create a meal plan for them all so none of them would go hungry.

Looking in her eyes seriously, he held onto her shoulders as he asserted that this was a battle, a battle to retain his life and girlfriend before her parents threatened to take her away at the sign that the Clone couldn't take care of her. "Hun, I have enough trouble trying to please just one Aren. Now I have to deal with three of you." Recovering his smile, he managed to thank her for her support."I know, Hun. And I'll probably need all the support I can get when your parents start playing good cop, bad cop. What do you think your mom's questions are going to be anyway?" He might as well survey his opposition before the unspoken battle was joined. But he would fight hard in this battle because Aren's parents mattered to her and so they mattered to him. Maybe just maybe they might all have a good time.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren let him talk. She always did when she knew the spiral was part nerves, part humor, part genuine care, trying to find its footing. She didn't interrupt the jokes or the half-serious catastrophizing. She just watched him, steady as ever, letting the words run themselves out.

When he flicked her forehead, she caught his wrist without effort, not stopping the gesture so much as containing it. Her thumb rested there for a beat before she let go.

"They raised a woman who learned early that precision works better than softness," she replied evenly. "You benefit from that more than you suffer from it."

When asked where her parents were staying, she didn't hesitate.

"They're getting a hotel," Aren said. Firm. Decided. "This is our home. They'll be here for dinners, maybe a long afternoon. They are not moving in, and they are not inspecting our bedroom." A pause, dry. "I already told my mother that last part."

When he kissed her forehead, she didn't pull away. She leaned into it just slightly, accepting the comfort as it was offered.

"You don't need to buy enough food for four people for a week," she added. "You need enough for a few shared meals. After that, we rotate. Or we go out. Or my father insists on cooking something overly ambitious and mildly impractical." A beat. "That will be your cue to relax."

Then she placed both hands on his shoulders when he did the same, meeting his eyes squarely.

"This is not a battle," Aren said, calmly but with weight. "No one is here to take anything from you. Least of all me."

She held his gaze, unflinching.

"My parents don't measure worth by comfort or income or how well someone plays host. They measure consistency in how you listen, how you respond when you're challenged. Whether you treat me like an equal instead of something to be managed."

A faint curve touched her mouth.

"You already do all of that."

At his last question, she considered for a moment before answering.

"My mother will ask why you stay," Aren said. "Not why you love me. Why you choose to keep showing up when things aren't simple." Another pause. "My father will ask what you want next. Not for us. For yourself."

She stepped closer again, voice lower now. "You don't need perfect answers. You need honest ones."

Then, because he was Omen and she knew him: "And if you start framing this like a siege, I will absolutely call you out in front of them."

Her hand slid to his, grounding.

"We're doing this together," Aren said. "That's all they need to see."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

One thing was clear: she wasn't raised normally... Hell, she was probably raised to be royalty, the way she spoke half the time. The Clone guessed she was right, though. She probably wouldn't have her robotics expertise without the personality, as she always wanted perfection in everything she made. "I guess you're half right at least... At least you look softer in your looks than you do in your personality." Now that he was thankful for.

Letting out a breath, Omen managed to relax as she said her parents were staying somewhere else. That would take the pressure off him by not having to host total strangers. That part about inspecting their bedroom even made the worried clone crack up a little bit. "Why would they need to inspect our bedroom. They wouldn't find anything eitherway since we are prefectly innocent people. Both of them knew they weren't and her parents would probably find something they wouldn't approve of. It would be a good thing that their bedroom would be under lock and key during their visit.

Her not pulling away kept the smile on his face. Him knowing that he didn't have to empty out the fridge also helped. "Sounds like a plan. Can your Dad actually cook though? I don't want to be locked in the bathroom for their entire visit." Given the large kitchen in her family home, Omen would have thought someone in her family, enjoyed cooking. Guess he knew which one now.

As Aren stared him down, all he could think about was how pretty her eyes looked. Still he took her points seriously, or atleast seriously in his way. "Fine... I was just gonna hide you in your workshop and say you weren't here to save you from being taken back home but we will do it your way." Omen didn't know alot about Aren's parents other than the rare times she shed alittle light on them like right now. Their questions wouldn't be the hardest to answer either. Because he missed Aren when she went away. Because he loved having her close. Because he couldn't imagine himself without her. As for the whole next thing, who knows. He only knew he didn't want to keep being Aren's bulter forever.

Omen would never get tired of the feeling when he held Aren's hand. Like everything in the world was alright. Still he knew her game. "You are going to use my words against me all the time they are here huh?" If she did, it was going to be a long life day visit.

Six days later, both of them where at the spaceports arrivals entrance in a Landspeeder, looking at the exit doors. "Hopefully we picked somewhere they can see us..." Omen had spent the days between decorating their place and trying to supress his nerves. And yet when he woke up today and noticed the circle around the date, the panic attacks started coming all over again. The Clone would feel better when they were moving again. Atleast then, he could focus on the road and didn't have to look at her parents.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look away from the arrivals doors.

She stood beside the speeder with her arms loosely folded, posture relaxed in that way that only looked casual if you didn't know her. The crowd moved, voices overlapping, shuttle hydraulics hissing in the background. None of it pulled her attention. She was already ahead of the moment, already settled into it.

At his comment, the corner of her mouth twitched. "If they can't see us," she said calmly, "they're blind. My hair is unmistakable." A beat passed, then she added, dry but not unkind: "And you're pacing like a man about to be inspected for defects, which narrows it down further."

She finally turned her head to look at him then. Really look. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his weight shifted like he was bracing for impact. Aren reached out without ceremony and took his hand, grounding him with the same quiet certainty she always used when things mattered.

"They're not here to judge you," she said, low enough that it was just for him. "They're here because I invited them into my life. You're already part of that. Nothing you do in the next ten minutes changes it."

The arrivals doors slid open with a rush of recycled air and voices. A family spilled out laughing, followed by a pair of travelers arguing softly over luggage. Aren didn't move yet.

"You don't need to perform," she continued, steady. "You don't need to impress them. And you definitely don't need to protect me from my own parents."

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles. "Just stand here with me. Let them come to us."

Then, almost as an aside, eyes flicking back to the doors: "And if my mother says something sharp, I will handle it. If my father stares too long, that's just how he thinks. Neither of those is your problem." She squeezed his hand once, firm. "You're not facing them alone," Aren said. "You never were." And she waited, unflinching, unmistakable in the crowd.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen gave Aren a sideways glance as she stared intently ahead. It was almost as if the vibrant young woman was just as scared of her parents as he was, given the glare. It must have been that they didn't like her dying her hair, and she didn't want to hear how disappointed they were in her. As for himself, he stopped walking around back and forth and leaned against the speeder, his fingers tapping idly against the metal. "Not like I can do much else while we are sitting here." Surprisingly, Omen was more relaxed than she had seen. What would be, would be. And like she said, nothing either he or she did would change that.

Dressed in a black ball cap, aviator sunglasses, and a leather jacket over a t-shirt with various floral patterns over it, Omen pulled the sunglasses down to show his eyes, trying to show her that he was taking her seriously. "You invited them into your life when you were successfully born from your Mother's womb. I'm sure there is enough space in your orbit for all of us." Her touch made him look down at their fingers intertwining before coming back up to look at her face with a caring smile. A smile that told her that he wasn't going to be scared off easily.

"The way you are making it sound like I should be scared of them, making them out like boogey men. Especially your mom. You aren't going to run me off so easily." Omen squeezed her hand back, trying to tell her that he wasn't going anywhere as his own eyes searched through the crowd. It was then he first sighted the pair he thought were her parents. A taller pale-skinned man with her eyes and a close-cut beard that was just starting to have a blend of salt and pepper, and a woman looking about the same age with hazel eyes and her brunette hair done up in a ponytail, wearing a dress and travel boots, holding onto the man's hand, walked out of the sliding exit doors with their luggage. Nodding toward the pair, the Clone only said, "Is that them?". They didn't look too threatening. If he could take on Sith Warriors, he could take on two protective parents. Only the danger here was more of a mental than a physical variety.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't move when he nodded toward the couple.

She didn't even follow his gaze at first. Instead, she turned her head slowly and looked at him, really looked at him, taking in the way he had already squared his shoulders to the moment, the easy confidence he'd found somewhere between nerves and resolve. The sunglasses, the jacket, and the smile meant to reassure her rather than himself. It was endearing. It was very him.

Then she spoke. "Omen," she said evenly. "I'm adopted."

There was no emphasis in it, no drama, no pause designed to soften the impact. She delivered it the way she delivered truths that didn't require permission to exist: flat, precise, unadorned.

She held his eyes for a moment, long enough to be certain the words had landed and not ricocheted into assumption, before she continued.

"I don't talk about it much," Aren added, her tone calm rather than guarded. "Not because it's a secret. Because most of the time it isn't relevant."

Only then did she turn her gaze back toward the arrivals doors.

The couple he had pointed out were still there, moving at an unhurried pace. The woman's hand rested easily in the man's, familiar and practiced. The resemblance wasn't exact, not in the way people expected blood to mirror blood. Still, it was there all the same: in posture, in awareness, in the way the woman scanned the space without ever looking anxious, and in the way the man's attention never entirely left her side.

"They're my parents," Aren said quietly. "They chose me. Early on. Deliberately. Without hesitation." She paused, letting the weight of that choice speak for itself. "They chose me long before I was old enough to understand what it meant," she continued, "and they never once made me feel like that choice was conditional."

A beat passed. "And yes," she added, a faint edge of dry certainty threading her voice, "I do look like my mother. That resemblance wasn't an accident, and it was never something either of us ignored."

She squeezed Omen's hand once, a small, grounding pressure meant to anchor him before his thoughts ran ahead of the moment.

"They didn't raise me like royalty," Aren went on. "They raised me to survive. To adapt. To stand where I'm standing now, without needing permission. They taught me how to know who I am even when people expect something else from me—or want me to be something easier."

Her eyes returned to him then, steady and unflinching, making sure he heard and understood this part. "They are not disappointed in me," she said calmly. "Not because of my hair. Not because of my work. And not because of you." Her voice softened just slightly, though the certainty beneath it didn't waver. "If they had a problem with the life I chose, or with the person I chose to build it with, they wouldn't be here."

Near the arrivals doors, the woman stopped walking. Her gaze lifted, scanning—and then settling without hesitation. Locked onto Aren. Aren straightened just a fraction, not from nerves, but from recognition and familiarity, her grip tightening around Omen's fingers as if by instinct rather than decision. "That's my mother," she said quietly. "She always finds me first."

She drew in a slow, steady breath, then glanced back at him, her expression composed but unmistakably present. "You ready?"

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen's eyebrows shot up as she just said it, that she was adopted. In hindsight, he guessed he shouldn't be surprised. Parents leaving their offspring up for adoption on city worlds was probably drawfed anywhere else because of their circumstances. So her admission didn't shock him. As she went into why she had never told him, he just drew her into a bear hug, only letting go when the thought of her parents watching came back into his head. "Guess we are the same then, you got adopted, and you adopted me, so I guess we are similar." It was his attempt to say that he sympathized with her, that he knew where she was coming from. And where she came from was coming straight towards them.

Looking at the couple as they approached, he saw that they looked a lot like him and Aren later on in life. Or at least he hoped. All that fear that had developed over the week started to drain away as the Clone realized her parents were human beings. As Aren explained how she was raised, Omen couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Sounds a bit like ARC training for a childhood, the way you are describing it. I just wish they taught you to openly smile and laugh more, along with it. Either way, I know I'll never be disappointed in you or the way your parents made you who you are. I'll only be disappointed if your dad sets my kitchen on fire." He had already put the fire extinguisher in one of the kitchen cabinets, just to be safe.

As the woman's eyes focused on Aren like a Raptor, that pang of fear shot through him again before he managed to settle down, returning Aren's squeeze as he took a breath. The phrase "They are only human..." ran through his mind over and over as though they were prehistoric beasts circling him. Hopefully, her parents wouldn't bite as hard. "Yeah... That sounds like a mother, alright..." Trying to straighten himself up and look presentable, he braced himself for the interaction to come. "And yes, I'm ready as I'll ever be." Omen only hoped that it was a good enough lie that he himself believed it.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren let his hug linger for a moment longer than strictly necessary, not because she needed the reassurance, but because she understood what it cost him to offer it so instinctively. When she stepped back, it wasn't to put distance between them, to give him room to breathe again.

"You didn't get adopted by me," she said quietly, a faint thread of dry amusement beneath the steadiness. "You chose me. I chose you. That distinction matters." Her fingers brushed his forearm once, grounding, deliberate. "But I understand what you meant."

As her parents closed the distance, Aren watched them the way she watched any familiar system coming online: attentive, composed, already anticipating the variables. She didn't miss the way Omen's tension eased as he took them in, the way fear gave ground to something more manageable once they were no longer abstractions.

"They didn't raise me to smile on command," she replied to his comment, voice calm, almost fond. "They raised me to know when smiling was safe, and when it was unnecessary." A brief pause. "I laugh when I mean it. They preferred honesty over comfort."

At his joke about the kitchen, the corner of her mouth did lift, small but genuine.

"My father cooks carefully," she said. "Methodically. He treats fire like a tool, not a companion. You'll be fine." Then, more quietly, "My mother, on the other hand, will decide whether she trusts you before she decides whether she likes you."

She felt the moment her mother's attention locked onto her, the way it always did, precise and immediate. Aren straightened not out of nerves, but recognition, a familiar internal alignment she hadn't realized she'd missed until it happened.

When Omen said he was ready, she turned to him fully, searching his face just long enough to be certain.

"You don't need to perform," Aren said evenly. "You don't need to impress them. And you don't need to protect me from them." Her thumb brushed his knuckles, steady, reassuring. "They're here because they trust my judgment. That includes you."

She took a breath, slow and measured, then nodded once.

"Come on," she said. "I'll introduce you."

And with that, she stepped forward, hand still firmly in his, already moving to meet the people who had made her, and the life she had chosen to build.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen's hand's past over her cheek as he smiled back at her "Glad I got close to the point atleast." Yes her smile and laughs were far between but that just made him savor them more. Like he savored her.

As her mother pointed them out to her father and wave towards them, Omen just shook his head as he gave his love a sideways look. "Are you saying your Dad cooks better than me? Now that is a low blow. But I can handle your mother's approach, its not like its any different then any other long term loan agreement. She needs to trust me before she accepts that we are a good couple together." It was an agreement that he hoped he could live up too. Aren for monthes but she would be her mother's girl forever.

At the words, "they trust my judgement" Omen couldn't help but let out a laugh as his free hand slid over his eyes. "Aren... You are taking a Clone whose kind is know for being trained for violence, who has traveled hundreds of years with who knows what effects from cryo and who in the past has been mentally unstable. And you want them to trust me..." He turned to kiss her cheek, fully knowing her parents could see. "If thats your way of telling me you love me, it works" As Aren composed herself and stepped forward, he matched her stride as they both walked forward together.

After they made introductions, he would attempt to take their luggage and then they would all stuff into the speeder, ready to celebrate Life Day.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't pull away when his hand brushed her cheek. She rarely did, not from him. Instead, she leaned into the touch just enough to acknowledge it, her expression softening in that quiet, private way that never quite translated for anyone else.

"You didn't miss the point," she said calmly. "You just took the long way around it."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward her parents as her mother waved, then returned to him with that steady composure he knew so well.

"And no," she added, a faint note of dry certainty in her voice, "my father does not cook better than you. He cooks more cautiously. There's a difference." A pause. "He respects systems. You respect instincts. Both get the job done."

At his comparison to loan agreements, her mouth curved again, this time unmistakably amused.

"That is…not an inaccurate assessment," Aren admitted. "My mother doesn't evaluate people emotionally. She evaluates consistency. You'll do fine as long as you remain yourself. She distrusts performances far more than rough edges."

When he laughed and covered his eyes, she didn't interrupt him. She waited, letting him say the thing he needed to say out loud. When he finished and kissed her cheek, fully visible to anyone watching, she accepted it without hesitation, without self-consciousness.

Her hand slid into his again, firm, anchoring.

"You're not asking them to trust your past," Aren said quietly. "You're asking them to trust my judgment in the present." Her eyes held his, unflinching. "Those are not the same thing."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough that it was only for him.

"And I don't love you because you're easy to explain," she added. "I love you because you are deliberate. You choose. You stay."

Then she straightened, composure settling back into place like armor she wore by choice, not necessity.

When they stepped forward together, Aren didn't introduce him with flourish or qualifiers. She said his name. Said who he was to her. That was enough.

She watched him take the luggage without being asked, watched her father note the gesture without comment, watched her mother's eyes linger just a moment longer, measuring not the action itself but the intention behind it.

As they moved toward the speeder, Aren glanced back at Omen once, just long enough for him to catch the look. You're doing fine. Life Day could begin however it liked. She wasn't worried. They were exactly where they were meant to be.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

He guessed she was right, like she always was on the subjects. The past didn't matter; only the love that he had for her did. Hopefully, her parents would love him in the same way. It seemed taking their luggage was a good start. Though the way her parents looked at him, he could see where Aren got her vulture-like stare now. Aren's settling glance helped keep him on the road under the scruntey.

Omen tried to ask her parents basic get-to-know-you questions to pass the time as they drove back into the city. What they did for work, what they enjoyed doing, just trying to break down that first meeting tension between them all. With the looks he was getting burning through the back of his head, he was thankful he got the speeder in the driveway without leaving a ding on it.

When they got out of the speeder and into the house, her parents would find the living room all decorated for the holidays. This would be the first real Life Day Omen had spent with someone special, and with the amount of lights and decorations on the front lawn and the Life Day paraphernalia in the house, he had clearly gone a little overboard. The Clone had even stuffed the biggest Life Day Tree he could find in the living room, blazing lights, popcorn strings draped all over it, with plenty of ornaments on the branches. He let Aren's parents settle in before starting on a filling meal that filled their bellies after the long trip here, leaving Aren to catch up with them.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren watched him do it—the careful questions, the way he kept his tone light while his shoulders stayed just a little too square, as if he were bracing for impact that never quite came. She remained quiet at first, letting the rhythm establish itself, allowing her parents hear him without her stepping in to translate.

When he finally asked what they did for work, she felt the familiar, almost imperceptible shift beside her. Not tension. Recognition.

Her mother answered first.

"I work in government," she said, hands folded in her lap as the speeder hummed beneath them. "Not elected. Not public-facing. I help make sure decisions move where they're supposed to, when they're supposed to." Her tone was even, practiced without being cold. "Most of my job is making sure nothing becomes louder than it needs to be."

Aren glanced at Omen then, just briefly, as if to say: this is where I learned it.

Her father spoke next, after a moment's pause, his voice quieter but no less assured.

"I maintain civic systems," he said. "Transit coordination. Network redundancies. Fail-safes." He offered a faint, almost apologetic smile. "The kind of work people only notice when it stops working."

As they talked, Aren felt the shape of her childhood settle into place around the words, the way it always did when she saw it reflected at her like this.

She had grown up in a house where work was never loud, but it was always present—her mother's days had been filled with meetings that ran long and conversations that never quite finished, the kind of influence that didn't announce itself but still redirected outcomes. From her, Aren learned that power often lived in process, not performance, and that consequences rarely arrived where you expected them to.

Her father's work had been quieter still. He had spent hours at a console, letting her sit beside him when she was young, showing her how systems spoke if you listened long enough. He taught her that errors weren't failures so much as conversations—signs that something had been misunderstood. Precision, patience, and respect for structure had been his lessons, offered without ceremony.

Between them, she had learned restraint.

Not silence born of fear, but silence born of confidence. An understanding that responsibility didn't need an audience to matter.

She caught Omen's eye as the speeder pulled into the driveway, felt the way his nerves eased just a fraction as the shape of her parents came into focus, not as judges, but as people.

When they stepped inside and the lights came on, her mother stopped short, taking in the decorations with a slow turn of her head. The tree. The lights. The unmistakable excess of it all.

Her father let out a soft, surprised laugh. "Well," he said mildly, "someone didn't do things halfway."

Aren looked at Omen then, really looked at him, at the effort layered into every strand of light and every carefully placed ornament. "This," she said evenly, with the faintest edge of warmth, "is his first Life Day with people he cares about." And that, more than anything else, seemed to settle the room.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Well, at least this whole trip wasn't going to be in silence. "So, a Planetary Governmental PR Official and Systems Technician. I see Aren took after you, Mr. D'Shade, with her technical abilities and where she got her ability to scare me shitless with just a glare from you, Mrs. D'Shade." Or at least that's where he assumed she got that skill from. Aren probably saw her mother win out in arguments more than her quiet Father, using just that gaze she inherited. No wonder why the mother-daughter pair looked almost exactly alike.

As they entered the house, Omen was glad her parents were behind him. They didn't need another stairs incident again. Not being able to keep the smile off of his face as he went into the kitchen and started to pull ingredients out of the pantry, he let Aren's explanation for why their home looked like a pop-up Life Day store. "First time really owning a home that I wanted to decorate." His previous homes had either been single room apartments, small houses or a derelict ship that would be just depressing to decorate.

Getting the all the ingredients to make gingerbread out and on the counter, the Clone smiled at the D'Shades in an open invention to help if they wanted. Making a sheet of the hard substance for cookies would hopefully hold them all over till he could get dinner started "Aren never told me about any traditions you had in the past but I'm sure we can make so of our own." Getting a mixing bowl out, he started to pour in and whisk the butter, sugar, eggs and molasses together, wanting this to taste as good as any cookies the D'Shade family had made in the past. Aren could tell by him trying to break his new wrist just how much he wanted that reality to be true.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren felt the moment before it landed—the joke, the assumptions folded into it, the way Omen tried to smooth nerves with humor. She didn't stop him, didn't correct him immediately. She let her parents react first.

Her mother's mouth curved, just slightly. Not offended. Amused in the way of someone who had heard worse and sharper things said with less care.

"Public relations would imply I enjoy being visible," she replied calmly. "I don't. And I don't scare people. I wait long enough that they scare themselves."

Her father let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, might have been agreement.

"And I didn't teach her to glare," he added mildly. "She figured that out on her own. I just taught her how systems fail when people ignore small problems."

Aren caught Omen's look from the corner of her eye and shook her head faintly, a silent correction offered without embarrassment, then followed him into the kitchen without further comment.

She leaned against the counter while he pulled ingredients out with the focused enthusiasm of someone who wanted this to go right. She watched his hands for a moment longer than necessary, noticing the way his wrist moved, the care he was taking even as he worked faster than he needed to.

"This isn't… overboard," she said, answering what he hadn't quite said aloud. "It's intentional. That matters."

Her mother stepped closer, inspecting the spread with interest rather than judgment. "Gingerbread," she observed. "That's ambitious for a first impression."

Her father set their bags down neatly by the wall. "And impractical," he added. "Which usually means it's worth doing."

Aren pushed herself off the counter and moved closer to Omen, her hand settling briefly over his forearm—not to stop him, to steady him.

"I didn't grow up with many traditions," she said, matter-of-fact. "Not the ceremonial kind. We did things when there was time. We stayed put when there wasn't." A pause. "This is fine. More than fine."

She glanced at her parents, then back at him.

"And you don't have to impress them," Aren added quietly. "They're watching how you move through the space, how you include people. How you take care of things that matter to me."

Her thumb pressed once, a grounding point.

"Slow down your wrist," she murmured, low enough that only he could hear. "You'll break it before the cookies do."

Then, louder, turning slightly so the invitation was clear:

"If either of you wants to help, he won't say no," she said to her parents. "Even if he pretends otherwise."

It wasn't an order. It wasn't a test. It was an opening.

And for the first time since the speeder ride, the house felt occupied rather than staged—warm, imperfect, and unmistakably lived in.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Aren's father either didn't hear him correctly or misunderstood what he meant. He had meant that he had teached Aren the coding bit while her mother taught her how to interact with people for better or for worse. Still, Omen didn't bother to correct him. All it would be putting out more confusion.

The Kitchen started to hum as Omen and whoever decided to help out, with the Clone giving the options of trying to make cooks or use sheets of gingerbread for a house. He knew this probably wasn't exactly what daily life was like back at home for her parents, especially without her there. Might as well give them a family experience while they were here. The nod and smile Aren would get told her she wasn't wrong that was intentional. "Figured I might as well go for broke. It was either this or making something else to pass the time." And hopefully that didn't mean breaking the stove.

Given how they acted, Aren's family not having many traditions didn't surprise him. Her parents were probably too busy teaching her lessons or working to celebrate holidays. He was glad she like the change of pace though. And hopefully her parents could see that too.

Omen managed to take to take a breath as her thumb pressed down on his forearm, slowing down as requested. "Just got excited to bake with you, I guess. You seldom help with cooking remember?" The smirk that was on his face told Aren that he hoped her parents would give her a finger wag for not helping out. For his own amusement of course. "And yes please, help out if you want too." To make this go alright, he was going to need all the cooking minds and extra hands he could get.

As they started to make the batter, Omen told her parents that their home was free to roam for the most part other than the bedroom Aren already swore off limits. The only worry he had if her father went down to see her workshop and saw his armor and kit bag filled with the various amounts of guns and explosives stored in his locker might cause him to ask some interesting questions that might ruin the mood.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Talia Larkin Swift]

Ignore

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren noticed the moment he decided not to correct her father. It was subtle—the way his shoulders didn't tighten, the way he let the misunderstanding pass instead of chasing precision for its own sake. She filed it away quietly. That choice mattered more than being right.

She moved into the kitchen without ceremony, washing her hands and taking a position beside the counter where she could be helpful without taking over. When he offered the options—cookies or a gingerbread house—she glanced between her parents, already predicting the outcome.

"A house," her mother said after a brief consideration. "If we're doing this, we may as well make it structurally unsound and argue about it later."

Her father inclined his head in agreement. "Testing load-bearing integrity is the point."

Aren exhaled through her nose, the faintest sign of amusement. "Of course it is."

She caught Omen's nod and returned it, just as quietly. "You didn't go overboard," she said again, softer now that they were moving. "You created a shared problem. That's efficient."

As he slowed at her touch, she didn't comment further, just stayed close enough that he could feel her there without feeling managed. When he teased her about rarely helping with cooking, she gave him a sideways look that promised retaliation later, then reached for a measuring tool anyway.

"I help when it matters," she replied evenly. "This qualifies."

Her parents worked without fuss. Her mother measured and adjusted with practiced confidence, already asking questions about ingredient ratios and bake times. Her father took charge of assembling flat panels, testing edges with the mild concentration of someone who treated even gingerbread like a system worth respecting.

When Omen mentioned the house being free to roam—except the bedroom—Aren didn't miss the flicker of concern that followed. She set down the spoon and spoke before the thought could spiral.

"The workshop's locked," she said calmly, to him, not her parents. "They don't need to see it, and they won't go looking. My father respects closed doors. My mother respects clear boundaries."

As if on cue, her mother glanced up. "If something's off-limits, we assume it's off-limits," she said. "We raised her, not ourselves."

Her father nodded once. "Curiosity without permission is just poor maintenance."

Aren looked back at Omen, her expression steady, grounding. "Nothing here needs defending," she said quietly. "This is just…people making a mess together."

She picked up a piece of gingerbread and handed it to him. "Focus on the icing. I'll handle structural failure."

For a moment, the kitchen was exactly what it looked like: warm, busy, imperfect. Not a test. Not a trap.

Just a house being used.

Sergeant Omen