Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 45: Chapter 51

Read chapter 45 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 45: Past of the Present Part 2 James said nothing, because he couldn’t yet articulate what felt wrong. But he watched. He watched as Alexander pushed for earlier testing milestones than the team was comfortable with. He watched how Alexander read through Lillian’s architecture notes with too much interest in adaptive boundaries. He watched the way Alexander lingered just a moment too long near Peter’s hardware schematics, asking questions that felt practical on the surface but held a peculiar, almost philosophical edge beneath. And he especially watched the way Alexander began bringing his daughter, Ciara, to the campus occasionally. She was only a toddler then—older than Allen by barely a year—but wide-eyed and sharp, with a natural curiosity that rivaled any researcher’s. She would wander into Peter’s workspace, drawn by the metallic shine of half-built mechs. “Move?” she asked once, pointing to a small three-jointed prototype on his desk. “Not yet,” Peter replied, delighted by her interest. “But he will someday.” She leaned in so close her nose nearly brushed the model. “Big stomps?” Peter grinned. “I hope so.” Allen was too little then to remember Ciara in these early days. He would sit in his baby carrier near Lillian’s desk, clutching a miniature mech toy that Peter had 3D-printed for him, while Ciara peeked into his carrier with the solemn fascination children had for younger children. “Potato!” she declared. Lillian laughed. “A very cute potato.” Ciara nodded as if this clarified everything. Alexander tolerated these interactions with mild amusement, but his comments—though light—always had an edge. “She won’t be coming here often,” he told James once, voice low. “I don’t want her underfoot.” James glanced down at Ciara, who was happily drawing a robot with oversized ears in Peter’s notebook. “She’s fine.” “She needs structure,” Alexander replied. “And she doesn’t need silly fantasies about machines.” Peter, overhearing only the last part, stiffened. Later that night, he told Lillian, “I don’t think Alex likes mechs.” Lillian raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunate taste, but survivable.” They laughed then. Laughed because nothing yet seemed dangerous. Not truly. By the time Allen was two, he was walking—unsteadily at first, then with surprising coordination. He followed Peter into the workshop whenever he could, pressing his small palms against the cold metal frames of half-finished builds. Peter encouraged every moment of it. “If we’re lucky, he’ll help build them someday,” he said, lifting Allen onto his hip. “Think of it—father and son designing the next generation of exosuits.” “You’re projecting,” Lillian teased. “Absolutely.” Their home grew noisier, filled with the thumps of toddler footsteps, the occasional crash of toppled toys, and Peter’s overly-dramatic exclamations when Allen managed to pull down something from a shelf. The love between them was not grand or cinematic; it was ordinary in the most important sense. Present in every moment. Tangible. Steady. James visited occasionally, always bringing something—books, hand-me-down clothes from Ciara, or small puzzles he thought Allen might like. He never stayed long. There was a hesitation in him, a kind of polite distance that puzzled Peter at times. “You’re like a ghost old Saint Nick,” Peter told him once with a laugh. “You appear, drop off gifts, then vanish.” James had smiled faintly but said nothing. In truth, he was watching from the edges. He always had been. And as Allen grew, James’s unease grew with him. Not because of Allen himself—but because of the project inching forward, gaining momentum, complexity, and corporate scrutiny. And because of Alexander, whose charm seemed to sharpen as his patience thinned. He was changing in ways subtle enough that few noticed. James did. But he still said nothing. He didn’t know how. Lillian first noticed something odd when Allen was three. She had been reviewing her logs late one night, tracing the adaptive pa