Author's Note: I bet nobody ever expected to see a story for Eduardo Dorado Senior! :D This character introspect wasn't something I did with much intention—I wasn't even gonna share it—but I always enjoyed giving attention to the under-appreciated background characters. While writing my other fanfic, I actually started this one-shot about him, as a way to connect. I loved how realistic YJ was, and I just didn't think a kid could run away and not have the parent try to do something about it. Plus, it was interesting to explore the psyche of Ed's old man. Lots of fanon here as far as details, and throwbacks to my other story. Cover artwork is a pencil sketch I did.

Disclaimers: The cartoon Young Justice and its characters remain the property of © Greg Weisman, Brandon Vietti, Cartoon Network, and DC Comics Entertainment. Fanfic is titled after, and inspired by, the song from the musical adaption of Les Misérables. All rights reserved to the original creators. No infringement is intended by this not-for-profit fan story that was written exclusively for fun.

Bring Him Home
a Young Justice fan fiction

"Gone?"

For such a simple word, he found it quite baffling. By itself, it had so many variable connotations, and none of them were something a father wanted to hear. "What do you mean, gone?"

Eduardo Dorado Sr. stood in front of the work station inside the Zeta chamber, the computer screen before him now a random blur; his attention was exclusively on the cell phone to his ear, trying to focus on his own father's voice through the mounting tide of emotions.

Thiago Dorado clarified, "Your son has run off."

"Again?"

"Sí. He did not come home yesterday evening, and—"

"Last evening?" Eduardo couldn't stop his tone from intensifying, first in disbelief, then in annoyance. Quickly, he reminded himself of his co-workers flanking both sides, suddenly eyeing him curiously, their monitors momentarily forgotten as well. Covering the mouthpiece, he demanded, "Why are you calling me only now?"

Thiago sighed, tired of the reoccurring drama and accusations. "I figured he would return today, after school."

"Have you been to the school?"

There was a pause, the older man knowing no matter what he said it would lead into a fruitless argument. So he chose to respond with the obvious. "This isn't the first time, Eduardo."

There was something in his father's tenor that set him on edge, his defenses rising. Sensing he might let his anger get the better of him, and worried their words would grow too personal, he finally took the conversation outside.

"Still, he is only fourteen and he should be in school." Lingering in the hallway, the Erdel Initiative department plaque at his back, he started to feel his paternal side gnawing at him, a jumble of frustration and paranoia settling into his chest. All he could think was, Not again.

"They called me because he did not show up today."

Eduardo Sr. did the mental calculation, an equation long embedded in his brain, for the current Argentine time. And now the hour made him frown. "It's after 6 p.m.!"

Thiago tried to bring some hope into his worn voice, but it was obviously forced. "He's been gone for longer than 24-hours before."

"I know, and that is when an officer usually picks him up. He is still too young." Now he began pacing, not certain if he were nervous or angry at the thought of another civil law citation. "I asked you to keep a better watch on him."

"A son needs his father, Eduardo," Thiago said in that heated, matter-of-fact Dorado way that was all too familiar; Eduardo felt the full of his shields go up. "I can only do so much."

"Should I fly down there then?" he said, trying to maintain his professional voice but still hearing the sharpness of each word.

"That is not what I meant, mi hijo." The older man sighed heavily. "But there's nothing I can do—nothing we can do, but wait. Somehow, some reason, he always comes home."

Like a broken record, Eduardo Sr. mimicked the sigh.

He couldn't blame his father for being dismissive and idling on the situation. He was right; his son had "disappeared" on multiple occasions. Sometimes, it was a simple matter of his playing hooky, or blatantly showing disobedience to his grandfather's rules, testing the elder's will. But more often than not, his son would threaten and plead on the phone with him—until what should have been a tender family conversation to catch-up turned ugly. Then he would reprimand, and his son wouldn't back down. The phone was a constant battleground, their words like bullets across the divide.

It'd been going on for years. The boy had no respect.

And yet Eduardo Sr. could not help but feel guilty, too. With every fight, he could feel them becoming more distant, more than merely the miles between the United States and Argentina. He was afraid there was no bridging that gap now; and so, to avoid the troubles—and to his discredit—he stopped calling as regularly.

Really, he was sick of it all. The Dorado disputes intensified over the years, and so did his son's responses. It was no longer like it was when he was small, heartbroken but resigned over the offered excuses. Now, he thought his son old enough to hear the truth, without sugarcoats, and every time he outright refused his wishes to bring him to America, his son would flee in a fit of rage. Not like most kids hiding in their rooms, but independently take to the streets like an urchin. Eduardo Sr. hated his son's behavior, taking it personally, a reflection of himself.

But then, Eduardo Jr. was nothing like his father.

"So what time is your flight?"

Even though he heard Adam Strange, Eduardo Sr. couldn't find his voice as he stared at the photograph he kept on his desk. By the third day he felt like his mind had wholly shut down. Finally shaking free of his reverie, he replied, "Six in the morning from Albuquerque."

"Down to Córdoba?" He nodded. "That's a long flight. Are you sure you don't want to leave early, get some rest?"

"Over twenty hours, I can sleep on the plane."

"But you probably won't."

Eduardo nodded again; they'd been working together for more years than he cared to remember, and he realized Dr. Strange knew him well. Probably better than his own family. In truth, sleep eluded him ever since the initial call, and when no news came by the end of that first night, he pretty much lived at S.T.A.R.. Without work, he found himself glued to the phone in a desperate attempt for updates. But trying to force them made no difference; Eduardo Jr. was still missing.

"It does not matter," he said restlessly. "I will stay to finish out my shift at least. I cannot..." He spread his hands helplessly.

Adam Strange offered a sympathetic smile. "I understand. I imagine I'd be the same way. Waiting is the worst, and with your son—well, I suppose that I can't imagine."

Leaning back in his chair, Eduardo's eyes fixed again on the framed photo, an image of himself with his infant son. He never noticed it before, how few photographs he actually had of them together. There were school portraits in his apartment, a witness of his junior growing up, but otherwise... Perhaps this one he chose to publicly commemorate a happier time? Even that he suddenly found tragic. Did they really have so few joyful moments together?

For the first time, Eduardo Sr. wondered if even he could imagine what it was like to have a son...

Arriving in Argentina did not, in fact, feel like coming home. He'd been back often—undoubtedly not as frequent as he should what with work—but this time was different. There was a sense of urgency, and a vague helplessness; he almost felt lost. Quickly, he discovered just how long ago his last trip was, seeing changes in the city and buildings. He was used to it in the populated hub and business district of Córdoba, having lived and worked there in his debut years as a Zeta-tech scientist; but even the smaller districts on the outskirts had drastically changed. By the time he entered the northern-neighbor province of Santiago del Estero, Eduardo was sadly searching his recollections. When did I last visit? Christmas? His birthday? The times all blurred together.

Pushing those miserable self-reflections aside, Eduardo prepared himself to face the new onslaught of memories as he parked in front of his own father's home in Añatuya. It was the same home he'd been raised in, and it was nothing but a morphing mix of emotions seeing the residence again.

Thiago met him at the door, but given the circumstances, their reunion was not noteworthy. "Papá," he greeted, embracing the elderly man, who seemed more fragile than he recalled. "You look well."

"Ah, feeling older by the day," he bemoaned. "I am sorry you had to come. I know you're a busy man."

Eduardo couldn't stop the displeased thought rising into his mind: Why wouldn't I? He knew there were cordial phrases at the ready for such occasions: Family comes first, or I'm never too busy for loved ones. But he couldn't bring himself to offer one as a reason, because today the words felt fake.

Instead, he replied honestly, "No, I wanted to. I have too many questions which waiting won't answer."

"Well, there is still only waiting here. I'm not sure what more we can do."

Refusing to be defeated, Eduardo said, "I have to try something."

"I'm not sure what else I can tell you, señor. We've already spoken to your father several times, and like we told him, we're on alert."

Standing in the police department made Eduardo fully realize the severity of the situation. It also made him afraid. Not that his son might do anything illegal—but that something horrible might have happened to Eduardo Jr..

Swallowing back the dread, the senior Eduardo arched a brow at the final phrase from the desk sergeant's mouth. "On alert? Explain to me what that means precisely."

The officer looked apologetic, saying, "We have your son's identification and description, and it's been posted with all area authorities. We've contacted all local hospitals, lodgings, and schools. However—" Here he faltered, trying to use appropriate wordage in the face of the parent. "Unfortunately, your son has a history of running away, even reports filed. Under those circumstances, señor, we have to consider the obvious."

"You mean treat it like a runaway case, not a missing person." Eduardo Sr. sighed, his voice reflecting the cold facts.

"Do you have a reason to believe otherwise? Is there anyone you have a bad relationship with who might take your son?"

The father shook his head. He was a man of humble means, and certainly in no position to squeeze for ransom. "There's no one."

"You know, we get scenarios like this quite a lot," the uniformed man said by way of showing encouragement. "Most often, these kids are just trying to scare you for some attention, or they're influenced by friends. And they run away younger and younger every year."

"Then what can I do to help?"

The sergeant shrugged regretfully. "He's in the system."

Nodding bitterly, Eduardo turned to leave, but the officer's voice called after him. "Señor Dorado, perhaps try backtracking your son's last known whereabouts? It might turn up something useful, something only you may notice."

His son's bedroom was a tidy little nook, the same room he himself lived in during his childhood. Not much had changed within it, Thiago not a man to tamper with the character or ingenuity of a good old building. Despite the weathered design, the furniture was brand new, and the technology and trends were all kept up-to-date; Eduardo Sr. made sure to provide well for his family back home, even living modestly himself to compensate for his lack of actually being there.

He thought it was enough...

Standing in the doorway, Eduardo didn't know if he could handle feeling his son's presence, but he braved entering anyway. It felt strangely lonely inside, and at first the senior Eduardo considered it a reflection of the child's absence. But as he roamed around the room, touching each random item and insignificant possession, he began to sense the darker, forlorn emotions, almost a feeling of abandonment. And he was ashamed of himself.

Sitting tiredly on the bed, there was no warmth in the downy coverlet or softness from the pillows. Everything seemed wanting and drained. He could no longer deal with the emotions, so Eduardo allowed his mind to reach back to his safety zone, always a man of principle and science, hard facts and dry knowledge. Focus, learn, think—he was good at those things.

To comfort himself, he read the titles of the books on the shelf, pleased to find many science workbooks and notable literary scholars among them. Expectedly, one section was mostly a row of comics, neatly lined up in alphabetical order, the covers still glossy. He recognized them as purchases from America.

Yet stacked on the nightstand were several haggard and tatty historietas, aged editions he recognized from his own boyhood stash. These were showing signs of being frequently and recently read: pages notched to hold places, spines flexed beyond stability, and one folded inside-out as the current selection. Eduardo Jr. seemed more interested in his father's comics than anything else.

"You never know what you have until it's gone." Thiago's voice startled him out of his focus. "I'm not sure if it's a proverb, but it definitely holds truth. You should know that better than anyone."

"Papá, please," Eduardo Sr. grumbled, hurt. "I do not need clichés, well meanings, or your council right now." Immediately, he regretted his words, reminding himself his father was near seventy and not immortal. Trying to sidle around the touchy subject, he added, "And he's not gone—he'll come home."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, mi hijo," Thiago said almost absentmindedly. "Will you come to service with me?"

Eduardo bit his lip to stifle the fresh wave of resentment. He knew his father meant well, his wizened advice from a life lived in a more unassuming and mundane role of a harder era. But he couldn't help but wish he would stop with the veiled accusations and parental hints. At the idea of seeking help at church, Eduardo thought, My son isn't dead. He isn't gone or lost forever. There's no need to pray.

As usual, though, he didn't speak his thoughts or feelings. Instead he replied, "I'm going around to Eduardo's friends." As if that answered everything.

Thiago nodded but said, "He only has a few friends left. He had many when he was a boy, but now—well, children grow up faster, and they change just as much as the world does."

After his father left, Eduardo whispered to himself, "Do they?"

How would he know? He had been so engrossed in watching the evolution of his Zeta-beam research, making headway on his technology and assisting the Justice League with his passion for the specific science, he had failed to catch any warning signs from his own son. Or had he just chosen to ignore them? He'd been sure that by doing well in the States, following brighter opportunities, he could inspire and be a proper role model. His wife had always been boastfully proud of his accomplishments and goals, and he assumed his namesake would feel the same. But he didn't even know his son, not really, on a deep level.

And he never missed Eduardo Jr. more than he did in that single moment.

Suddenly overcome and his eyes burning with tears, Eduardo Sr. reached over to the nightstand and picked up the eyeglass case resting next to the comics, trying to forget, to make himself feel better. At least he remembered his son needed reading glasses.

But the case was empty.

He searched for the pair, but the glasses were gone. Why would he take them? Connecting the dots, Eduardo went to the dresser and opened every drawer, finding most of the space inside vacant; the child's clothing, all his daily necessities, were missing as well.

That was the clincher, the final proof he needed. His son had planned it, put forethought into what he would take with him. So it was true: he did run away.

"Do any of you know where he might go?"

The three boys in the schoolyard looked at each other rather uncertainly; he could see the dare passing between them, wondering which one would open their mouth first. Eduardo Sr. remembered the one boy, Benjamín, as having been a friend of his son's, but even he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Eduardo doesn't really hang out with us much anymore," he said. "Not since—" His eyes widened, mouth clapping shut instinctively, as if closing on a secret about to spill out.

"Since?" Catching another of the boys throwing Benjamín a dark glare, Eduardo Sr. urged, "Did he do something wrong?"

"Dunno..."

"Sometimes he acted like he was too good for us, you know?" The other boy threw in, puffing himself up before the adult to gain courage and show off. "Because of where you worked and what you did."

"Joaquín!" hissed Benjamín in warning.

Although a part of him was taken back to the time he was also their age, Eduardo couldn't stop his parental defenses from becoming angry over the attitude; not only was it disrespectful to himself, but also his son, who had no conceited bone in his body. But then, he could appreciate their feelings on a certain level, having much the same social ill-will when he was young; it was a part of the reason he studied so diligently.

"You did not like Eduardo, Joaquín?"

The boy shook his head. "I liked him fine enough, but he was too sensitive."

"What do you mean?"

The third teenager, who'd remained silent until now, answered honestly, "He didn't like us teasing him."

Benjamín said shamefully, "It was only for fun, señor. We didn't mean it."

"Every time he'd brag he was going to move to America," added Joaquín, "we'd josh him a little bit. But one day, he slugged me in the face after I said something. I don't even remember what I said—just that he knocked me on my ass and we got into it."

Joaquín laughed at the memory, but then he saw the heavy look on the father's face and knew to wipe the grin from his lips. He shrugged without apology. "We didn't really talk much after that."

"So is there anybody else he might go to for help?" They all shook their heads tentatively. "And if he ran away, none of you have any idea where he might go?"

After a long pause Benjamín offered, "America?"

Eduardo Sr. had a difficult time believing that as an option. Not only was it a foolishly long road, it sounded like his son had grown resentful towards the place his father worked. He was lashing out, throwing punches, and while ordinarily Eduardo Sr. might believe "boys would be boys", he was starting to see the clear-cut truth: Eduardo Jr. was intensely angry with him. If he ran away, it was to spite his family.

In a last ditch effort, Eduardo Sr. traveled to Buenos Aires. If his son decided to start a new life on his own, the best place would be the Latin American alpha city. He knew himself how true that was; it was where he'd attended University, met his wife, and ultimately discovered exactly how far in life he could go. But being such a huge city, he also realized it would be the best place to vanish into the massive crowds.

Unable to give in to the hopelessness of the search, Eduardo Sr. decided to meet up with an old college friend whom he occasionally kept in contact with. Lautaro Luis Villanueva was also a notable scientist in his own right, but his doctoral in biomedical engineering took him to an altogether different route, in healthcare.

"How have you been, my friend? We don't see you often in these parts anymore," Lautaro casually joked, warmly shaking his hand.

"Well, you know how it is," Eduardo said, feeling none of the same old jovial mood. "Being a scientist, they don't let you out of the labs much."

"Truer words never spoken. What brings you here now?"

"My son is... missing."

"Your son? I'm sorry to hear. What about your wife?"

Eduardo could only shake his head, a dire indication that Lautaro tactfully picked up on. "Oh, I am sorry again, Eduardo. I suppose we don't keep in touch as we should."

"Life has a nasty habit of getting in the way."

"And so does work. That's one thing I'll never forget about you, Eduardo. You had your work and nothing more—" At his friend's crestfallen look, Lautaro's face fell in a sorrowful way. "Lo siento, that was my foot speaking from my mouth."

For a moment, Eduardo felt the weight of those words crashing down around him like a lifelong accusation. But then, with a heavy breath of penance, he said, "No, it's alright. I suppose it is a fact I will have to accept. It was always an easier world for me."

"I can understand that myself. Divorced twice, don't you know?" Waving a hand as if to fend off all the awful memories, Lautaro asked with genuine interest, "So what happened to your son?"

For some selfish reason, it was hard for him to admit: "He ran away." Quickly, to avoid meeting the other's eyes, Eduardo went into his wallet and produced the most recent photograph he had of his junior, handing it to his friend.

"Handsome boy."

"I was hoping you might keep an eye out for him?"

"You think he's in Buenos Aires?"

"Well," Eduardo faltered, knowing it was a shot in the dark. "I do have a college fund for him to go to the university here, and I thought..."

"That he might follow in your footsteps, eventually?"

"I really don't know. I suppose it is still too early in this incident for either him or me to be thinking that far ahead." Now, Eduardo felt dejected and stupid. If his son didn't want to be found—if he hated his family so much—would he make it that effortless to find him again? The child wouldn't stay in Buenos Aires to succeed his sire, but most likely to hide.

"No, it's a reasonable assessment. You never know with kids these days. And of course I'll help spread the word, be on alert for you." Lautaro pocketed the photograph, patting it as if to show it was protected and in good hands. "I know this city well."

Somehow, none of it made Eduardo anymore optimistic.

Although much had changed, at least there were some things which still remained the same, even decades later. He was sure it wasn't a useful trip, however, Eduardo continued the tour through his past, as if he suddenly became a glutton for self-punishment. He visited the college, looked in on several shops and locals that were favorite spots, and even the first apartment he shared with his wife—the very one where he'd received his promotion into S.T.A.R., and the news his wife was pregnant not long after his inauguration. While Eduardo would refrain from calling himself a man of emotions, he remembered one with markedly more happiness than the other...

His friend had prompted so many memories from his younger days—and reminded him of one glaring fact: his work ethic was, and would always be, steadfast. So demandingly strong, in fact, he had never wanted children. They'd agreed, as full-time professionals, it wouldn't be in their best interest, and certainly unfair to the children. But even though Eduardo Jr. wasn't planned, it didn't mean he wasn't loved.

By the end of his trip down Memory Lane, Eduardo Sr. had come to terms with himself. If truth be told, the facts were not up for argument. He was a man of dedication and science, and he had done well in his life, following the course he set for himself with gusto. Though he was only three years old when the military dictatorship ended in Argentina, he was still raised as if humbled and cautious under the junta; so perhaps he was emotionally repressed. But despite everything, he'd done his best for his son. And if Eduardo Jr. couldn't accept the facts, there'd be no convincing him otherwise, no matter what he tried.

He would just have to return to the States—to S.T.A.R. Labs and work—and do what he could in the meantime. There wasn't much else left to do but hope for a favorable outcome.

It was Monday morning, and the other only notable occurrence on his calendar was that it was February 29th, Leap Year. He was busy assessing transmission data when the P.A. system announced he had an incoming telecom. Thinking it work-related, he had no second thoughts about pulling up the two-way video feed as he continued with his reports.

Still typing away he asked, "Sí, Dr. Strange?"

He was too buried in numbers to notice the ominous look on Adam Strange's face when he said, "Front desk is holding a phone call for you, from Panama." Dr. Dorado's fingers froze over the keyboard, his breath catching. "Authorities there recovered your son's possessions from a local lost and found."

"My son is in Panama?"

"His things, Eduardo. Right now they only found his things."

Panama? But not actually his son? Eduardo Sr. felt his heart drop fast, tightening his gut into a hard knot. Somehow his mind could not grasp an explanation or any understanding, finding confusion at the sudden appearance of the runaway boy's belongings—sans the boy. And an unwelcomed thought followed, one that turned his blood ice-cold in fear: His things, but no body...

"Por favor, put me through."

It wasn't obvious, but there was something darkly foreboding in the finding of Eduardo Jr.'s knapsack. Everything he had taken from his grandfather's home was still inside, including his glasses, a few old Argentine comics, and a decent amount of pesos. These were not things one would simply abandon at random.

With his brain constantly seeking answers, he started paying more attention to the worldwide happenings of the Justice League, not just in whatever their dealings were with the Zeta Tubes and teleportation tech. But more often, he began prying into subtle conversations between the other scientists, particularly when he heard them talk of the current infiltrating alien species—who were helping to kidnap humans. It was not public knowledge, meaning they were not grabbing everyday working people and families off public streets, in broad daylight. He was not in the need-to-know loop, only hearing secondhand after helping to construct the Zeta-Shield to block the thieving Kroloteans, so he hadn't been fully aware...

Now Eduardo Sr. was afraid, and he was sure whatever news followed would not be so positive. He no longer found comfort in work, and he often went back to his son's recovered belongings, in particular a page in one of the comics which Eduardo Jr. had marked. It didn't take him long to figure out the quote he'd fixated on:

Inodoro Pereyra: Estar solo no es nada, lo malo es darse cuenta.

"Being alone is nothing, the bad thing is realizing it."

"The Team rescued a group of children taken by the Reach, and Doctor–your son is among them."

Eduardo Dorado Sr. stared at Dr. Strange, too thunderstruck to respond. They liberated survivors, and his son was coming home. All of a sudden, just like that. It seemed like a miracle, a cause for celebration and words of gratitude. Yet somehow he didn't feel relieved or elated. There was a manner in the other scientist's body language which seemed displaced, his tone of voice candid and unemotionally thoughtful.

Instead, Eduardo prompted, "Is he... unharmed?"

Catching himself, Adam Strange managed a little smile. "Oh, he's fine, apparently. They are bringing the abductees to Taos Labs, so—"

"I want to be there."

"Of course, Eduardo. But the kids are a little skittish, as to be expected given their unique situation, and they will be quarantined for 24-hours for health observations. You may see him after that, naturally." Strange cleared his throat awkwardly, knowing it was a professional response and not considerate of the months-long ordeal the father had to endure. But he could offer nothing else.

Eduardo suddenly felt a detachment draw over him, his personal shields flaring up to protect his malnourished emotions from being damaged. Rather robotically, he nodded, saying, "Alien abduction. It is for the best, I understand."

Strange gave an encouraging nod. "Tomorrow, absolutely."

All through the night Eduardo held onto that sense of objectivity, that personal aloofness. There was something foreshadowing the announcement, and he couldn't bring himself to believe a happening so outstandingly sudden would come without woe; he wanted to be prepared for their family reunion, and whatever else might come to light.

After all, his son had still run away from home.

Wringing his hands, the father felt overcome by a profound awkwardness when he was finally allowed to see his son. He stood outside the door, unattended and given privacy, yet he lingered out of inadequacy. Eduardo Sr. had not seen his boy in a very long time, and that it was now under these circumstances seemed unreal. And unfair.

What should he say? What could he say, after everything? He was relieved to hear Eduardo Jr. was physically healthy and fit, but he was scheduled to be debriefed with Black Canary shortly; the senior Dorado knew she was chosen to also assess his mental health, how he was coping.

Drawing in a deep, slow breath of courage, he entered the sleeping cell, steeling himself against whatever would be said or discovered. But all his preparedness vanished when he saw his son slumbering soundly on the cot, on his side and facing away. He watched the boy for a time, the slow and steady breathing of someone resting peacefully, and Eduardo Sr. didn't have the heart to drag him out of it.

He had grown since the last time they'd been together. Or was he just imagining it? And he looked thin and unkempt, his hair a wild tousle of black locks, so like his mother's. After awhile, Eduardo Sr. quietly sat down on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on the child's shoulder; he gave him a gentle shake.

"Mijo?"

Eduardo Jr. stirred, rolling onto his back with a conscious sigh. Through his sleepy gaze, his expression seemed bewildered, and Eduardo Sr. had a passing notion his son did not recognize him. But then a faint smile started to cross his face.

"Papá? You are home?"

Eduardo Sr. bit his lip against the surge of morphing shame and love, and he answered uneasily, "No, mijo. You are."

His son's brow drew lower, a dark look shadowing his face. The fog of puzzlement lifted from his young features and suddenly his eyes widened, his gaze locked on something only he could see from his memories. And Eduardo Jr. inhaled sharply, remembering everything. He flung into a sitting position, drawing away from his father—

And without warning, the boy's body was enveloped in a golden aura which seemed all too familiar to Dr. Dorado. A hollow breath of noise announced the connecting of the planes, two points converging, and instantly the boy disappeared.

Then reappeared in the last direction of his sight, in the far corner of the cell. Coming back, Eduardo Jr. shrunk against the wall as if bracing himself, his expression lost, confused, and miserable. "¡Mierda! ¿Qué coño…? What happened? What did theydo to me?"

It took several long minutes for Eduardo Sr. to come free of his own shock, feeling the pressure around his world crushing in. He stood carefully, shaking his head in disbelief and his jaw slack. He couldn't find any words, none at all, at what he had just witnessed.

His son's appearance turned vulnerable, and the father realized he was ogling. Through the blank whirl in his mind, he said automatically, "It is all right, mijo."

"No!" Eduardo Jr. glared back at him. "No, it is not. Don't even say that!" As his father approached him, he snapped, "Get away from me. Just get away!"

"Eduardo—"

"Por favor." His son's begging tone lashed against him like a switch-rod. Sinking down on the floor, the boy whispered, "Please, leave me alone. Like you always do, just go."

The crashing tide of emotions was too much for both of them, and Eduardo Sr. did not know how to handle his own contained feelings, let alone the proper way to comfort his son, even in normal trying times. So he meekly nodded, sharing in Eduardo Jr.'s despondency. They needed space—he needed space, and time to deal...

Outside in the hall, Eduardo Sr. could feel his whole body shaking. He was afraid, he knew it plainly, but he wasn't sure of what exactly he was scared of. ¡Dios mío! He couldn't believe what happened!

Suddenly, he became aware of echoing footsteps, noticing another scientist coming towards him. He recognized the doctor as David Wilcox, and although he worked in a different department they had spoken on occasion. Still, Eduardo Sr. drew himself up, trying to shrug on his professional confidence in the face of such a grave shock.

With his usual unreadable expression Wilcox asked, "Is everything alright, doctor? How is your son?"

Still too stunned and distraught, all Dr. Dorado could say was, "He teleported."

He knew his son was up to no good when the security guard knocked on his office door. "Excuse me, Dr. Dorado?"

The scientist lifted his brows expectantly, and as he wheeled his chair backwards he spotted Eduardo Jr. standing behind the man, his fists in his jumpsuit pockets and a rebellious glower on his face. Inwardly, Eduardo Sr. groaned in anticipation of either bad news, or an ensuing verbal attack.

"Your son would like a moment." Gaining a curious look from the father, the younger man grinned, despite his rank. "He's been teleporting himself outside his cell, so they've swapped his room with one lacking a window on the door."

Eduardo Sr. matched the glower on the junior's face, and even though his son did him the courtesy of lowering his eyes, Eduardo Jr. scoffed proudly. The security guard turned around and said, "Behave yourself, kid. I don't wanna get called again."

As the boy rolled his eyes, Eduardo Sr. waved the child into the office. When the door was closed and the other man gone, the father heaved an admonishing breath. He pulled on the proverbial kid gloves before deciding on what to say. "Were you trying to run away again?"

"Not really," Eduardo Jr. mumbled. He pulled his hands from his pockets and dared to look at his parent. "I just... I dunno. They lock us in at night, and I do not like it. I get bored and lonely. So the other kids suggested I sneak us snacks from the cafeteria and—"

Eduardo Sr. couldn't stop the disapproving, exasperated moan. "Ah, Eduardo."

"Well, then why can I not live with you?"

There it was again. In the following days it seemed Eduardo Jr. stopped caring about aliens and meta-genes, and even about what he went through being abducted. Every second he was allowed, he found his father's office or work station—and the questions began, rapid fire.

And he had been asking to come home with his father since the first day, and it was too reminiscent of their many, many phone conversations over the past few years. At first, Eduardo Sr. was uncertain because his son was an illegal immigrant, not having a valid passport or student exchange visa. The League offered to get the necessary documentation, but his son was still secured to the labs; he himself had signed the waiver to keep him under observations.

"Can't you just... observe me?"

The query was tragic, and while Eduardo Sr. would have liked nothing more than to put the entire ordeal behind them, he did not feel ready; he wasn't prepared to be that household Dad he thought his son needed. He still had work, the League cautioned them to watch over the kids until the Reach was off-world, and Eduardo Jr. was proving recklessly independent. Eduardo Sr. was positive if he were released to his care, he'd never show up for scheduled appointments, just like he kept ditching school. And without the required protection of S.T.A.R... There were too many negative variables, too many concerns.

No, he wasn't ready to deal with it at home. But he couldn't explain his worries to the child, at least not without him growing unreasonable.

"But why?"

Eduardo Sr. sighed. "Mijo, I work with technology, not people. I am not qualified to study your teleportation powers."

"¿Por qué no? You said I am only able to do this because of the Zeta Beam. That's your area of expertise, no?" The boy folded his arms over his chest for dramatic effect.

And it worked because Eduardo Sr. felt his ire begin building. "Only the science, in relation to industrial and digital items. What the radiation and effects are on the human body is an altogether different field. There is also a psychosis involved—a break in reality to allow you to control it—and genetic research. I have none of this knowledge."

"But—"

"Dr. Wilcox has more qualifications to observe you than I. He did his internship and dissertation in San Francisco. The labs there specialize in meta-humans."

"Papá—"

"¡Ni una palabra más!" The father stood from his chair to tower over the teenager. "Eduardo, enough. I am sorry but I cannot help you."

Immediately, Eduardo Jr.'s glare turned into a look of pained shock, his mouth falling open. With his arms still crossed, he seemed to hug himself for support. He was silent for awhile, and when he spoke again his voice was husky. "Yet you still have my file on your desk."

Eduardo Sr. shook his head, tired of being hounded by his son's inability to accept the facts. Trying his best not to sound callous in the face of the child's growing wrath, as melodramatic as it was to him, he replied, "Sí, to advise."

In truth, he found it strange his son would have a meta-gene which would allow him to adapt and utilize the exact science he himself had researched and applied throughout his life. He was fascinated, and as usual his mind diligently sought some answers, even though D.N.A. was not his field of study. A part of him also felt guilty. How many times had his pregnant wife visited him at his first institute? It was a campus lab, without the high-clearance restrictions of a government or private practice, and she was stubborn and fearless in her ways.

"So you are only interested in the Zeta Beam," his junior baited, the hurt still evident in his tone. "Not me?"

Unable to meet those taunting, yet pleading brown eyes, Eduardo Sr. turned away and went back to his computer. "I am not answering that, Eduardo. You know that is not true."

"No, I don't. Interface colloid, streaming current, adaptive radiation, E.O.F. physics, Zeta potential—I don't understand any of it. And now this meta-human bullshit."

"Eduardo!"

"You know what? I really do not care anymore. If you are such an expert, padre, then you should be able to fix me. I don't want this power, and I don't want to be like you!"

Before he could open his mouth to scold his son, already hearing one of the same defensive phrases about to leave his lips once more, the junior Eduardo turned on his heels and fled the room, intent on having the final say. He shut the door so hard it bounced back opened.

The boy was such a problem! Always quick to disrespect. Being around his son was like handling an acid; the longer he held on to it, the more it eroded his resolve and emotions. And now Eduardo Sr. was feeling the aftermath of the ordeal like a searing burn, pain he didn't feel he deserved. He didn't understand what went so wrong all the time, why it was so cold to talk to his only child. If he didn't understand it, how could he cope, let alone rectify the problem?

Running a hand through his hair, upset, he stared back at the empty hallway, the path where his son had run away from him. And the thought shot through his mind again:

Eduardo Jr. was nothing like his father.

The End.