Another Unoriginal Oneshot Book

The Prodigal Son

New Canaan, August 2277.

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Eyes.

Everywhere.

Joshua wasn't looking, but he could feel them.

Four months ago, he'd have said the stares burnt against his skin. But now he knew what it was to burn. No, they itched, dug into his flesh. They made him want to fidget in his seat, something he never did. They made him want to get up, turn on his heel, and leave the crowded chapel. Maybe leave New Canaan. Find somewhere else to suffer the rest of his days. Maybe go back to Caesar and beg forgiveness—

...No.

His mind drifted back to the Legion often. They weren't pleasant thoughts. Only once he'd reached New Canaan and seen the stark difference between the two did he realize how dark the Legion had become. Seeing parents with their children, visitors from friendly tribes, or even men and women speaking as equals, was jarring after thirty years of war and barbarity. The culture gap was difficult for Joshua to bridge, which was how he had come to the incident this morning.

It had not been his fault. Well, it was entirely his fault. But he hadn't been the one to start the argument.

The town had gathered in the shade of its enormous stone temple, as they did every Sunday morning. It was a pre-War structure, the pride and central hub of the community, scorched by purging fire but never destroyed. The people greeted each other, shared stories, discussed the usual mundanity. Joshua had hung back to observe, nodding when addressed but avoiding conversation. He spoke many languages, yet somehow his native tongue — blessings and familiarity — seemed foreign to him now. Esther was milling about with the crowd, leaving him alone on his crutch by the entry.

Near him had stood a teenager, making doting faces at some boy several yards beyond him. She had turned her attention briefly to Joshua and noticed his raised eyebrow. Defensive, she had stammered on for a few moments, until Joshua told her, in briefest terms, that he didn't care.

What he had meant was that she could flirt as much as she wanted and it didn't matter to him. The girl
had taken it the wrong way, masking her embarrassment with noisy indignation. She'd balled her little fists at her sides, stamped a foot, and shouted some nonsense at him. He'd interrupted her with a clean backhand to the face.

The girl had staggered, shocked, and Joshua had remembered suddenly that he couldn't assault people who undermined him anymore. He'd heard the crowd gasp, some horrified, others shouting. Joshua had been considering an apology when the girl's father hauled back and punched him.

Under normal circumstances, Joshua could take a hit, though he didn't often have to. Anyone who wasn't shooting at him was usually too subservient to even make eye contact. Surprised, he had stumbled back. His injured legs couldn't take the sudden shift, and he'd dropped lamely into the dust.

There he had lain on his back, every inch of him in various degrees of pain. Getting up would have been a mistake; he would have shaken and possibly even fallen again. He could only take so much indignity, and the past months had given him a lifetime's worth. So he'd folded his hands across his front, blocked out the sound of the crowd, and waited for sacrament to begin so he could limp back to Esther's house in privacy.

Abraham's face had appeared in his field of vision, followed by Daniel's. Joshua kept his eyes on the Utah sky, but he couldn't ignore them as they physically maneuvered him to a standing position, each supporting an arm.

"I'm going home," he'd muttered.

"No, you're not," Abraham had growled. "You're walking into that building and sitting down with your family, and you're dealing with the consequences of your actions." Joshua had glanced to Daniel for help, but the younger man wasn't about to argue with his father.