Jack stared at the device on the table. It wasn't just a frozen image anymore. It was a video, and it was playing in high definition. His old man was right there, sitting in a chair that looked just like the one in the corner of the room, breathing and looking directly into the lens.
Jack's heart was hammering against his ribs. He felt a cold sweat prickling his forehead. He reached out, his fingers trembling, wanting to touch his father's face, but he stopped an inch away from the glass. The screen was cold. It felt like a wall.
"Old man," Jack whispered. His voice was thin and shaky.
On the screen, John Sterling leaned back and crossed his arms. He looked younger—maybe four or five years younger—but he still had that same tired, grumpy look in his eyes. He took a long drag from a cigarette, blew the smoke out of frame, and stared at the camera for a long beat.
"You're probably wondering how the hell this is happening," John said. His voice was gravelly, exactly how Jack remembered it.
"Yeah," Jack croaked. "I am. How are you doing this?"
"Look, I'm not actually in there," John said. The timing was so spot-on it made the hair on Jack's neck stand up. "And I'm not a ghost. If you're seeing this, Jacky... it means I'm finally dead. Buried, burned, or eaten by scavengers. Doesn't matter. I'm gone."
The words hit Jack like a physical weight. He'd known it, of course, but hearing his father say it so bluntly made it real in a way it hadn't been before. He felt a lump form in his throat.
"Wh-what? You look fine," Jack said, his voice rising. "You're talking to me right now! Stop saying that. Stop being a jerk."
John didn't react to the outburst. He just kept talking, his eyes fixed on the camera. "I'm dead. Don't waste your breath arguing with a screen. If I were still standing in front of you, I wouldn't have the guts to say any of this. Some things are just easier for a dead man to admit."
Jack wiped his face with a dirty sleeve. He felt like a total idiot, talking to a piece of metal and glass. "You're full of it. This is just some prank. You're hiding somewhere, watching me, laughing your head off."
"Everything I'm saying, I recorded a long time ago," John continued, ignoring him. "I don't know how the tech works. I just know it works. It's like a book, Jack. I already wrote the ending. You're just reading the pages."
Jack started pacing the small, cramped room. His head was spinning. He looked at the empty bottles on the floor, then back at the screen. "But you're answering me! Every time I say something, you have a comeback. How?"
"I'm probably just guessing what you're thinking," John said. He gave a dry, shitty little smirk that Jack knew all too well. "I know you. I know how your brain works. Try asking me a math question. Or what the weather is like today. I won't answer. I'll just keep rambling about my own shit."
Jack opened his mouth to test him, to ask him what seven times eight was, but he stopped. He didn't want to prove it was a recording. He wanted to keep the illusion alive for a few more minutes. He slumped back into his chair, his shoulders sagging.
"You've probably wondered why I never talked about your mother," John said. His face got serious, the smirk disappearing. "Or why I'd blow up at you whenever you asked too many questions about where we came from. That caught your attention, didn't it?"
Jack looked up, his eyes sharp. He stayed quiet, listening.
"I know you saw the photo album. I know you did, because you're a nosy brat and you never knew when to leave things alone," John said. He sighed, rubbing his face with a hand that looked calloused and scarred. "I was part of a group called Demon Slayer. I'm not going into the missions. I'm not going into the politics. Knowing that stuff gets people killed, and I've seen enough people die already. But you need to know the truth about yourself."
John leaned in closer to the camera, his face filling the screen. "First... I'm sorry. I was a shitty father. I know it. I was mostly drunk, I yelled too much, and I wasn't there when you needed me. I didn't know what I was doing, Jack. I was a mess. After the war... seeing my friends get torn apart... it broke something inside me that I couldn't fix with a bottle."
Jack looked down at his boots. He remembered the nights he spent listening to the old man crying in the dark on the other side of the wall. He used to think it was just the booze talking. Now he realized it was the memories.
"But that's not the point," John said, his voice hardening. "The first thing you need to know is... my name isn't John Sterling. I stole that name from a guy who died in a ditch twenty years ago."
Jack froze. His heart skipped a beat. If he's not Sterling, then who am I?
"I won't tell you my real name. Not yet. I'm still being hunted, even now, and if you know it, you'll have a target on your back the size of a barn door. But this next part... you can't tell anyone. Not your friends, not that girl you keep looking at, nobody. Not a soul."
"I don't even have a girlfriend, you old prick," Jack muttered, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Listen to me, Jack," John said. He looked like he was in actual pain. "You're going to hate me for this. But I can't keep the lie going into the grave. Jack... I'm not your father. We aren't related. Not by blood, anyway."
The air felt like it had been sucked out of the room. Jack felt a cold numbness spreading from his chest to his limbs. He'd always felt like an outsider—he didn't look like John, didn't act like him, and always felt like he was living someone else's life. But hearing it out loud felt like the ground had been pulled out from under him.
"We found you during a mission in the Bardanny ruins," John explained. He was looking down at his hands now. "You were in a stasis pod. A baby from another time, hidden deep underground and guarded by machines that should have been dead for a thousand years. The higher-ups, the generals... they wanted to take you. They wanted to turn you into a weapon. They saw a kid and thought 'artillery.' I couldn't let them do it."
John looked back at the camera, his jaw set. "So we blew the facility to hell. I took you, I changed my name, and I disappeared into the mud. I spent my life hiding you because I didn't want you to be a tool for some guy in a suit. But you're getting older. You're getting stronger. And you deserve to know where you came from."
The screen flickered, and a map of the Bardanny region popped up. It was simple, hand-drawn but clear. A big red 'X' was marked near a place called Lugendorf, deep in the mountains. Jack stared at it, memorizing the landmarks, the rivers, and the roads before the map vanished and John's face returned.
"That's where I found you. All the answers are in those ruins. You can walk away right now, stay in this town, and be a normal guy. I wouldn't blame you. Being 'special' usually just means you die young. Or you can go there and find out what you really are. I've given you the key. The rest is up to you."
Jack couldn't move. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. Everything he thought was his—his name, his history—was just a story John had made up to keep him safe.
John looked smaller now, older. "I expect you can't trust me anymore. After all the lies and secrets, why should you? But I mean it when I say... you're the reason I held on. I would've ended it a long time ago if I didn't have the responsibility of raising you. No matter who you are, or where you came from, or whose blood is in your veins..."
John teared up, his voice thick with emotion. "You're always going to be my son."
Jack let out a sob, his own tears dripping onto his recruit armband. "I never said you weren't my father, you idiot. I'd never say that."
"Goodbye, Jack. Good luck," John said. He started to turn away, then stopped, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, and one more thing. Clean up my room. The bottles, the clothes, the gear—get rid of it all. Smash this device when it turns off. And get rid of the ring too; it's too recognizable. And Jackie?"
John chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It was really stupid of you to try and forcefully open my stash with a crowbar. Use your brain before your dick next time, boy."
Jack's eyes widened. "How did you—?"
The screen turned white, hissed with a tiny puff of grey smoke, and the light died. The device was dead.
The room went completely silent. Jack sat there in the dark, the smell of dust and old booze filling his nose. His father's laugh was still echoing in his ears. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and let out a long, shaky breath.
"Typical," Jack whispered. "The old bastard had to get the last word in."
He stood up, his legs feeling heavy but steady. He looked at the pile of trash in the corner, the empty glass bottles, and the now-useless metal device on the table. He felt a strange kind of peace. The lie was over, and the truth was waiting for him in the mountains.
"Fine," Jack said, a small, exhausted smile on his face. "I'll clean the room, old man. But I'm keeping the ring."