Preamble: I had originally posted the wrong chapter here. I had put up Ch 06 of Terranauts here which will be coming! I have corrected this now. My bad guys.

Remi stood on his front porch, staring at the door like it was the entrance to a dragon's lair. The porch light cast harsh shadows across the welcome mat, and through the window, he could see movement in the living room. His phone, dead for hours now, felt like a lead weight in his pocket. The sun had long since set, and the autumn chill had settled deep into his bones during the long walk home.

His key made a soft scraping sound as he unlocked the door. The warmth of the house hit him first, followed by the absolute silence that fell the moment he stepped inside. The TV clicked off abruptly. In the sudden quiet, Remi could hear his father's heavy footsteps approaching from the living room.

Michael Halistaad filled the doorway between the living room and the entryway, his face set in hard lines that Remi knew all too well. Behind him, Remi caught a glimpse of his mother, Melinda, hovering anxiously, and Rachel perched on the stairs, trying to make herself invisible while still watching everything.

"Where have you been?" His father's voice was deceptively calm, the kind of calm that preceded storms.

Remi swallowed hard. "I—"

"Your phone?" Michael cut him off.

"Dead."

"Dead." His father repeated the word flatly. "Do you have any idea—" He stopped, visibly reining in his temper. "Do you know how many calls we've had to make? To the school? To your friends? To—"

"Michael," Melinda interrupted softly, stepping forward. "Let him explain."

"Explain?" Michael's voice rose slightly. "Explain why he walked out of school in the middle of the day? Explain why no one's heard from him for hours? Explain why Andrew had to bring his backpack home because he abandoned it at school?"

Remi's eyes darted to his backpack, sitting accusingly by the stairs where Andrew must have left it. He could picture his friend making that uncomfortable delivery, probably stammering through an explanation to his parents.

"I just..." Remi's voice felt small in the charged atmosphere. "I needed some time."

"Time?" His father's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Time for what? To worry your mother sick? To skip your classes? To throw away everything we've—"

"Michael, please." Melinda moved fully into the entryway now, positioning herself subtly between father and son. "He's home now. He's safe. That's what matters."

"What matters," Michael's voice carried that edge of disappointment that Remi had grown to dread, "is that our son seems determined to sabotage every opportunity he's given. First the football team—"

"I tried out," Remi protested weakly.

"You quit," his father corrected sharply. "Just like you quit the lacrosse team. Just like you quit everything that requires actual effort instead of hiding in those fantasy games of yours."

The words hit like physical blows. Remi wanted to explain about Shawn, about the coach's son getting preferential treatment, about the systematic humiliation he'd endured. But the words stuck in his throat.

"And now this," Michael continued, building momentum. "Walking out of school? Do you have any idea what that looks like? What people will think?"

"I don't care what people think!" The words burst out before Remi could stop them.

"Well, you should!" Michael's voice filled the entryway. "Because like it or not, people's perceptions matter. Your choices reflect on this family, on your future—"

"My future?" Something snapped inside Remi. "You mean your future. Your plans. Your idea of what I should be!"

"Remi," his mother warned softly, but he was past stopping.

"You want to know why I left? Because I'm tired! Tired of trying to be whatever version of me you think I should be. Tired of pretending everything's fine when it's not. Tired of—" His voice cracked traitorously.

"Oh, spare me the teenage dramatics," Michael cut in. "You think life is hard now? Wait until you're in the real world, where you can't just run away when things get difficult."

"I didn't run away," Remi protested, but even to his own ears, the words sounded weak.

"No? What would you call it then?" His father's voice dripped with sarcasm. "A strategic retreat? Is that what they call it in those games you waste your time with?"

From her perch on the stairs, Rachel made a small sound of protest. Melinda shot her a warning look, and she subsided, but her eyes remained fixed on the confrontation.

"Those games," Remi said through clenched teeth, "are the only place I can just be myself without—"

"Without what?" Michael challenged. "Without having to face reality? Without having to live up to any actual expectations?"

"Without having to fail at being whatever you want me to be!"

The words echoed in the sudden silence. Remi's chest heaved as if he'd been running, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His father stared at him, something unreadable flickering across his features.

"Go to your room." Michael's voice was quiet now, controlled. "We'll discuss your punishment in the morning. And give me your phone."

"But—"

"Now, Remi."

Melinda touched his arm gently as he passed, but Remi shrugged off the contact. He couldn't bear sympathy right now, couldn't handle the way she tried to mediate between his father's rigid expectations and his own failures to meet them.

Rachel scrambled out of his way as he climbed the stairs, but he caught her whispered "I'm glad you're okay" as he passed. He didn't respond. Couldn't respond. Everything felt raw, exposed, like he'd been flayed open and left bleeding in front of everyone.

His room was exactly as he'd left it that morning, his D&D materials still spread across his desk from the previous night's session planning. The familiar space should have felt comforting, but instead, it just emphasized how nothing had really changed. He was still here, still trapped, still failing to be whatever his father wanted him to be.

Dropping onto his bed, Remi stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of his parents arguing downstairs. His mother's soft voice contrasted with his father's sharper tones, though he couldn't make out the actual words.

His phone buzzed one final time before dying completely – probably Andrew or Johnny checking on him. He should feel guilty about worrying them, about making them cover for him, about everything. But all he felt was a profound emptiness, as if he'd left something essential behind during his long walk through the city.

Tomorrow would bring consequences – groundings, lectures, probably another visit to Ms. Thurnglad's office for one of her famous "coping strategies" talks. But for now, in the darkness of his room, Remi allowed himself to imagine another life, another world where he didn't have to constantly fall short of everyone's expectations.

He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the warm tears sliding down his temples into his hair. Angrily, he wiped them away. Crying wouldn't solve anything. It never did.

From downstairs, he heard his father's voice rise again: "He needs to learn that actions have consequences!"

Remi rolled onto his side, pulling his pillow over his head to block out the sound. But he couldn't block out the truth in his father's words, couldn't escape the reality that tomorrow would come, bringing with it all the problems he'd tried to run from today.

The worst part was, he wasn't even sure what he was running from anymore – Shawn and his cronies? His father's disappointment? His own inability to fit into any of the boxes the world tried to put him in?

Sleep, when it finally came, brought no answers. Only dreams of running, endlessly running, while voices called after him from the darkness.

The sound of his door banging open jolted Remi awake. He squinted against the sudden light from the hallway, making out his father's bulky silhouette in the doorway.

"Dad?" His voice was rough with sleep. "What—"

"Get up," Michael ordered, striding into the room and flicking on the overhead light. "Help me disconnect this."

Remi's stomach dropped as he realized his father was standing over his desktop computer—the one he'd saved up for months to build, the one that held all his game saves, his character sheets, his entire digital life.

"Dad, please—" Remi scrambled out of bed, but Michael was already yanking cables free with methodical efficiency.

"This isn't a discussion," Michael cut him off. "You want to live in reality? This is reality. Actions have consequences."

"But all my schoolwork is on there!" It wasn't entirely true—most of his assignments were backed up online—but Remi was desperate. "My essays, my—"

"Should have thought about that before you decided to walk out of school." Michael hefted the tower, his movements brusque and purposeful. "You can use the family computer in the living room for homework. Under supervision."

"That's not fair!" The words came out childish, petulant, but Remi couldn't help it. "You can't just—"

"Can't what?" Michael turned to face him fully, the computer tower tucked under one arm. "Can't parent my own son? Can't try to save you from wasting your life in fantasy worlds?" His voice hardened. "Watch me."

"Everything I care about is on that computer," Remi's voice cracked. "My friends—"

"Friends?" Michael's laugh was sharp. "You mean those people you play make-believe with online? That's not friendship, Remi. That's escapism. And it stops now."

Remi could only watch helplessly as his father carried his computer away. The door slammed behind him with a finality that seemed to echo through the house.

In the sudden silence, Remi sank back onto his bed. His desk looked wrong now, empty where his monitor had been, cables dangling uselessly like severed lifelines. Even his D&D materials seemed to mock him from their scattered positions across the surface.

From somewhere downstairs, he heard his mother's voice raised in protest, followed by his father's deeper tones: "He needs to learn there's more to life than games and fantasies."

Remi pulled his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. The tears came again, but this time he didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point? His father had made his position clear—reality was whatever Michael Halistaad decided it should be, and Remi's own reality didn't factor into that equation at all.

Sleep, when it finally returned, brought dreams of dragons and distant worlds. But now even those felt tainted, marked by his father's disapproval, by the growing certainty that he would never be the son Michael Halistaad wanted him to be.

Morning came too soon, announcing itself with the harsh beep of Remi's alarm clock—no more waking up to his favorite gaming soundtrack now that his computer was gone. The silence felt wrong, oppressive, like the moment before a storm breaks.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the empty space on his desk where his monitor should be. The dangling cables caught the early morning light, casting strange shadows on the wall. His D&D materials still lay scattered across the surface—his father hadn't taken those, at least not yet.

A soft knock at his door made him tense, but it was only Rachel, already dressed for school in her favorite sundress and cardigan combination.

"Mom says breakfast is ready," she said, hovering in the doorway. Her eyes darted to the empty desk, then back to him. "Dad already left for work. Early meeting."

The knot in Remi's chest loosened slightly. At least he wouldn't have to face his father across the breakfast table.

"I'll be down in a minute," he managed.

"Hey." Rachel's voice stopped him as he turned toward his closet. "I, um... I saved all those character sheets you sent me last week. The ones for the new campaign? They're still in my email, so..."

Remi felt something catch in his throat. He hadn't even thought about those—he'd emailed them to Rachel when she'd shown interest in maybe joining their next session.

"Thanks," he whispered.

She shrugged, trying to look casual despite the concern in her eyes. "Whatever. I still think D&D is weird, but..." She trailed off, then added quickly, "Mom made French toast. The good kind, with the cinnamon."

The kitchen smelled like warmth and childhood memories when Remi finally made his way downstairs. His mother stood at the stove, adding another piece of French toast to an already impressive stack. She wore her usual work outfit—crisp blouse and pencil skirt—but her movements were more careful than usual, as if she was operating in a space filled with invisible tripwires.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone she used when trying to maintain normalcy in decidedly abnormal situations. "I thought you might be hungry, since..." She didn't finish the sentence, but they all knew he hadn't eaten dinner the night before.

"Thanks, Mom." Remi slid into his usual seat, noting how Rachel had already set out butter, syrup, and powdered sugar—all his favorites.

"I called Ms. Thurnglad this morning," his mother said, placing a plate in front of him. "She's expecting you first thing."

Of course she was. Remi cut into his French toast with perhaps more force than necessary, watching syrup pool around the edges of his plate.

"And I spoke with your father," she continued, her back to him as she worked on another piece of toast. "He agreed that you can still use the family computer for schoolwork. In the living room, where we can—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Where we can support you better."

"Support?" Rachel muttered under her breath. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Rachel." Their mother's tone held a warning.

"What? It's not fair! Remi wasn't even doing anything wrong. Those jerks at school—"

"That's enough." Melinda turned from the stove, her expression firm but gentle. "We're not discussing this now."

Rachel subsided, but her foot found Remi's under the table—a small gesture of solidarity that meant more than words could express.

The rest of breakfast passed in careful conversation about safe topics: Rachel's upcoming science project, their mother's yoga class, the weather forecast for the weekend. No one mentioned the empty space where Remi's computer should be, or the fact that his phone lay somewhere in his father's office, probably locked in a drawer.

As they cleared the table, their mother paused in gathering her work materials. "Remi? You know your father... he's just trying to do what he thinks is best."

"Yeah." Remi stacked plates with mechanical precision. "He always is."

The drive to school was quiet, broken only by the soft sounds of NPR from the car radio. His father's new edicts had been clear—no more walking to school, no more independence. "If you can't be trusted to stay there," Michael had declared during his mother's attempts at mediation that morning, "then you'll be driven. Every morning, every afternoon. No exceptions." His mother had adjusted her work schedule accordingly, though Remi had heard her tense phone call with her supervisor about coming in late and leaving early for "family matters."

Rachel had claimed the front seat, an unusual choice for her, but Remi understood why—she was trying to give him space, letting him retreat into the back seat where he could process everything without having to engage. The familiar route felt different somehow, confined by his father's restrictions, each passing landmark a reminder of the freedom he'd lost.

As they pulled up to the school, their mother cleared her throat. "I'll pick you both up after school. We can... we can talk more then, if you'd like."

Remi nodded numbly, already dreading what awaited him inside. Ms. Thurnglad's office first, then classes where everyone would know about his disappearing act, then lunch where Shawn and his crew would be waiting...

"Hey." Rachel caught his arm before he could head toward the building. "If anyone gives you trouble today, I'll—" She glanced at their mother, then lowered her voice. "I'll tell everyone about that time Dad got stuck in his wetsuit at Cape Cod."

Despite everything, Remi felt his lips twitch toward a smile. The memory of their father hopping around the beach, struggling with a too-tight rental wetsuit while Rachel recorded the whole thing on her phone, was one of their favorite shared moments of schadenfreude.

"Thanks, Rach."

She punched his arm lightly. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to maintain."

Watching his sister bounce away toward her friends, her sundress swishing around her knees, Remi felt a complicated mix of emotions. She could be a pain, could drive him crazy with her dramatic teenage moments, but when it really mattered... He shook his head, shouldering his backpack.

Time to face reality, as his father would say. Even if reality seemed determined to face him right back.

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So...

I accidentally put up Terranauts Chapter 06 here not Hatchlings Remorse Chapter 06. I am TERRIBLY sorry about that.

End of Chapter

Hello All! Another chapter up. Continuing to write!

Also, a quick note. Yes, the book will get to the Isekai! One thing that usually bugs me a little bit about so many Isekai genre is either how short a time they put into establishing the main character if they’re going to do so in the beginning pre-isekai. Especially in the case of them getting reborn. Either take some time or just have them appear reborn and tell their past in the story. The best ones of course (Such as Jobless Reincarnation and Rising of the Bookworm) do either of those. But seriously, so many have like the equivalent of a half chapter or two of character development and it is so cookie cutter. So, in this one I decided to make a full backstory. Because it shapes Remi. Especially later in the rebirth cycle.

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