PROJECT: CAYRO

Cayro Bracton

October 22, 2025

18:58 EST

Lyconotu Manor,

Pigeon Forge, TN

I picked up a 5/16ths inch wrench from the ground and began to rotate a bolt on the 1942 Harley Davidson motorcycle, now stripped and scattered across the garage. It had been hidden under an old tarp—someone had started restoring it but never finished. One by one, I gathered the parts, laying them out with methodical precision. Piece by piece, I dismantled the machine down to its bare frame, labeling each part with masking tape to mark what it was and where it belonged. The bolts, neatly arranged beside their respective parts, became markers of the order I was imposing on this chaos.

Each movement was calculated, purposeful. Each step, memorized as I worked. This was my world now, the only thing I controlled. No outside forces, no complications, and certainly not my father. Just me and the machine. Nothing else mattered.

The olive drab paint on the bike matched my mood—dull, worn, chipped. Just like I felt. Damaged. It was as if life had tossed me into a rock tumbler, pulverizing me at every turn. Every time I tried to step forward, something sideswiped me, knocking me back. I closed my eyes, pushing those thoughts away, and refocused on the task in front of me. This was where I belonged—the smell of grease and oil, the mechanical hum of progress under my control.

The wrench turned, and the next bolt came free. I stood up, carrying it over to the layout of parts, setting it down beside the fuel tank. Returning to the bike, I grabbed the next bolt. The sharp scent of gasoline filled the air, reminding me of the shop in Hampton. As I set the wrench onto the bolt, I couldn’t shake the thought: That man… my father... He had destroyed everything. No regrets. No remorse. I was his experiment, his creation, something he forced into existence because he could.

The wrench slipped. My hand slammed into the engine block, a sharp sting of pain shooting through my knuckles. It was like the last fragile piece of glass holding me together had shattered. I grabbed the wrench and hurled it, letting out a guttural yell. It spun end over end, slamming into the garage door with a loud clang that echoed through the space. It wasn’t enough. The storm inside me was unleashed, and nothing could stop it now. My father had made a monster, and I wasn’t about to hold back.

I grabbed the nearest toolbox and flung it like it weighed nothing. The drawers exploded open, tools spilling out in all directions as the box slammed into the wall, warping from the impact. The walls of the garage rattled, tools clattering to the ground in a chaotic symphony of noise.

I wasn’t done.

Gripping the vise mounted to the heavy workbench, I ripped it free, hurling it with a growl of rage. It crashed into the toolbox, caving it in further with a groaning metallic whine. I roared, feeling like this metal box had to pay for everything. It needed to die. I grabbed a large hammer and threw it hard, watching it bounce across the concrete floor, sparks flying as it skidded. The handle shattered as the head of the hammer collided with the toolbox again, warping it beyond recognition.

I didn’t know how long I spent raging against the machines in the garage, but by the time it was over, I was sitting on the cold concrete floor, my head between my knees. My whole body shook uncontrollably, and hot tears streamed down my face. My mind raced, thoughts colliding so fast I couldn’t keep up with them. I was lost. The one thing that used to ground me wasn’t enough anymore. The thing I relied on for comfort had failed me.

I was losing who I was.

Sitting there, everything was still except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the soft whir of the HVAC system. The garage seemed to hold its breath, as if the chaos I had just unleashed had silenced even the inanimate objects. The only sound loud enough to cut through it all was my own ragged breathing. And the thoughts. The damn thoughts, spinning uncontrollably in my head. I was alone, and nothing seemed to help.

The creak of the side door, slow and deliberate, followed by the gentle shuffle of footsteps, broke through the silence. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. Not after the wreckage I’d caused. Not after losing control. I felt soft fingers slip into my hair, a body pressing against my side, and I knew who it was. Her presence washed over me, the way she always did. She stroked my head gently, her touch calming, grounding. But I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes. I didn’t want her to see me like this—not the monster I had become. Not the thing my father had made me.

"Looks like the toolbox pissed you off," she said softly, her voice calm, almost teasing.

I shrugged, not offering anything in return.

She laughed, a quiet sound that filled the space like soft chimes echoing in the garage. It was a sound that seemed to cut through the pain swirling in my mind, relaxing my body almost instantly. Her laugh had always done that—grounded me when I couldn’t find my own footing.

"If I didn’t know better," she said playfully, "I’d say the toolbox had it coming."

For a moment, I bit my inner cheek, debating whether to say anything. But something inside nudged me forward, and I exhaled, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "It wasn’t the box that set me off. I slammed my hand into the motor of that motorcycle."

I pointed toward the disassembled bike.

"Huh… I’m surprised you didn’t smash that instead," she replied, her tone steady.

"I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it," I said, more to myself than to her. "It has… history. It reminds me of me."

She paused, her fingers still in my hair, before asking patiently, "Why’s that?"

"It was built for war," I answered, my voice low. "It’s seen its fair share of hate and destruction before being abandoned and left to sit alone."

Her hand stilled for a brief moment as she considered my words, then resumed stroking my hair, soothing me. "Cayro, you were never abandoned. You have so many people backing you up. You aren’t alone."

"I was abandoned by the one person who should have been there for me," I replied, bitterness creeping into my voice. "The one person who should have loved me, raised me. Instead, I’m just his experiment. His toy."

I felt her hand slide down to rub my back gently, offering comfort before she stood, her presence lingering as she moved away. "That man isn’t your father, Cayro. Your father is in the living room, blue hair and all, trying to figure out how to comfort you."

I looked up, watching her as she crossed the garage to the bike I’d been working on. She bent down, picking up a wrench that had been thrown in my outburst. Then, without a word, she padded back over to me, holding it out.

"Come on," she said, her voice soft but encouraging. "Let’s finish working on it."

I stared at her for a moment, her amethyst eyes burning into mine. I didn’t want to get up at first, didn’t want to face this mess I’d made. But her presence, her patience, was enough. I took the wrench from her hand and stood. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me close, and whispered, "You aren’t alone, Cayro. You have me."

She kissed me gently, then let go, turning back to the bike. Without hesitation, I followed, sitting down beside the machine as she joined me with a handful of wrenches.

Together, we resumed where I had left off. It was like working on the skycar all over again. We didn’t need to speak; we just knew what needed to be done. We worked in perfect silence, understanding each other instinctively. The only sounds that filled the garage were the clanking of tools against metal and the steady turning of bolts. Harmony restored, piece by piece.

It wasn’t long before another figure entered the garage. My grandfather, holding his signature glass of dark soda—probably spiked with his favorite whiskey—quietly took in the scene. He walked over to the mess I’d made, eyes filled with intrigue, before grabbing a stool and sitting down. He didn’t speak, just sipped his drink as he watched Star and me work. He didn’t need to say anything; his presence was enough. It was like he had come to watch over us, to make sure we were okay, as he always had.

That brought me comfort. He’d always made a habit of this—being there when I needed him most, especially when I worked late or we had tight deadlines to meet. He’d sit in the corner, quietly keeping watch, offering help only when I asked for it. It was a familiar ritual, a small unspoken bond between us that I cherished. Just knowing he was there made things feel steady again.

For the next hour or so, Star and I worked in near silence, the only sounds being the soft clinks of tools and the ratcheting of bolts. We moved together seamlessly, as we always did, a silent, practiced rhythm guiding us. Then, the quiet harmony of the garage shifted when Dr. Zaraki entered. His arrival was like a needle scratching across a record. Star froze, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at her father, as if wondering what he was doing there. But after a few moments, she went back to work. The tension lingered between them, but it wasn’t as thick as I’d seen before. It was progress.

I kept working but watched Dr. Zaraki from the corner of my eye. He stood by the wrecked toolbox, staring at it with an intensity I couldn’t quite place. After several long minutes, he started picking up the tools that had flown everywhere in my outburst, his movements methodical, almost meditative. He made a few quiet trips back and forth from the toolbox to the workbench, carefully laying the tools out.

Then, something changed. His posture shifted. I could see it in his face—the recognition of something familiar, something long buried. I followed his gaze and saw he was looking at a few scattered pieces of the bike laid out on the floor. It was like he was remembering something from a distant past.

I turned my full attention to him, curiosity gnawing at me. What was bothering the so-called Master of Death? What had the bike stirred up in him?

“Is everything okay, Dr. Zaraki?” I asked, my voice low, cautious.

Star, too, had stopped working, lowering her wrench as she looked up to see what had caught my attention.

“Where did you find this motorcycle?” he asked, turning to face me, his voice tinged with something deeper than simple curiosity.

I pointed toward a nearby corner, where an old, stained canvas tarp lay crumpled. “Over there. It hasn’t moved in years. The floor was stained with oil from where it was sitting.”

Dr. Zaraki knelt beside the bike, his hands hovering over a fender before he finally picked it up for a closer look. Star looked like she was about to protest—this was our project, after all—but I raised my hand to stop her. There was something in his expression that told me this bike meant something to him. My grandfather, ever perceptive, was the one to break the heavy silence that had descended on the garage.

“Dr. Zaraki? Is something wrong?” he asked gently, his voice laced with concern.

Zaraki turned to face the three of us. His expression was solemn, almost reverent, as he held up the fender. He pointed to the red medical cross emblazoned on it. As I looked closer, I noticed something barely visible—a figure etched within the cross, wild and primal, its head thrown back in what looked like a howl.

"Does that mean something to you?" I asked, my curiosity growing.

“Yes, it does,” he said quietly, shifting his jaw as though he were chewing on old memories. “This used to be my signature emblem.”

He traced his fingers along the fender with a kind of reverence, his eyes closing briefly as he let the memories consume him. When he opened them again, his voice dropped to a whisper, as though speaking to the past.

“I thought I had lost this thing a long time ago…”

“Dad? Are you saying this motorcycle is yours?” Star asked softly, her voice a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

“Yes,” he answered, opening his eyes and staring down at the fender in his hands. “I used this bike during World War II as a medic for the troops.”

I blinked several times, trying to wrap my head around what he had just said. Did I hear that right? Dr. Zaraki, the man I had known as the Master of Death, had been a combat medic during World War II? I turned to look at Star, but her expression mirrored mine—confused, maybe a little awestruck.

“Wait... did you just say you were a medic in World War II?” I asked, needing to hear him confirm it once more.

“That’s correct,” he replied, his voice soft but steady. “It was around that time that I earned the name Howling Mad. The troops thought I was insane, riding into combat without a weapon, just to give aid to the injured.” His eyes seemed to drift back to that time, his tone growing distant. “It was one of the darkest times in human history.”

I felt my jaw drop as I processed the enormity of what he was telling us. Star must have felt the same shock because she quickly followed up with a question of her own, her voice steady but curious.

“Father, just how old are you?”

She slid her grime-covered hands into her lap, her focus entirely on him now. Dr. Zaraki leaned down and carefully placed the fender back with the other parts before standing up to face us. He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, clearly debating how to explain something this monumental. When he finally lowered his gaze, there was a deep resolve in his eyes, as though he had decided it was time we knew.

“I don’t remember exactly when I was born,” he began, his voice pulling us into a story that felt both distant and immediate. “Back then, the concept of time was more philosophical than practical. We measured days by the passing of seasons and the movement of the sun. Time as you know it now wasn’t something we kept track of. I do remember the day I was pronounced a man—it was one harvest season before everything changed.”

Star, while still listening intently, picked her ratchet back up and quietly resumed working. I could see she was being careful not to make too much noise, her hands moving in deliberate motions so as not to break the story’s spell. I, too, remained motionless, absorbing every word. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandfather, his drink hovering just below his lips, completely entranced by Dr. Zaraki’s words.

“I was a devoted follower of what you now call the Old Testament,” Dr. Zaraki continued. “One day, our village was attacked. We fought... my father, my family, we all fought, but it was hopeless. I remember the battle being bloody, brutal... and I remember the sword going through my chest. My father and mother died right beside me. My younger sister... she was captured and... used.”

I watched as tears began to form in his eyes, the weight of that long-buried pain surfacing as he spoke. It was difficult to reconcile this man—the one standing before us, strong, nearly invincible—with the vulnerable boy he must have been during that horrific time. But his emotions were real, undeniable.

“As I lay there, dying, I looked up at the stars and asked the only question I could: Why? What had my village done to deserve such a fate? The answer came, but it wasn’t what I expected. I was given a choice. A chance to right the wrongs consuming the world. But there was a cost... a heavy cost. If I wanted to keep living and bring balance to the earth, I had to give up my humanity. I had to bind my soul to the realm of life and death—what I now call the Soul Realm.”

Star nudged me gently, pulling me momentarily from his words. She needed help with a part, and I offered my assistance while still keeping one ear on Dr. Zaraki. His story wasn’t just fascinating; it was unraveling layers of him I had never seen before.

“I agreed to the offer,” he continued, his voice laced with the weight of that ancient decision. “The death of my family fueled my anger. I wanted revenge... I wanted justice. But what I didn’t understand back then was the true cost of what I had agreed to. The imbalance in the world wasn’t caused by my enemies; it was caused by the souls that weren’t returning to the Soul Realm. That imbalance threatened to destabilize everything. And the being you would call God... they knew it was only a matter of time before their creation collapsed under its own weight. So, they created me. The first Draconian, tasked with overseeing the balance of life and death. This happened before the birth of Christ.”

He finished speaking and moved to sit down on an empty stool, clearly spent from sharing something so deeply personal. Star and I exchanged a look, both of us trying to absorb the enormity of what he had just revealed.

My grandfather broke the silence with a question that lingered heavily in the air. “You were alive when Christ was around?”

Dr. Zaraki’s response was flat, almost mechanical. “Yes, I was there to oversee his resurrection.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t eager to dwell on that topic.

“So... what the Bible says is true? God is real?” My grandfather’s voice was filled with awe, as if he was grappling with the enormity of that revelation.

“To a point,” Dr. Zaraki replied, his voice calm but firm. “It’s not a subject I care to discuss in detail. But yes, higher beings exist, and the Bible is somewhat accurate. Over time, humanity has translated it and adjusted it to fit what they believe to be true. That’s why I don’t like talking about religion—it’s convoluted and, quite frankly, messy.” He offered no further explanation, and his reluctance to elaborate was tangible.

Star, her voice softer now, asked the next question as she looked over her shoulder at him. “If you’re as old as you say, Father, does that mean I have brothers or sisters?”

Dr. Zaraki shook his head, his voice taking on a somber note. “No... you are my first child. What I am was never meant to have children, let alone a family. Mine has been a solitary existence, one that wasn’t supposed to include the bonds of family. But, for whatever reason, the stars willed it to be.”

Star got to her feet and walked over to her father, gently taking his hand. With a quiet nudge, she guided him to where I was still holding a piece of the bike. She handed him the part we were working on, then nudged me to grab the wrench I had been using earlier. We fell into an easy rhythm, the three of us continuing our work on the motorcycle.

I couldn’t help but ask the question that had been nagging at me since his revelations. “So... if you’re the Grim Reaper, doesn’t that mean you can control life and death? Decide who lives and dies?”

“No,” he replied, the weight of his words pressing on the air between us. “I have no control over who lives and who dies. My duty, as your father so aptly called it, is to take care of the souls of those who have passed from the biological plane. I don’t have the power to extend a life, resurrect the dead, or prevent death from occurring. I can take a life if needed, but it’s not something I take pleasure in.”

Star finished dismantling the part he was holding, and he stood up, carrying it over to where the other parts were laid out. As he placed it down, my grandfather spoke up again, his tone reflective.

“That’s a heavy responsibility you carry, Zaraki. I’ve always seen you as younger than me, but in truth... you hold knowledge, experience, and wisdom that I can’t even begin to understand.”

Dr. Zaraki turned to face my grandfather, giving him a soft, almost sad smile. “As much as it may seem like a gift to possess that kind of wisdom, it’s also a curse. No matter how much you try to share it, no matter how hard you try to guide others... most don’t listen.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. History repeating itself—how many times had Dr. Zaraki witnessed it? How many generations had he seen struggle through the same hardships, all because they ignored the lessons of those who came before? If humanity had listened to him, would things be different now? Would we be further along, better equipped to face the challenges of the world?

The weight of those questions settled over me like a heavy fog. I looked up at Dr. Zaraki and offered him a small, soft smile. In this moment, he wasn’t here as the Master of Death. He was here as a father. Not just to Star, but to me as well. I could see how he was trying—how he was stepping into a role he had never been allowed to experience, and he was doing his best. I glanced over at Star, who was already looking back at me. The soft smile she gave me told me she shared the same thoughts.

For the next several hours, we worked side by side in comfortable silence. My grandfather continued to watch us quietly, only speaking when my grandmother and Lyra came out to bring us food and drinks. Their voices were low, careful not to interrupt our focus on the bike. We took turns grabbing a bite to eat before returning to the task at hand, piece by piece, bolt by bolt, rebuilding the old motorcycle. Ratchets clicked, bolts whined, metal clanked—slowly but surely, the machine came back to life under our hands.

By the time we were done, it was well into the early morning. All three of us were drenched in sweat, covered in grease, and grimy from head to toe—but none of us felt tired. Taking a step back, I admired the old Harley-Davidson WLA. It wasn’t a pristine, showroom-ready machine like the others I’d restored. No, it still bore the scars of time. But that was its beauty. It had history, layers of stories etched into its frame, much like the knowledge Dr. Zaraki carried. This machine belonged to a bygone era, and in a strange way, it felt like a relic of forgotten wisdom.

Star stepped up beside me, sliding her hand into mine as we both looked at the bike. For the first time in months, I felt a semblance of my old self return—the man who worked on motorcycles, breathing new life into them. It felt right. And as I stood there, I realized why. I hadn’t just been missing Star earlier; I’d been missing the support of my family. I had been carrying the weight of my father’s sins alone, but I didn’t need to. I had others by my side, willing to help me bear it.

Behind us, I could hear Dr. Zaraki and my grandfather talking softly. Their conversation was a quiet backdrop as Star and I took in our hard work. I stepped behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, holding her close. We had done this together. No arguments, no tension—just perfect harmony.

I felt the presence of both Dr. Zaraki and my grandfather step up behind us. Star and I turned to look at them, silently asking for their thoughts. My grandfather smiled at me before handing me a 12-volt motorcycle battery. It was the final piece we needed. I glanced behind him and noticed he’d pulled the battery from his 1989 Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10, now offering it to us. I gave him a questioning look, and he nodded.

“Go ahead, start it up,” he said with a proud smile. “You and Star just spent hours bringing it back to life. Let’s see if it runs.”

With the battery in hand, Star and I moved back to the bike, installing it carefully. We exchanged a glance, silently preparing for the moment of truth. Together, we reached down and pressed the ignition switch. After a few nerve-wracking cranks, the engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl that vibrated the entire garage. The smell of exhaust filled the air, and the rumble of the engine felt like pure satisfaction. We turned to look at Dr. Zaraki and my grandfather, matching smirks spreading across our faces. We’d done it. The machine lived.

After a few moments, I killed the engine, and we all took a step back to admire the motorcycle. It wasn’t just a machine anymore—it was something more, a product of our collective effort and resilience. A symbol of the bond that had been growing between all of us.

Dr. Zaraki stepped forward, standing next to us. “It’s ironic, really,” he began, his voice reflective. “Director Staroko was the one who rescued this old bike so many years ago. That’s the only explanation for why it’s here at the Lyconotu Manor. It’s almost poetic. Once, a long time ago, I saved him. And now, here he is, saving not just my bike... but in a way, saving me too.”

Star and I looked up at him, confused by his words. Before I could ask, he cut me off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone softer now. “That’s a story for another day. But for now... it’s time for this old machine to find a new rider. Or riders, to be more precise.” He looked at both of us with a warm smile. “Consider it yours.”

He stepped back, leaving us to take in what he had just given us. Star and I stood there together, arms wrapped around each other, staring at the motorcycle. It was more than just an old war machine now. It was a piece of us, a reflection of our hard work and the family we had become. This machine had a piece of each of us that we each provided while it was reborn.