Archive of Our Own

Midnight bum hits, tossing and turning in a restless state — stiff sheets cling to his back and every position seemed an unfit difficulty — with a wide scope of darkness numbing the eyes to a static pitch, and outside crickets chirping to a nauseous tick: Lloyd couldn’t sleep.

As if the bedroom walls are closing in — feeling stuck and lost in space — and a shot of ringing in his ears heighten the matter of time, slowly ticking by. Days elapse away like the blurry spin of a wheel until it’s the next one all over again, but it always ends the same – here, in his room; with his washed-out eyes and his slumped body and his roused thoughts dragging on until dawn. 

The window is shut and the curtains drape over it, and the only streak of light that slips a slim notice to Lloyd’s baring eyes is from the living room. Faintly, the TV is on and Garmadon is reclined on the couch, resting his legs on the coffee table, sipping his soda every five seconds — Lloyd specifically counts — and when something slightly comedical happens on the screen, boisterously laughing. 

It’s late and Lloyd’s tired, but how could he possibly sleep with the foreign edginess of his father living under the same roof as him for the very first time? It’s so very different, and Lloyd’s very much wakefully tense. 

—

Everyday is the same: early-morning breakfast with the gang, patrols around the city and the occasional, exciting bad-guy chase, visiting hours at Kryptarium prison, and then finally, reluctantly; the unavoidable, inscrutable, needlessly frustrable oni-training with his father, Garmadon.  

“You’re not trying,” said Garmadon. With a stick, he sternly hits all the loose points in Lloyd’s body — his relaxed shoulders, bent legs, and unstraightened back — the flawed parts, evident of Lloyd’s disinterest. 

“I am literally trying my hardest right now,” Lloyd makes his argument, and Garmadon hits the top of his head – not too rough, but a plain gesture for silence. 

“Again,” said Garmadon, ignoring his son’s excuses. “You need to be calm and think clearly of what you want to do.” The exercise was the four cans lined up as targets. Lloyd has been staring at them all day that it burns an irritated relation to all things cans and all things Garmadon. “It’s only hard because you’re being taught to do the opposite of what you’ve been doing your whole life. But that shouldn’t matter — you’re my son, you can do it.”

Son . It’s a simple word, but lays heavy on Lloyd’s shoulders. He washes it away, though; breathing deeply to a refreshed state, fixing himself to an oni stance as instructed, and then he spins. A green, glowing spiral and it blends with a rising purple hue — he didn’t want this, didn’t find any need of this — it twists and coils at the same frequency of his dislike, whirling out of control. Too many emotions in one body, and Lloyd’s power airs out and he falls with his knees to the ground – weak.

“I can’t,” Lloyd confesses, giving up. 

“You can’t or you won’t?” said Garmadon. 

“I can… not do this right now,” said Lloyd.

The still and quietful stand propounds Garmadon’s judgmental, looking-down contemplation. Lloyd’s beaten sigh reflects that he knows it well. “Denying your oni heritage will surely hurt you in the end,” said Garmadon. “It will continue to grow and fester inside of you, unless you learn how to control it. That’s what I’m trying to teach you.” 

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Lloyd.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” said Garmadon. “You keep saying next time, but you said that the day before today and the day before yesterday and the day before the day that came before yesterday and the day before—”

“Okay, I get it!” said Lloyd, exasperated. “Thank you, dad.” He gets up and brushes the dirt off his knees. “I’m done for today. Sorry.” 

“You’re quitting?” asks Garmadon. “I thought ninja never quit.”

“A ninja doesn’t need to learn how to use oni powers. And I’m not, anyways,” said Lloyd. He walks past Garmadon and waves off his self-pardoned dismissal with the back of his hand. “Next time,” he says lazily and droopy arms hanging with a drained statement. 

Garmadon looks at Lloyd’s far-off back and then looks behind at the four lined cans: untouched and in perfect condition. It’s been that way for weeks. 

—

Over dinner — and all the appointed mealtimes, really — the seating table arrangement is always the same. There’s Wu and Cole at the table ends, Nya and Jay on one side and Zane and Kai on the other side, and Lloyd sits next to Kai and Garmadon sits next to Jay. Always, when eating, Garmadon sits opposite of Lloyd – obnoxiously chewing his food and dramatizing large gulps of water. 

There’s someone else, too. A thing, really. Of all the variety of food displayed in bowls and plates, the tall glasses of water standing, and then there’s Christofern — a flimsy plant in an empty soda can — sitting as if a member in this family. 

It’s hard to eat — really — when an out-of-place plant is in front of Lloyd, taking up space in an already crowded table.

“Son,” says Garmadon and Lloyd’s head surges with an irritated rattle, “Can you pass me the salt?” he requests of him.

The salt is there and Lloyd is in reach of it, but a few centimeters prove Jay to be more worthy of this task. “Jay’s closer,” Lloyd reasons, with nothing possibly discriminatingly hidden and eyes focused on slicing his steak. “He can pass it to you. Right, Jay, can you — ?”

“I want you to pass it to me,” said Garmadon.

“But Jay is closer,” Lloyd persists. “Look, it's in his hands already. Just take it.”

“Did I ask Jay to give it to me? I asked you ,” said Garmadon. 

It’s like his father wants to prove a point, but it’s just salt and Jay’s closer. Jay, however, is greatly conflicted, and purely desires to continue eating his dinner. The salt is in his hand and he points it to Garmadon, but Garmadon — omitting the hand coldly — keeps his eyes locked on Lloyd with an unwavering resolution. Jay, confused and simply hungry, places the salt back down. 

Perturbed, Lloyd sighs, having no choice but to acknowledge the piercing glare of his father. He asked for Lloyd only, okay: Lloyd takes the salt and hands it to Jay. “Can you pass that to my father?” Lloyd requests, beating the system with false pleasure, and then turning to Garmadon, “I’m giving you the salt, just not directly. Accept it.”

“You’re cheating,” said Garmadon. “Jay is still handing me the salt. I said pass it to me , not to Jay to me.”

Jay’s head — and everyone’s head because their dispute is so loud and effectively disturbing to the whole table, to the whole dinner scenery — goes back and forth between Lloyd and Garmadon, and the salt in Jay’s hand starts to feel awkwardly weighty. Feeling useless and unappreciated, he puts the salt in the middle, between Garmadon and Lloyd’s equally distanced reach – unwilling to be a part of whatever was going on any longer. 

“Now you can reach it,” said Lloyd.

“My hands are full. Give it to me,” said Garmadon.

“You need an open hand for me to pass the salt to you, anyways,” said Lloyd. He hints at the salt: looking down at it and looking back up at his father, furrowing his eyebrows. Just take it! Take it!

“Why don’t you want to obey me on a simple task?” said Garmadon.

“It’s a silly task because you’re fully capable of reaching it yourself,” said Lloyd.

“But I asked you —” said Garmadon, but gets cut off when Lloyd slams both his hands on the table. The water ripples and dainty plates clatter at the abrupt disruption, and even Christofern teeters side to side before Garmadon stills the plant. 

“Oh, my goodness!” exclaims Lloyd; amazed of how senseless this was, frustrated by how normal and frequent this was. He reaches for the salt madly and hands it to Garmadon in an irrevent, crazed manner, full of annoyance. “Happy?” he asks rudely, not actually interested in the satisfaction of his father. 

Garmadon accepts it, and continues to eat peacefully as if they didn’t argue over salt, as if their heated conversation — on Lloyd’s part — never happened.

It was always like this: small things being made into a big deal, and Garmadon lives aloof and Christofern is right by him. It pulls the appetite right out of Lloyd, getting up with the brunt of an uncomfortable fit and leaving the dining table – his full plate unfinished. Garmadon remains eating, though – unaffected.

—

Glass plain etched with a lattice pattern and a frothy sound emitting through the voicebox: Harumi asks, “What did you bring me this time?” 

Inmate attire of gray and white stripes ingrain in Lloyd’s mind, aligning with his regular routine of visits and Harumi’s same, unchanging appearance of her guilty crimes. She was surprised initially, his first visit months ago, and since then she would fix her hair and put on light makeup at their expected meeting hours. 

“Chocolate,” says Lloyd, smiling. He retained special privileges — being the green ninja and all — and able to sneak in things for her that aren't normally allowed; like sweets and cosmetics, small things she could hide under the mattress bed. The restrictions were dim to Lloyd and he was majorly head over heels. 

“You don’t have to bring me stuff all the time, you know?” said Harumi. 

“I want to,” said Lloyd. “And I know you’re secretly happy about it. You just hide it.” Harumi covers the budding affection of a smile with her hands, and handcuffs come into proper view. 

Lloyd sends the chocolate into the glass box and when the light turns from red to green after a moment, Harumi is able to open and take it. There were measurements, and it further insinuated their separated situation with a clear wall between them. 

It always starts with Lloyd asking about her day; what she did; what she ate; how she was. Their conversations can drift from meager observations of the weather to more personal topics of what weighed on them privately. Even when they run out of things to say, seeing each other was just enough.

Lloyd yawns, and Harumi takes notice of the slight under-eye bags and meek sleepiness in the way he rests his face on his palm, simply staring at her softly. “Are you sleeping well?” asks Harumi, prompted by it. 

“Hm? Yeah,” said Lloyd, short and plain. 

“It’s no fun if you’re going to sleep on me,” said Harumi.

“Sorry,” said Lloyd. When dulled with drowsiness, the room seems colder and he holds himself – warm palms mending the shiver of his arms. He supposes that he could talk about it, “It’s training stuff. Ninja stuff,” and says grudgingly, with a sort of disdain, “Oni stuff.” 

“Sounds hard,” said Harumi.

“It is,” answers Lloyd.

“Sounds difficult. Sounds like a challenge,” said Harumi, and she’s purposely prying, “Sounds like your father’s involved.” 

Lloyd jumps with a straighten back, now stirred into alert and Harumi knows she hit a pressure point. He shakes his head, “There’s no need to mention him.” It wasn’t of importance and it wasn’t serious and it didn’t matter. What matters is what Lloyd brings to attention, saying, “It’s you and me time,” but the light above beeps and the guard coughs, signaling their hour is done. Time moves fast, Lloyd realizes. 

Harumi could tell that there was something up and something wrong, but Lloyd couldn’t admit it. She places her hand on the glass, imitating what it would be like, feel like to hold hands after so long, “Get some rest, Lloyd,” she advises him with every bit of her concern, and Lloyd places his hand over the glass, too, imagining also their rare touch. 

Harumi winks, saying, “And thanks for the chocolate,” before being pulled away by the guard. 

—

Lloyd tries to take on Harumi’s charge: laying on the couch and closing his eyes. 

He sighs a long, bleary exhale, clearing his mind free of anything possibly resurfacing. It doesn’t necessarily work because his heart beats a feeling and he thinks of it – a natural, human inclination he can’t fight. He thinks about his father.

The arm of the couch which he rested his head was hard, and even though he’s settled straight into the cushions – muscles ached and rib cage could almost break. Lloyd’s glad that his father is more associated with the good side, and his desire to eradicate Ninjago melted to a vanishing point. Lloyd’s happy, but there was something else to it — a slice of sadness for some reason — how different their relationship is now, and maybe Lloyd was part of the problem, too. 

It’s a thought: Garmadon hasn’t once hugged Lloyd since his newly turned leaf. Isn’t that what fathers are supposed to do? How could Lloyd reciprocate, respect his father with an affection he hasn’t even received himself? They were father and son by title, but the authenticity of it lacked, showing no genuineness in their personal and yet related names. 

It was just an impression; a small, graving sentiment Lloyd believes, but he doesn’t know for certain. The setting sun builds like red and white blinds on his eyelids and the temperature shifts to a mild degree comfier. Shoulders relax and chest falls loose — breathing reduces to a slow, dulcet rhythm — almost to the edge of sleep, but Lloyd senses a pair of peering eyes and a long, contemplative hum, full of inspection: he opens his eyes to see Garmadon and jumps scared out of the couch. 

“It was not my intention to scare you,” said Garmadon. 

“Oh, that’s fine. How else would you wake me up other than, I don’t know; maybe tap me on the shoulder? Or, call out my name?” said Lloyd. He rubs his back where the sudden impact left a throbbing pang.

Garmadon sits down on the couch, and ignoring Lloyd’s sarcastic spasm, “I want us to play a game.” 

This is new, so Lloyd sits on the couch next to him, interested in the box in his hands. “What kind of game?” asks Lloyd.

It opens with a hard wood-like sound, revealing two iron baoding balls. Built in with a marble and small enough to hold in one hand, Garmadon gives it to Lloyd. “Rotate them in your hand, but do not let the two balls touch,” said Garmadon.

Lloyd listens and tries: slow-working the orbit motion in his palm, and failing. They keep knocking into each other in the middle, vibrating with a clamorous chime that adds onto the frustration. “I can’t,” said Lloyd.

“That’s because you’re not supposed to,” said Garmadon. He takes it back and effortlessly spins the balls around — a swift, clean flow, hints of experience and wisdom — again and again, and then stops. “They have to touch. It’s impossible otherwise.” 

He gives it back to Lloyd to try, this time with true instructions. He mimics the demonstrated process, and it works. This was fun — oddly enjoyable — and a breath of fresh air, different from their usual touchy atmosphere of nagging disputes. Garmadon is showing Lloyd something, and Lloyd’s having fun and he assumes Garmadon is having his own distinct version of amusement. They were like a father and son – weird, but Lloyd doesn’t mind.

“Why are you showing me this?” asks Lloyd. 

“These balls represent you,” said Garmadon. “One is your oni power and the other, your elemental power — energy. You can’t keep them apart, and the more you try will make them crash even harder.”

“Wait,” said Lloyd, and the balls ring a cut off from their moving circulation. “This is a lesson?”

“What else would it be?” said Garmadon. He wears his usual, plain expression; one of a simple guy with a simple job. Even the way he sits next to Lloyd, there’s no comfortable familiarity or an intimate closeness. He sits at his respective end of the couch like a bubble, and it radiates with an obligation as to why he is here and sitting with Lloyd. 

“I don’t know,” said Lloyd, embarrassed. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me, or something.”

“And why would I do that?” said Garmadon, honestly confused.

“I don’t know,” said Lloyd, a harsh retort through grinded teeth. “I don’t know anything with you.”

“I think myself to be transparent,” said Garmadon.

“Not to me,” said Lloyd. Garmadon had eyes and eyebrows, a lip and a nose; features instrumental to convey one’s emotions or a prevailing mood of a moment, but Lloyd can’t decipher anything behind it all. It was clear and simple, but simultaneously and weirdly ambiguous somehow.

“I don’t know what else you expect of me, but I am here to teach and discipline you,” said Garmadon, straightforward and to the point of his presence. He takes back the balls and puts them into the box – a short creak and then a clam of a concluding shut. 

“That’s all?” asks Lloyd, foolishly hopeful. Garmadon can trace the waiting, anticipative raise of Lloyd’s eyebrows and mouth drawn out with a curious bait at the end of his words. 

Garmadon only stares cryptically. He could be thinking; could be reading into Lloyd’s recent wear of woe around him; could be falling into a realization. Who knows? Lloyd doesn’t. 

Eyes well rounded in an unadorned expression and lips in its ordinarily slanted form; Lloyd studies, but then Garmadon gets up, “That is all,” he says, “Oni training starts again tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He closes the sliding door with a clean, harsh finish that stings with a cold remnant in the air, and Lloyd stays on the couch – alone.

—

“Lloyd.” The earpiece can glitch from time to time from all the stirring, adventurous activity — the sharp static and the delaying, stuttering messages through an obscure lag — but his ninja mask keeps it in place and Lloyd is able to make out Nya’s warnings, though muffled, “My readings say that you’re getting close — wait, I think he’s heading into the subway. The connection will be bad, so I can’t help you from here on out anymore. Be careful, Lloyd.”  

A mission in broad daylight is rare, but so is their recent target’s appearance in public. Day to day, the streets of Ninjago retain a chirpy bustle of their own people in their own exclusive directions, but Lloyd slips by the passing shoulders and patterned footsteps, keeping his eyes on a man with a hood. 

“Yeah. I got it,” Lloyd speaks into the earpiece, and he can hear Nya’s worried breath before he cuts off the communication: heading straight down the stairs to the subway station. 

When a train passes — suddenly and speedily — the force attracts a spurt of wind, and napkins on the floor get swept up and clothes get pushed back, all ruffled. It’s crowded by the mass of heads Lloyd skims over, searching, and having to push his way through bumps and shoves to pursue onward. 

The target, a black hooded figure — head guarded down, and leery hands kept in the bulge of his pockets — intends to blend in and disappear, but Lloyd negates the attempt, catching up to him and almost in reach by the extension of his hand — very close and almost — and yet: Lloyd gets knocked down by the back of someone in the way.

Lloyd drops to the ground, and processing and looking up and recognizing, “Dad?” voice confused and surprised. Garmadon turns around to him, and Lloyd first sees Christofern placed securely in the palm of his father’s grasp and his face falls flat then and there. “What are you doing here?” he fails to lighten the bother in his pitch. 

“I’m taking Christofern out,” said Garmadon. “He needs air and I want him to see the beauty of Ninjago city, the one I almost — could have destroyed. That doesn’t matter, though… does it?” A rhetorical question; another one of his cognitive thoughts laid out.

Lloyd ignores, pushes his father’s account aside, and gets up: frantically scanning by every turn of his head. Normal citizens about and no black hood in sight, Lloyd says, beaten, “I lost him.” It was on his part, but he spoke it a bit directionally to his father. He did bump him out of focus, even though it felt wrong to blame – Lloyd couldn’t help it. 

Garmadon thinks in the low rumble of his closed mouth, watching the way Lloyd walks away in a slumped setback. 

Holding onto the rails of the stairs that lead outside, Lloyd can hear another set of footsteps behind him and asks, “Why are you following me?”

“You gave up,” said Garmadon.

“Not by choice,” said Lloyd. “And it’s not like I can do anything about it. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“That’s a weakling’s reasoning,” said Garmadon.

“Okay,” Lloyd shrugs his shoulders, no complaint forming, “Then your son is a weakling.”

“No good,” said Garmadon.

“What?” said Lloyd.

“ No good ,” he repeats and halts him down by the shoulder. Garmadon was not one to touch, to hold, and the only kind of contact Lloyd receives is disciplinary responses — correction by a stick or a lesson in getting tripped to the ground — this, however, Garmadon has him at the shoulder and looks with particularly less frowny lips. “I will help you.” 

“Oh,” says Lloyd, inarticulately, “Oh — okay.” 

The most likely lead they collectively deduced to was down the alley, where the road splits in the distance to the unknown.

Lloyd keeps his back to the wall and peeks around the corner, a brief glimpse to the specific black hood he’s sought for all day. The target’s there and Lloyd starts to plan in his head what to do, his eyes straying back and forth, forming an idea.

“You have the pleasure of experiencing a hunt with me for the first time,” said Garmadon. 

“Yeah, I guess so —“ said Lloyd, but when he looked at his father, Garmadon was actually talking to Christofern; caressing the soda can and fixing the stems neatly. Sinking into a pessimistic mood, “Of course,” Lloyd mutters to himself, abashed. He hits his head back hard against the wall, and once more for good measure – feeling stupid. 

This was nonsense: Lloyd shakes his head back into the game. Concentrating on the black hooded figure, Lloyd levels his hand to shoot a blast of energy, aiming to knock over his balance. His left hand burns green; and Garmadon says close to his ear, “Use your oni power.” 

“No,” said Lloyd.

“Why not?” said Garmadon.

“I don’t want to,” said Lloyd. 

“This is the perfect opportunity to practice,” said Garmadon. “You cannot miss this chance.”

“Practice? On a human?” Lloyd exclaims from the absurdity of it. “No,” he reinserts steadily. “He could get hurt.”

“Then you better be careful,” said Garmadon. “Do it,” and he pokes at him verbally, unrelenting in his ear, “Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it .”

“Stop talking! You’re going to make me miss,” said Lloyd. He shoves Garmadon back by the elbow, imposing the essential space for a narrowed focus. 

The piqued gesture fails to wean off Garmadon‘s insistent suggestion, and he goads Lloyd all the more — asserting the mixture of his influence with Lloyd’s stifling thoughts — his words are dominatingly repetitive and clouding to Lloyd’s two-path decision. 

For a short, hot second, a slight flickering proposes: purple sparks bud in with the green, then it swells uncontrollably worse to overtake, engulfing Lloyd’s entire hand and the oni hue shining in the rim of his eyes. Lloyd didn’t like this, didn’t like it to be this way at least. He can feel Garmadon’s smile, and for once – a well-pleased nod.

Do it and make your father proud or don’t do it and nothing changes, and everything is the same. Do it or don’t do it: it repeats subconsciously in a fervent dizz and his hand wobbles with a fizz. 

Garmadon’s persistence reaches a high point, overwhelming Lloyd to groan against the conflicted feelings within, and everything is done and decided after that laden exhale — the purple subsides to a returning green, Lloyd is back in control — he hits the black hooded man to tumble down — Garmadon’s smile dissipates to its drab and dull typical; Lloyd feels that, too — and he goes on to arrest the man. 

Lloyd knows he failed when Garmadon’s attention falls back, singled to Christofern alone, and goes to return to the subway where he left off in his sight-seeing, city expedition. Nothing is new.

—

In Kryptarium prison, striped convicts don’t take kindly to the color green. Lloyd passes along the cells, handling the newly apprehended criminal, and bears the blunt, brutal pressure of death stares circling around him, following every life-breathing step he takes. 

A toothbrush or a spoon; they‘ll use anything in their dinky cells to loudly announce their spite, marinating in their long, confined years — clanging against the bars insanely — like a suffocating complaint in his ears, blaring widely. Lloyd continues on, facing straight ahead, and adds to the prison yet another pair of vengeful eyes – the gate closing with a booming thud.

“Lloyd?” He hears from two cells over, and it’s delightfully familiar. “Is that you?”

“Rumi!” Lloyd exclaims, happy. After the long-lasting months divided by a hazy, scratched-up wall, their hands can meet — touch — between the bars. 

“What are you doing here?” asks Harumi. “Here, specifically.” 

“There was a bad guy,” said Lloyd. “He’s in jail now.” It was a quick summary; Lloyd’s too occupied feeling every finger on her hands like it would be the last time for a while, but Harumi wanted an answer more detailed. “I mean,” and now he’s checking if her palms are real, touching it, and it is, so Lloyd says, “he was very bad. I had to personally escort him here — Commissioner's orders, otherwise any ordinary joe is not my problem.”

“Thank goodness for Ninjago’s very bad guys,” said Harumi. She even lets him hold her cheek – leaning into his care and unwinding at the touch. Without an invisible, but patently material barrier, their interaction picks up the pace for lost time, finally connected more physically and intimately. 

“So, this is your room?” said Lloyd, looking at the background past her. There was the bed hung by a slanted chain, the musty mirror over the sink; and the walls were botched and the floor all grimy. 

“Cell,” Harumi corrects, impassively candid. Lloyd watches a thickly spider creep by, legs crouching and wet, beady eyes wandering. Harumi catches on to Lloyd’s notice: stepping on the spider sharply – stomach up and limbs twitching. The act happens to be unfazing to her, but upsetting to him. 

He falls into his habitually apologetic, sullen frown. “Stop looking at me like that!” Harumi purses to the side, embarrassed. “It’s fine! I’m fine!” She assures, “You don’t need to worry about me; I’m exactly where I should be.” Here : in a jail cell. They’ve had this talk before, but Lloyd’s a bit expressive and Harumi in return sensitive. 

The air is thick, so he changes the subject after a timed beat, and fixes his face: “How do you sleep?” Lloyd asks gently, and concerningly curious about it for his own sake. Harumi’s living conditions are blatantly worse in comparison to his, and yet she retains a spark in her eyes and a fresh washed appearance – something hard to keep up in prison, something even harder for Lloyd in his own comfortable quarters. 

The air wanes more serene: “I think about things I look forward to,” said Harumi, a smile forming. “Like what I’m going to eat, or do tomorrow. Small things like that.” Hands wrapped around the bars and she rests her forehead on it: Harumi looks up at Lloyd in the emotional way that only she can look at him and no one else; because no one could look at Lloyd the way Harumi does. “I think about you,” she says, distinctly sentimental. 

“What — me? What about me?” Lloyd questions, trying to snoop into her meaning, and nervous, “Why me?”

“It’s hope, Lloyd… A type of comfort.” Behind Harumi: the slow-swinging light blinks an unstable effect and droplets of water echo in the moldy sink bowl. The distractions drown out, though, when Harumi expounds, “Because of you, I have a reason to go to sleep and wake up well rested,” and earnestly, open heartedly, “If you didn’t visit me everyday, I don’t know what I would be like.”

Lloyd pauses to think, the tip of his shoe playing where the bar and floor converge. Unlike Harumi, Lloyd can go out and anywhere he wanted, not entrenched to the same four chaff walls she was, but no matter where Lloyd goes — at home, to the city, or as far as the next village over — Garmadon is there. Everyday: Lloyd has to face him, and everynight: Lloyd tries to sleep.

A guard on the lower-level walks, checking on each prisoner cell to cell, and Lloyd has been here for too long already. “You should probably go now,” said Harumi.

“Right,” says Lloyd, putting her earlier words away in a small pocket of his brain, “I’ll see you again tomorrow,” and gives her a quick, good-bye kiss on the hand. 

The drive back home: Lloyd brakes at every red light and gives the right of way to every pedestrian on the sidewalk and continues this sequence until he reaches the hill to the Monastery. Once inside and sliding open the door to his bedroom: Lloyd plops down on his stomach to the ruffled, unkempt blankets of his bed – beat and tired. 

Succumbing to the comfy position, Lloyd can then interruptedly hear the door slide a few inches wider than he would like and finds Garmadon at the end of it. “What is it?” asks Lloyd, voice groggy and too jaded to what Garmadon might pick at him this late.

Garmadon appears awkward, as if there’s something he wants to say, but he puffs a doubtful, hesitant sigh. “Nevermind,” he manages to utter, and shuts the door to darken the room a full pitch-black. Like every other night, Lloyd doesn’t sleep well.

—

At the market, the list of groceries in Lloyd’s hand was oddly long and filled to the page with excessive requests, like snacks and sodas, typical ninja junk food. Garmadon came along, too. There’s a specific brand of soda he’s grown quite fond of over the years, and Lloyd never seems to buy the exact one he wants – another useless quality of his son.

“I think you should get this instead,” said Garmadon, pointing to the red potatoes over the brown ones, and then below to the price in side by side comparison. “It will taste good and the texture is very nice. It’s cheaper, too.”

Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m not buying anything that’s not on the list,” said Lloyd.

Going grocery shopping is normal. Going grocery shopping with your oni father is normal, too – or Lloyd supposes, tentatively. 

They turn into the next aisle, and people stare at Garmadon with wide-eyed unfriendliness he pays no mind to. In actuality, the aversion and agitated fear makes Garmadon all the more comfortable — inciting it with a toothy, ill-intent grin, encouraging the cry of a child — but Lloyd minds, thinking it an unnecessary disturbance. 

“Don’t do that,” said Lloyd, bothered. Everyone is looking at Garmadon which coincidentally means that everyone is looking at Lloyd. 

“I didn’t start this,” Garmadon defends, missing the sense of Lloyd’s trouble. “They’re the ones who want to look at me.”

“Okay,” Lloyd responds without a supportive care — tone extending low with contempt — and gives a short, managing command, “so stop now.” Garmadon finds the demand discouraging, crossing his arms and keeping close watch at the sodas blurring by. When he catches the exact one, he adds can after can into the basket – the weight building and Lloyd’s grasp slipping at the overdone amount.

“Why are you using a basket? A cart will hold everything better,” said Garmadon.

“I don’t like their carts,” said Lloyd, now using both his hands. “They squeak and are hard to maneuver.” 

“Then why go to this store?” said Garmadon.

Grinding his teeth in a sharp reaction, “Because,” and then realizing that it’s too harsh, too personal inside a simple grocery store; Lloyd says with a mended expression, voice very slow, stressing an abated calmness, and talking as if to a toddler, “this is the only store that has everything on the list. I don’t like having to go to two, even three stores just for one item just for a non-squeaky cart.” Lloyd hopes his thorough explanation helps, but not really because he walks faster away from his father. 

Garmadon catches up, however, more hurt than helped. He says with a pained frown, almost with a traceable glint in his eyes, “Why do you always have an attitude with me?” 

Lloyd’s quick to respond, defensive, “I don’t have an attitude,” and while he knows a part of him is lying for a fast and easy shutdown to Garmadon’s concerns, he continues to reason dumbly, “You asked me a question, I answered.” 

Originally, this was supposed to be an easy stop to the store after a ninja-assignment in the city, then straight home to relax — originally — but the plan adjusted to fit in Garmadon, and the simplicity of shopping transformed into a complex, tiring task.

Blankly downcasted, “I’ll wait outside,” said Garmadon. It was plainly spoken, yet so imaginably sorrowful that Lloyd slips in his own puddle of guilt. 

Garmadon sits on the sidewalk, facing the parking lot where cars pull in and burn their engines to a stop. The sunset peaks above the congregate outlets and warms the appreciation on his face. Distantly, he notices a father holding the hand of his son — both strolling the streets with a conjointly glee face — Garmadon appreciates that sight, too. 

The doorbell rings an opening and faint air conditioning blows outside: Lloyd sits down next to Garmadon. 

Brown paper bags crinkle and crease. “Your soda?” Lloyd says, handing it to him.

Garmadon takes it. The pop and snap of the can fizzles, sipping first for taste then gushing it all down for the physical relief. Drunken and empty and without wasting a second, he flattens it against his head and throws the crushed can to the road. It was littering and it was wrong, but Lloyd doesn’t do anything about it. 

“Ninjago has changed so much,” Garmadon confides to Lloyd, and for once: Lloyd leans closer to listen, to learn, to see his father in a new light. “I’ve spent the majority of my life alone in many different realms, but I somehow always find my way back home to Ninjago. And it’s different. There’s so many new things that weren’t there when I was a boy.” He’s thinking hard, trying to find the right words in a deep, searching hum, and then finally finds it, saying cautiously, “It’s… nice. That’s a word.” 

“What was it like?” Lloyd asks, “The other realms? Alone?” 

“Just as it sounds,” said Garmadon. “But I have no sentimental thoughts about it. It’s done and over.” He turns to Lloyd, “Why bother caring?” 

“Caring shows that you wish things were different,” said Lloyd. “You can’t do anything about the past. You’re not supposed to. But hoping you could, even as futile it is, means something big.” The sun slips away, receding under the ground and the moon, in turn, takes place in the sky. “Right?” Lloyd goes on to say, “It means… you want to do something now to make up for what happened.”

The white cast of the set up street lights hang above, washing them whole. On a pulse, spurred by weepy gravity, “Do you hate me?” Garmadon asks openly in the space between them. 

Lloyd tries to restrain the shiver on the top of his shoulders, but painfully shudders anyways, unconventionally squeezed and situated tense. “No,” he answers just because that’s the obvious answer, and supports the answer because that’s his true answer, “I don’t.” 

“I feel like you do, though,” said Garmadon, straightforwardly and to the chase of Lloyd’s seemingly multi-faceted yet singular answer. 

Lloyd doesn’t hate his father. No, he really does not. And Lloyd could reiterate his answer more convincingly; could put on a smile of ease; could even tell his father that he loves him; but, he doesn’t. Lloyd shakes his head — that means no — he does not hate Garmadon. And he really doesn’t. 

—

“Tonight,” Garmadon says, keeping his back to Lloyd, “is going to be very different.” He’s obscuring the four lined cans, arranging something around it out of Lloyd’s sight. 

While Garmadon is busy with that, Lloyd recalls earlier today — visiting Harumi — as heart-beatingly pleasant, romantic and dreamy. Looking at her, talking to her, laughing with her: Lloyd can’t think of anything else currently in front. It quickens the rhythm of his heart and perks up the smile on his face – laying back on the recent memories made.  

Garmadon snaps Lloyd back to attention, literally: his fingers in front of his face abruptly and the neat-cut sound shoving his daydreams out the window. 

“I’ve come to the realization that you need a motivator.” Garmadon slips behind Lloyd and presses him forward. “You need a push. A sort of drive — a nudge. A risk.” Lloyd traces the soda cans from left to right and reverses back from right to left, and catches on his third glance an additional can he’s missed in the middle: Christofern. Garmadon says, low and evil, “You need a challenge that’s personal.”

It was a frank layout and an even starker, transparent exercise. With Lloyd’s buried and neglected oni powers, he was to destroy each soda can in accuracy and precision while prioritizing the safety and well-being of Christofern, avoiding the middle piece of the aligned targets. 

In the training grounds of the Monastery, purple sparks light a fuse, flashing bright in the surrounding atmosphere. “You missed,” Garmadon notes. Violent bolts fly above the cans, marked with a great height blunder. “You missed again.” He announces each failure he sees, counting all the way to twenty. “Another miss. Are you purposely missing? It’s pitiful at this point.”

Lloyd’s not really trying; Lloyd doesn’t really care to try. Tonight’s just like every other regular night that will soon come to a pass, and Lloyd’s not rushing or anything. He does as he is told, but not necessarily good at it, proving an interesting lack of effort. 

Garmadon crosses his arms, watching the brazen indifference in each powered exertion. He doesn’t like it — putting this activity to a pause with the raise of his hand — and inspects Lloyd closely. “Oh,” Garmadon says, all knowingly. “I know that look. You’re in love.”

“What?” Lloyd blurts out, drawn immediately awake and aware. 

“I know it well,” said Garmadon. “When I first met your mother —”

“Is this really happening right now?” said Lloyd, cruelly derisive. 

Garmadon continues on nonetheless, “I’m trying to help you, son. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. A boy can let his emotions get the best of him and act recklessly with a girl. You might do something you’ll regret. I would know, that’s why —”

“Okay — just stop!” Lloyd cuts in with such a dumbfounded frenzy. “This is weird. I don’t want to have this talk with you.”

“You don’t value my wisdom and experiences?” Garmadon asks in-between the lines of Lloyd’s intense fussing, more focused on the overlooked advice than Lloyd’s piqued bite.

“I don’t,” Lloyd affirms with an exact edginess and aiming precision that Garmadon wishes was directed at a soda can. “Look,” Lloyd says, taking a breather, smoothing the bumpy mood, “maybe we should pick this up again tomorrow. I’m done for tonight.” 

Lloyd’s bent on leaving, but Garmadon holds him back by the arm. “You don’t get to leave until I see a soda can completely obliterated to ash,” volume deep and coherent, tone cold and strictly daunting. 

Lloyd could almost cry. “Give me a break,” he whispers from the sting in his heart. Lloyd tries to shake off his father’s grip, but it toughens to the blunt point of being driven down to the ground.

“What are you doing!” Lloyd struggles with dirt on his face and Garmadon’s foot pressing his back hard into the cement. “Oh, and this is perfectly normal to do to your son?”

“You and I both know that things will never be normal in our family,” said Garmadon. “I’ve tried my best to teach you, but you’re so unteachable! Why? Tell me — what am I doing wrong?”

“Oh, boy, do I wonder!” Lloyd says, sarcastically, and his words are mushed together, being squished and all. “Get off of me!” 

Garmadon flatly blinks at the way Lloyd squirms to no avail; adding weight to the pressure in disregard, and wonders in a contradicting, softly aching manner, “Why does it feel like you don’t need me?” 

Lloyd holds his breath, the stuck strain forcing him to. Ribs and backbones are compressed underneath an increasingly humbling, demeaning force that digs deeper each longlasting second. Against the floor, it was cold and dirty and rocklike; and the distant bustling inside the house where Lloyd can hear the rest of the ninjas laughing and talking makes him feel worse. This physical tension hurts, and it hurts Lloyd more so to know that Garmadon’s actually restraint, not even applying his entire power – going easy on his son. Lloyd supposes that it’s a father’s love.

Garmadon demands an answer, and Lloyd can’t think clearly, but blurts through gnashed teeth, lashing out at the extreme moment, affirming, “I don’t need you!” 

“Why?” Garmadon urges, and with his heel this time. 

“Because…” Lloyd grunts, fighting for air, fighting for some feasible distance. Lloyd didn’t need this; didn’t want this; didn’t like this. “Because…” and he’s gaining an advantage: lifting himself up against the piercing infliction, ultimately finding his voice through it, “You didn’t need me!”

Lloyd could finally breathe when Garmadon pulls back his foot; and Lloyd in turn sits up in a  recuperating position, groaning back the reeling migraine and waiting out the chest-congested agony. Garmadon’s quiet for an explanation, so Lloyd says after recovering, “After we defeated the omega… You just left. You left me. I didn’t know where you were — I had to find out in the stupidest, most random way! And that’s what makes me angry: that you needed a dumb self-discovery journey instead of staying with me, your son.” It must have been really late and their argument really long that the Monastery lights turned off, signaling everybody went off to bed. Like the spike in carbonated soda, “If you don’t want to be a father, then I don’t want to be a son.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time!” Garmadon argues. “As your father, I’ve been training you to master your oni powers.” 

“That’s the problem!” said Lloyd. “That’s all you ever do! It’s always training, and when we’re not training, we’re bickering.” He sighs, frustrated, and comes to the sensitive conclusion, “I don’t feel your love.”

“I know…” Garmadon says – an understanding remorse. “Being an oni, it all comes hard to me. But know that I am trying, son.” He extends his hand low for Lloyd to take, putting on his trying, loving smile. In this way, it makes Lloyd angrier: slapping the help away brusquely. Lloyd gets up on his own, all alone – as he is used to. 

“I don’t like this.” Lloyd cleans his face with the neck rim of his shirt, wiping the dirt and a little too roughly from an irritated incentive. When he pulls the shirt back down, eyesight bare and Garmadon there: “You can’t just come back into my life when you were never really a part of it anyways.” Garmadon frowns, wanting to say something, but couldn’t.

Everything was said and spoken, and Lloyd could stop talking; could shut his mouth and walk away; could try to sleep on it later. Rather impulsively, flamed by depths of blighting anguish and years of abandonment relived: Lloyd bites on his tongue, tasting pain, “Maybe you should have just stayed dead.” 

For once, a new expression Lloyd can decipher wholeheartedly — lowered eyebrows and a gloomy gape — the face of his father grieved to a full. 

“Lloyd —” said Garmadon.

“I, uh — I have to go,” Lloyd desperately scrams past him. 

“Where will you go?” asks Garmadon, concerned. “It’s late: stay here.”

Lloyd stops in his tracks shortly, only to say mockingly, “What are you going to do about it? You gonna start acting like my dad? Ground me? Take away my TV privileges? Go and hide the remote between the couch cushions?” Lloyd scoffs in disbelief, knowing Garmadon can’t do anything – being years too late to the role. “Leave me alone,” a statement consequently out of his hand once spoken, and Garmadon standing all by himself in the silent, dead night. 

A click, a revved up motor, and the stick shift up the gears. Lloyd hits the gas all hastily, pinning the meter over seventy, even eighty daringly. Adrenaline shoots to the roof of his temples and the high risk possibilities relieve the stress gnawing at his chest – letting loose, feeling free. The traffic lights beam a blaring red, but Lloyd speeds through it, cutting cars and pedestrians off. Right now, it’s Lloyd racing against the wind, and the tingling, exhilarating sensation over his mind.

Lights are out and guards exchange hourly shifts. In Kryptarium prison, everyone is asleep until Lloyd wakes up one specific person. “Rumi?” he calls out in a soft and gentle whisper, “Harumi?”

It takes a couple tries before it takes effect and Harumi shuffles under her blanket – stirring awake. “Lloyd?” she notices him from across the bars and now she’s really awake. “What are you doing? It’s so —”

“Late? I know,” said Lloyd. “I wanted to see you.” He shows her the key matched to her cell gate, taken from a snoozing guard. “Let’s go somewhere?” he suggests – a momentary break out. 

“No!” Harumi rejects hushly, and can reason a long, extending list of why this was a not good, very bad, horrible idea. “I can’t. We shouldn’t. What is up with you? This isn’t something you would do. I’m staying here!”

“Please?” Lloyd pleads, his heart speaking for him. “I want to be with you. No more glass or bars separating us: just me and you.”

It wasn’t of Lloyd to misbehavingly appear past nighttide and to conveniently carry the exact key to her cell, but it wasn’t not like Lloyd to wear the same lovey-dovey set of eyes Harumi can’t seem to pass and understand. “Alright, fine,” Harumi concedes, and adds a safeguard, “But we bring me back here immediately afterwards, and we don’t go far!”

A click, a careful and vigilant tug on the bars, and an unrestricted, undivided meeting: Lloyd holds Harumi’s hand, guiding her out secretly. 

Not far from the prison grounds and over the sandy terrain, they sit on top of the car hood as the tower light circles and surveillance cameras rotate at a safe range. It was a weird thing for Harumi to witness, the place she’s been stuck in at a length and the free breeze at her fingertips and knowing eventually she’ll have to return back. 

Harumi feels awkward, wearing her one and only, dirty prison uniform, but Lloyd doesn’t mind. Lloyd’s in a different space – going through the gears, mentally lost. “What’s wrong?” asks Harumi.

“Nothing,” said Lloyd.

“Yeah, right. Nothing is why you had to break me out for one night to talk,” said Harumi. “Tell me,” she says dependably at shoulder length. “You have to.” 

Physically exhausted, Lloyd lays down with his head on the windshield of the car. The glass was terribly solid and the wiper blades stuck out, puncturing him. Lloyd doesn’t mind it; doesn’t care. He covers his guilty face with both hands, “I said something I shouldn’t have said.” And he tells her, tells her everything and the moments leading up to the way he looked his father crass and ugly and wished him better off dead. “Why did I say that? I don’t actually mean it.”

Time spent together; Harumi knows so much about Lloyd than he thinks he knows about himself. Underneath the skin, she knows the hidden secrets and solemn feelings that no one could possibly imagine was there. The vulnerabilities and worries that kept him still – she can number in easy remembrance.

“Do you think you should have stayed dead?” said Harumi. 

“I don’t know,” said Lloyd, candid. Thinking about it hurts too much, but a blunt part of him considers the favorable, painless option, “Maybe.”

Harumi winces at his reply, hurt. “What about me? Should I have stayed dead?” said Harumi.

“What?” Lloyd answers at once, urgently, “No.” That was silly, ridiculous, utterly preposterous. He shoots straight up from his mopey slouching. “Of course not. No .”

“We both got lucky,” said Harumi. “We have a second chance not many people get to have.” Harumi counts herself the luckiest girl in the world. Maybe being in jail was the prime motivator to rethink the blessings in life when met with total, humiliating depravity, and of course: Lloyd’s very much alive, very much existing presence across from her. “You have another chance at a relationship with your father.”

“That’s different. He’s different.” said Lloyd. He tilts his head back, neck exposed, and overwhelmed. He gives in to the open air, “I just want to be able to sleep properly. Sleep, wake up, then do nothing all day. No more oni training.”

Lloyd fumbles with his hands, gripping firm and pulling skin. “Can I see it?” asks Harumi. Concerning his oni powers, she points to his hands, and he eases from the tense fiddle.

Just once, just for her: Lloyd unfolds his hands and lets a glowing purple bloom. It wasn’t like his natural green, but rather brighter and fiercely untamed. The vibrant color sets the sparkle in her eyes, watching the lively lush of power smolder, swell, and sway. Harumi finds herself drawing closer, mesmerized, but he takes it all away in one swift clasp. 

“You shouldn’t get too close. It’s dangerous,” said Lloyd.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” said Harumi.

Lloyd shakes his head. He’s unsure of the meaning behind the shake but hopes in himself that it’s a good-intending, faithful shake. He says, “I honestly don’t care about being part oni, or having these powers for that matter.” If anything, it stood as a constant reminder that he’s tied to his father, unable to escape or break loose from the connected bonds.

“Well, I think it’s beautiful,” said Harumi, in opposition to his own insecurities. “The power of destruction — I’m glad to know it’s in good hands.” Lloyd’s hands — she means, and with every certain belief and confidence in him. 

Faded moonlight doesn’t do enough to properly define Harumi’s pretty face. Lloyd looks at her eyes, then drops below to her lips, “I think you’re beautiful.” He leans close, with intention, and Harumi sits expectantly still and hopeful. 

The tower light switches red and blares a loud, earsplitting alarm sound. Lloyd and Harumi are taken aback, looking straight ahead to the place Harumi should’ve stayed, and she turns all distressed. Suddenly, a flashlight confronts them, hindering their sight and the figure of a guard is understood under the flashing: they got caught. 

The flashlight gets withdrawn, and after readjusting his eyes, Lloyd can make out another figure: Garmadon, right beside the guard.

“I told you: a boy can act recklessly with a girl. But you didn’t want to listen,” said Garmadon. Lloyd’s dressed differently and set in a new circumstance. Grey and white stripes in a crummy cell, Lloyd numbingly stares with a strong grip on the bars. Adjacent, Garmadon doesn’t fail to enunciate his free-roaming abilities, and comes close to mock, “Well? Did I act like a true father now? Consider yourself grounded — if being grounded is constrained to a jail cell for three weeks.” Garmadon’s toothy smile ingrains in Lloyd’s mind. 

Lloyd doesn’t want to give a reaction, or any satisfaction to his father’s taunting. Reckless driving, reckless behavior: Lloyd knows he does deserve this, but didn’t want his father to know that he knows what they both obviously know — that Lloyd deserves this. 

Lloyd keeps quiet and holds an unwavering deadpan expression. Even in the silence, their joint staring to each other radiates a loud feeling. When Garmadon has had enough and starts to walk away, Lloyd silently stares at that too, with drilling eyes.

“Garmadon?” Harumi calls out to him in the cell next over from Lloyd’s. “Lloyd does love you.” 

“Harumi…” Garmadon says only to acknowledge her – keeping his posture rigid and facing straight ahead. His hands are behind his back and his voice is cut clear, “I don’t want to hear it from you, I want to hear it from Lloyd.”

—

Everyday is the same: the guard’s baton clanging at the bars to wake up, appointed mealtimes with Harumi, chore duties with Harumi, mandatory recreational activities with Harumi, then getting pulled aside for rounds of beating in the shower room by hostile, vengeful inmates who distinctly remember the effect of green; and the routine continues in a cycle, and some days weren’t so bad, especially when Lloyd rests his head on Harumi’s lap — fingers running through his hair and the sweet, gentle words spoken to his ear — enjoying the comfort of their close proximity as sunlight seeps through the cell window.

Nya was the first to visit, complaining her worries through the glass and drowning him with her endless questions of whys and hows. Then Kai and Jay came with their pointing fingers and rowdy laughter that Lloyd would do something so stupid and spontaneous for a girl. Next was Cole, who sent his regards with a slice of cake, and Zane had provided a calculated outline of his survival rate in these three weeks. Even Master Wu visited at one point, with his tea set and his speechless, shaking-his-head disapproval of where he went wrong. 

Garmadon never visits, but Lloyd felt somewhere, somehow; he was watching him closely.

After everything is done in a day — washing away like a new portrait to paint over — it always ends the same way – here at night, in his cell; with his aching body and his wide eyes blurring the cracks in the ceiling, and the anxious thoughts of how to face his father once he gets out, keeping him up and errant. 

Lloyd doesn’t sleep well at all, and spends the days tiredly strained and forcibly compelled awake by a guard hitting him or the encircling dirty glares around the cafeteria room. And Harumi tries her best to alleviate the restless discomfort — singing soft lullabies nestled by — and yet, nothing completely works to remedy it in full. 

Nevertheless, the three weeks eventually pass and when Lloyd’s dressed back in green and meets with the open air of freedom: Garmadon’s there.

“You don’t look good,” Garmadon notes and Lloyd ignores. The car was parked nearby, and Garmadon sends a message, walking Lloyd over to the passenger side and making sure he gets in. Too exhausted and too sleepy, Lloyd doesn’t grumble about his father’s company. 

The door handle, when Lloyd pulls it, is locked. He looks through the window inside to see the lock switched on and as a consequence of his disbelieving curiosity, finds Christofern riding shotgun. 

The swallowing process goes as follows: Lloyd knows that that’s a plant, and plants don’t need a whole passenger seat and the cupholder right by would do just fine, and far realizes that Christofern’s presence is utterly irrelevant, unnecessary, and quite frankly — a big, fat bummer. “I’m going to walk home,” said Lloyd, weak and small in voice. 

“Get in the car,” said Garmadon, sternly and quick-paced against the grain. By the tough brevity of the order, Lloyd sorely understands to drop all his feelings and mindlessly obey.

Like some kid getting picked up by his dad and sitting in the backseat — Lloyd’s embarrassed. He’s well over the age for this childlike treatment, and this was weirdly unfamiliar as it’s the very first time Garmadon drives him somewhere. 

The AC is on, blowing wind, and the seat cushion becomes comfortably snug. Lloyd rests his head back as the countryside smears at the speed limit Garmadon follows and the droning noise of tire tracks on the road work as a soothing rhythm. Slowly and gradually, Lloyd peacefully falls asleep after so long. 

—

When Lloyd leaves his bedroom, Garmadon’s laying on the living room couch with a clutter of empty soda cans spread out. He has on a deep contemplation toward the ceiling, and when he notices Lloyd, he doesn’t say or ask or require anything of him. 

Lloyd starts a conversation, however. “Can I show you something?” Lloyd asks Garmadon, and he agrees after a pauseful thought. 

The something had to do with outside. Out on the training grounds, Lloyd asks for Christofern and reluctantly, Garmadon hands the plant to him. 

Christofern has grown and gone through so many earthly stages that the soda can is slightly heavy when Lloyd holds it. To Lloyd, it was just a plant; and he replicates the target scenery of the other night, placing Christofern dead shot in the middle amidst all the other soda cans. 

Garmadon waits, yet to behold whatever Lloyd’s trying to do. It’s early morning since Lloyd woke up and he decided to skip breakfast, too eager to do anything else but this. He sets his hand in front, purple blazing in an instant, and shoots nowhere else but directly straight ahead: Lloyd destroys Christofern to an obliterated ash. The other soda cans next to were untarnished, unharmed. 

“What did you do!” Garmadon madly shakes Lloyd at the shoulders. He has his angry face burning down on Lloyd, but Lloyd looks away with pinprick tears in his eyes. It’s only then that Garmadon lets go. 

In between his sniffles, Lloyd says wetly, “I get it.” He roughly wipes his eyes with his arm, staining him puffy and red. “You’re not the perfect father. I’m not the perfect son, either.” Rashly, without a thought, without a care: Lloyd hugs Garmadon, desperately hiding his face in his clothes. It’s muffled and wobbly and uncertain, but Garmadon can hear Lloyd saying, “We will never be perfect, but… we can try?”

Garmadon first starts with a pat on the back, getting into the pool of feelings, and then dives in with a full embrace. To Garmadon, Christofern was an idea, but it seems like Lloyd didn’t like that idea, so Garmadon reasons he shouldn’t either. Arms wrapped tightly, “I would like that,” said Garmadon. 

Lloyd couldn’t say the three specific words Garmadon had wanted to hear — the I love you from son to father — Lloyd simply wasn’t ready, and Garmadon understood he wasn’t and that was just okay; hugging each other tighter.

After a while, they might as well skip lunch, too — the high setting of the Monastery over the clouds gripping their attention as they sit on the stairway — or skip dinner or skip training or skip everything for today, and restart their new routine tomorrow. 

Up so high and above, Ninjago city in the distance is cloudy but clearly out there in an active way. It was nice, and they both appreciate it. “You know, Harumi’s sentence went up another two months,” said Garmadon. 

“What should I do?” said Lloyd, finding fault in himself for the extension.

“From my experiences, a letter apologizing for what you did is always safe and, of course, romantic,” said Garmadon. “I suppose.”

“Oh, okay… Can you, uh — can you help me write it?” said Lloyd, openly and awkwardly. “The letter,” he emphasizes. 

Today’s different because Lloyd’s asking for Garmadon’s help. Garmadon has the feeling each day afterward will be different, too, fluctuating with ups and downs and possibilities. “Of course,” said Garmadon, and it’s the same toothy smile but it means something different.