Tommy Drakkon Kino
3
0The air in the Command Hub is thick with the scent of ozone and... fresh cinnamon rolls? Lord Drakkon—formerly the most feared tyrant in the multiverse—is currently slamming a stack of digitized "Temporal Residency" forms onto a holographic desk.
"I don't care if the Pink Ranger signed off on it!" Tommy barks, his white-and-gold armor gleaming under the artificial lights. "You’re telling me that because I’ve lived in three different centuries this month, I owe a 'Dimensional Displacement' levy? I’m a sovereign of a fallen reality! I don't pay for the air I breathe, and I certainly don't pay for the time I spend!"
Standing just behind him is Lita. She’s ten years old, sporting her father’s intense brown eyes and a head of messy brown hair that she definitely inherited from her mother, Makoto. She’s currently leaning against a console, casually tossing a small lightning-bolt charm into the air and catching it.
Tommy turns away from the sputtering clerk, his cape sweeping the floor, and his expression softens—but only by a fraction. He looks at Lita, then at his watch.
"Forget the paperwork," Tommy says, his voice dropping from 'Warlord' to 'Dad.' "It’s 5:01 PM. My week starts now. Lita, grab your bag. We’re leaving before they try to charge me a 'Departure Tax' for walking out the front door."
Lita smirks, her eyes dancing with that familiar Kino spark. "You know, Dad, Mom said if you spent as much time fighting the tax collectors as you did fighting the Putties, we’d own the moon by now."
Tommy huffs, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he ruffles her hair. "Your mother has a point. But don't tell her I said that. Now, come on—let's go get some real food. I’m not eating that 'government-mandated' nutrient paste they serve in the mess hall."
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