Varun

"Varun, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I can still hear my father’s voice, gentle but teasing, as if he already knew the answer I’d give. I was seven, sitting on the edge of my bed, clutching a toy blaster in one hand and a makeshift shield in the other.

“A hero!” I had declared, puffing out my chest with pride. “A hero who will save the world.”

My mother had laughed, ruffling my hair. “Oh, you’ll save the world, will you? Like in those movies you watch?”

“Yes!” I’d said confidently. “I’ll protect everyone and fight the bad guys. Just wait and see!”

Back then, I believed it was that simple—saving people, protecting the innocent, doing what was right. But as I grew older, the simplicity of my dream began to clash with the complexity of reality.

My parents, practical to the core, had other ideas for me. “You need to think about a real career,” they would say. “Heroism doesn’t pay the bills, Varun.”

“Why does it have to pay bills?” I’d argue. “What’s wrong with wanting to help people? Isn’t that the best thing a person can do?”

But I had no choice. I followed their advice, enrolled in college, and tried to fit into the mold they thought was best for me. At the time, I felt like I was being forced to abandon my dream. But I couldn't have been more wrong. In the the college was the first time I again found the hope to fulfill my dream.

It was there, in that sprawling futuristic campus of Santara-06qc, that I met someone who showed me what being a hero truly meant.

Professor Devraj Rathore.

Devraj was unlike anyone I’d ever met. A former soldier turned lecturer, he carried himself with an unshakable confidence and quiet strength that commanded respect. He wasn’t just teaching us about strategy and leadership—he embodied it.

I’d heard the rumors before I saw him. The whispers about the incident at Bapak-17nj, where he’d single-handedly evacuated over fifty civilians during a chemical plant explosion, using nothing but his training and sheer determination. The price? His left arm, which had been crushed in the process.

But when he entered the lecture hall for the first time, I was too awestruck to notice the gleaming metallic prosthetic that had replaced it. It was sleek, with faintly glowing lines etched across its surface, a marvel of advanced bio-mechanics. But what truly struck me wasn’t the technology. It was his presence.

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Devraj wasn’t loud or intimidating. He spoke with clarity and conviction, and his words carried weight because they came from experience.

“Courage isn’t the absence of fear,” he said once, pacing in front of the class. “It’s the choice to act despite it. In the field, you won’t have time to think about your fears. You’ll have to trust your training, your instincts, and your heart.”

He was a hero in every sense of the word, and I wanted to be like him. No, I wanted to be better.

Over the years, I followed his teachings like it was the only truth in the world. I absorbed every lesson, pushed myself harder than I ever thought possible, and finally, earned my commission. Every success, every promotion, I owe to the foundation he gave me.

And now, at 26, as a high-ranking marine corps commander in Bharat’s elite forces, I feel like I’ve honored my childhood promise. But even heroes have lives outside the battlefield.

I glance at the hologram on my desk, the image of my wife, Aditi, smiling down at our daughter, Meera. It’s hard to believe that it’s been two years since Aditi and I got married. Two years since we stood together under the glowing sky, exchanging vows in front of family and friends.

My wife is what I call a wild Raccoon.She is a researcher in the field of biomechanics. Defining her is not so easy. And Meera? She’s my world. Just three months old, with her tiny hands and bright, curious eyes, she’s the embodiment of everything I fight for.

But being a soldier isn’t easy, especially when you have a family. The time I spend away from them feels like an eternity. I’ve missed so many moments already—Meera’s first laugh, her first attempts to roll over. Aditi sends me updates, holograms of her giggling or babbling, but it’s not the same.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder if I’m being selfish. If my dream of being a hero has come at the cost of being a good husband and father.

“Varun, heroes don’t just fight battles,” Devraj’s words echo in my mind. “They make sacrifices. They bear the weight of the world so others don’t have to.”

And so, I carry on. Because being a hero isn’t about glory or recognition. It’s about doing what needs to be done, no matter the cost.

I look out the window of my quarters, the distant skyline illuminated by the faint glow of lightning on the horizon.The endless ocean is showing the sign of an impending storm.The storm reminds me of the unpredictability of the world we live in. Of how fragile everything can be.

But it also reminds me why I chose this path. To protect what matters most. To ensure that my daughter grows up in a world where she doesn’t have to fear the storms.

“Commander Varun”

The voice pulls me from my thoughts, shattering the haze of nostalgia that had settled over me. I blink, taking a moment to reorient myself, before turning towards the door of my quarters.

A junior officer stands there, her posture rigid, her uniform immaculate despite the long hours we’ve all endured. She’s young, likely not much older than 21, with sharp, focused eyes that carry an intensity far beyond her years.

She snaps to attention and salutes with precision, her voice clear and steady. “Lieutenant Aarohi reporting. We’re ready to depart, sir.”

For a moment, I study her. Aarohi is one of the most promising recruits I’ve seen in years. Disciplined, quick-witted, and fiercely determined. She reminds me a little of myself, back when I was starting out, full of energy and idealism.

I rise from my chair, straightening the lapels of my uniform. With a nod, I acknowledge her salute.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” I say, my voice firm but not unkind.

She lowers her hand and steps aside as I stride past her, the weight of command settling back on my shoulders like a familiar coat. Aarohi falls into step behind me, her boots clicking softly against the sleek metallic floor of the corridor.