you were everything

Five Wields a Scary Butterknife

☂ the kid wants coffee. Black ☂ 

A loud creak comes from the door. 

Several unidentified figures catch my eye in the reflection of the service bell. In no world does men walking into a donut shop wearing all black and carrying firearms mean that a party is about start. 

Unsurprisingly, Five seems unbothered by their appearance, as he calmly sips his coffee. I am shielded, or perhaps falsely shielded, by the comfort of my powers. I could stop each of their hearts if need be. 

"Let me handle this," says Five, leaning close to my ear. His whisper makes my spine tingle. 

I drain my cup, shove the last bite of donut in my mouth, and rest my arms against the counter. Surely I can let Five 'handle it'. 

The men shuffle around us, assembling in a semi-circle. Blocking our exit. My heart pounds. I may have recovered substantially since my episodes in the cryo-chamber, but claustrophobia is a real issue for m. 

Sweat breaks out on my brow, and I am consciously aware of the sound of the clock ticking on the wall, the grrring of the machines in the back, and the tap-tap-tap of Five's fingers on the counter. 

"I need to get out of here," I tell Five under my breath. "Five. Five." 

Seemingly unaware that I am about to blow the roof off this place, Five spins around in his chair.

"We don't want to hurt two kids," one of the guys speaks. "Going home with that on our conscience..." he shakes his head, as if the thought of our blood splattered on the walls is too much to bear. 

"I wouldn't worry about that," Five says, voice as flat as ever. "You won't be going home."

Before the man can process those words, Five spacial-jumps behind him and rams a butter knife into his neck. Chaos erupts instantly—gunfire bursts through the cafe, bullets ricocheting wildly, but none of them even come close to hitting us.

I flick my wrist, sending three men hurtling through the side window. Glass shatters, raining down onto the floor in sharp, glittering fragments. My boots crunch over the debris as I walk toward the exit, stopping bullets mid-air with the flick of my fingers.

Five, meanwhile, is a blur of motion, cutting down every last assassin in his path with ruthless efficiency. It's over in less than two minutes.

The final man, coughing and wheezing, tries to drag himself across the floor, his blood painting a trail behind him. Five doesn't let him get far. With a sharp snap, his neck twists the wrong way.

Lovely.

Five dusts off his uniform and shoots me an unimpressed look. "I had it under control. You didn't have to get involved."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "Where's my thank you?"

Five pointedly ignores me, grabbing a knife from the counter. He turns it toward his wrist without hesitation.

My stomach twists. "What the hell are you doing?"

"The tracker," he mutters, slicing his skin open with the kind of detachment most people reserve for trimming their nails.

I wince. "Okay, stop that—let me do it."

"I said, I don't need your help."

"Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that." I roll my eyes, kneeling beside him.

Five exhales through his nose but doesn't fight me as I take his arm. His skin is clammy, the wound already weeping blood. Carefully, I extract the tiny metallic tracker, holding it between my fingers for a moment before crushing it to dust in the air.

I grab a small gauze pad from the random first-aid kit under the counter and press it firmly against his wrist. Five flinches but doesn't pull away.

"Thanks," he mutters, reluctant.

"Uh-huh," I reply, wiping my hands clean. My gaze drifts toward the back of the cafe. "Poor Agnes. You think she's okay?"

Five doesn't even glance up. "That's the least of our concerns right now. There's no time to worry about her."

I sigh, surveying the mess. "Let me at least clean this place up."

With a wave of my hand, the dead assassins levitate and fly out the shattered window, landing in a pile on the street. The overturned tables snap back into place, though the bloodstains remain. Not much I can do about that.

Five watches impassively. "Right. Can we go now?"

"Oh, so now we're a 'we'?" I tease, crossing my arms.

For just a second, something flickers across Five's face—something almost sad. But then, just as quickly, he smooths it over with his usual detached expression.

"Whatever."

Without another word, he turns and steps onto the street.

I follow. "Where are you going now?"

"To see the only person I can trust."