amicus certus in re incerta

Paperwork to Make Your Heart Ache

"So what do you do?" he asks one night over the fire.

You cock your head in reply, waiting for him to elaborate.

"At the Commission," he amends.

"Oh." It's enough for you to understand, and it's a logical question after what you've told him so far. Still doesn't stop the shame and nervousness coating your lungs like venom, though. "I'm an assassin."

If that bothers Five, he doesn't show it, but he stops his ministrations with the fire, appraising you with new eyes. Whatever he's searching for, he must find because he looks away again. You think that will be the end of it, a query and a paltry test. It's not.

He's feeling vulnerable. "I was a superhero a lifetime ago, my siblings and I," he admits.

"I know." It's said too quickly to be casual, and his eyebrows dart toward his hairline in surprise. They smooth a moment later.

"It was in the file, huh? Whatever assignment paperwork they gave you?"

Oh. He thought this was about business. "No," you frown, moving to rummage through your rucksack. Beneath the clothes and miscellaneous survival trinkets, you find what you're looking for. The manilla file catches your eye before you walk away. It gnaws away at your insides, this link to a world you don't want to keep. You pull it from the bag, too.

"I found this in Illinois on the way here. I recognized the name..." He takes the worn, half singed book reverently, fingers ghosting over cover. "Seven—" He coughs away a sob, and you focus your attention on a nearby tree, willing to give him his fair share of privacy.

In the following moments, all you can hear is Five's strained breathing. The silence stretches long like taffy, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Regret tingles on your tongue; maybe it was wrong to bring the book to him...

"I left them so long ago. I never thought I'd see them again."

You look to find him already watching you, gaze wet and watery. It resonates with your soul, and your heart implodes on itself.

When you don't speak, he continues, emphatically whispering, "Thank you."

The words are still lodged in your throat, so all you can manage is an aching smile. He returns to the pages with an unmatched ferocious curiosity.

You left Five to the novel ages ago, intent on finding dinner for the both of you to eat. You settle on lukewarm broth from a soup can you found months ago. It feels risky, but the can is miraculously still in-tact, so you hope that means the risk of botulism is low.

It's easy to focus on the task, stirring and mixing and pouring. The fire flickers heat across your chin and cheeks. It makes your hands tingle as you adjust the pot. You can almost forget Five is with you, but his restless shifting gives him away.

"What's this?" he asks, holding up the manilla envelope you'd abandoned earlier.

"Your file. From the Commission."

It's a minute shift, but the words make his body tense, wound tight like a coil ready to snap and kill. Your heart aches because he still doesn't trust you, but you don't voice your pain. Instead, you say, "I got it out so you could read it... If you want."

"Why?" He's still suspicious, but his thumb has worked its way between the tabs.

You shrug. Embers flicker and spark between you as you poke the fire, obscuring your vision. "I thought honesty was a good idea."

The wood crackles and the soup boils. The sounds roar in your ears, and the smoke wisps and curls around you, painting the world monochrome. The two of you are alone in this world, but you've never felt so caged in. He traps you with his silence and suffocates you with his stare.

Then, he nods—a sharp, quick jerk of the head—and sits down with the file without a word.

The broth is bitter with salt, and you realize your haste to focus on anything other than Five has made you over-boil it. You can't waste water diluting it, so you'll just have to enjoy the over-salted, too-mushy vegetables with the fervor of a starved beast. You are one, after all. You pour half the soup into a bowl and walk it around to Five's side of the fire. He doesn't look up from his reading, so you wander back to your seat content to eat your soup in silence.

The manilla envelope snaps closed a few minutes later.

"This is shit."

"I know."

"It barely touches on my powers. I could have blinked behind you, and you never would have seen it coming."

Thank goodness you'd found that novel. "Yes. It would have been a nightmare."

"Is their intel normally this terrible?"

It's a loaded question. The answer is a cacophony of confusing answers—yes and no, the intel can be this bad, but it usually never is, and it's certainly never matched with radio silence from the agency itself. "I think..." you hesitate, tentative to voice what you know is real. "I think it was intentionally omitted."

"A test?" He's a man who knows nothing of corporations, work experience reduced to childhood horrors.

"A trap," you admit.

His gaze turns dark, disturbed. You wonder how he could retain so much innocence despite his upbringing. In all the years he worked with his siblings, did they never turn on each other? Rip out one another's hearts to feast on the weakest carcass? Perhaps the world you've known really is very different from his own.

"Why?" He's wary, and you fear the risk that it's wariness of you and not them.

Your face burns everywhere his eyes touch, but you manage to shrug in some semblance of nonchalance. "I'm a loose end. The Commission probably hoped we'd both die here."

Tension bleeds through the air, and you both eat your soup in silence. For the second time, you think the conversation has ground to an awkward halt—a train on the cusp of going over a live wire. Yet again, he surprises you.

"We're both still alive."

It's genuine, not bitter or cruel, but you can't figure out where he's going with this, so you nod your agreement, humming affirmatively around a mouthful of soup.

"So... What does that mean for us? If we've both survived?"

Lead drops through your stomach, churning everything in a hearty splash of terror that makes your fingers shake and your heart hammer up your throat. The queasiness hits you like a sucker punch, and you know in an instant that you won't be able to choke down more soup tonight.

"They'll send another assassin to correct the mistake."