When you're dropped into the timeline to kill Five Hargreeves, you're really not expecting to encounter the apocalypse. You're also really not expecting to not want to kill him. Yet, somehow, here you are: pining over a lost boy who has probably gon...
There are no weapons on the motley crew besides guns. Your petulant frown at the realization nearly makes Five laugh.
"Why knives?"
Your smile is a little loopy. You've both been out here far too long. "I learned to kill with dinner knives and letter openers. Feels familiar."
He frowns. "The Commission doesn't train assassins with guns?"
"Oh, they do." You shrug, picking your way over a rubble mound with ease. It was odd to have traded heels and undercover jobs for crumbling buildings and basic survival, but it's nice to be doing something other than killing.
Death is a lover you've never wanted, but it's managed to find you at every turn.
"Then why knives?"
"I wasn't trained by the Commission. I'm..." you falter, debating whether or not to tell him the truth. At this point, it can't hurt; everyone knows what side you're on. "I would've been lucky to find a gun back when I... There just weren't guns laying around for girls to pick up."
"You're from a different time, aren't you?" he hedges.
The memories choke you. They claw at your insides like hungry beasts, eating away the last of your strength. The war with the Commission has only begun, but you've never been outside of war, either. This has been your closest reprieve, and you're here eating scraps with superhuman Five Hargreeves, who could snap your neck at any moment if he wanted to. You hope he never wants to.
"Yeah," you chase the demons away long enough to choke out. "We should keep moving. There's no telling when they'll come next."
It's a cheap trick, one that gets him to give you a reprieve.
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The walk back is quiet aside from the crunching of your boots against the rubble. It gives you time to think, time to recall the painted smile on the Handler's face when she passed you off to the briefcase room. She seemed so happy in the moments before abandoning you.
The look on your face is something so pensive and concerned that Five nearly wants to quake in his boots. But he doesn't. Instead, he murmurs, "What is it?"
"She'll send more for us."
You're afraid. It isn't obvious, but the nervousness tinges the edge of your voice, painting the future with dark and foreboding swipes.
He shrugs, unable to be worried, unable to let you think he's worried. "Then let 'em come."
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