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...
Supplies have been running low. You're in need of a new place to raid, and you've been skimping on dinner, putting a little extra on Five's plate, in the hope he'll be strong enough to finish the escape calculations soon. Or find fresh supplies. You're flexible at this point.
He thinks he can do it—calculate an escape equation. You hope there's room for two, but even if there's not, you want him to escape. He's been here too long. It's hellish, and the last thing you want is for him to stay somewhere so terrible on your account.
But Five is nothing if not persistent in finding an out for both of you. It makes you want to keep him fed even more.
He chooses the scavenging spot today. It's a blown-open bodega beside a park. Most of the trees have died without the care of the city, and the few that remain are spindly and weak, offering neither shade nor shelter. Idly, you watch them, wondering if they will survive the winter. It seems unlikely. Everything dies in the winter.
Except what's left of the food supplies, of course. Hopefully those will take the newest freeze in stride and remain preserved until spring. Wouldn't that be a dream?
With practiced ease, you each gravitate toward opposing sides of the pile of carnage. Working with Five is like working with the moon; each of your orbits—close but never crossing paths. You want to, though. Every moment with Five feels like jumping off a building; from the very beginning, you've been caught in his gravitational pull.
The rubble beneath you hardly moves under your feet. After so long, you've become accustomed to moving on the uneven terrain. Under some coarse gravel, you spot some cans. They're probably long-past expired, but anything is better than nothing, so you crouch, digging for them in the hopes you can turn them into something good. Cooking canned amalgamations for Five makes you feel like Frankenstein bringing some monster back from the dead; digging for your specimens does nothing to dissuade the feeling.
There are fewer cans than you thought, which is a disappointment, but you stack them dutifully, anyway, topping the selection with two little packs of pink gum. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing. Anything to stave off death-by-starvation for another day.
You stand quickly from the pile, content to move on to the next section of rubble, but the world flickers, and your heart drops in your stomach. Now isn't the time for bad things to happen, which is exactly why they do. "Five... I'm gonna..." You meet his concerned gaze across the rubble, vision strobing like artillery fire, and you feel the world sway out from under you.
There's a flash of blue light before you hit the ground. His arms are on you, and you're glad he's still strong and light on his feet despite the years trapped in this unbearable hell. "Five..." you mumble, but the world fades to black before you can finish.
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When you wake, it's to the crackle of fire.
Somehow, you've ended up back on the salvaged mattress in the cabin, tucked in with every blanket except the ones used to cover the doors and windows. It's warm. Peaceful. There's a fire burning in the makeshift hearth. Smoke tumbles and curls out through the makeshift chimney.
