Promise [Number 5 X Reader]

- Ink -

Hey everyone! As said earlier, I hated the canon ending. To be more specific, I hated the last season entirely TT.TT. As a result, the conflict will conclude at the end of season three of this work! Thank you for being here to witness it all!

In the backroom, as Pogo turned to face you both, you got a better look at him.

You couldn't help the memory that flashed in your mind of the last time you'd seen him: two timelines ago, bloody and lifeless, mounted on a pair of antlers.

Two patches on the chest of his leather vest showed that his name was the same in this timeline, but now he was an "enforcer" for the Mothers of Agony. The primate took the cigarette out of his mouth, blowing out a lazy puff of smoke as the chain around his neck glinted in the dim light, "The legal age might be sixteen, but I won't tattoo someone who isn't yet old enough to drink."

You didn't even want to get into the mess of how you were thirty, Five even older.

Five took over before you could open your mouth, "That's cool and all, but we're not here for the ink. We all have a mutual . . . let's go with acquaintance: Sir Reginald Hargeeves.

"Whatever he wants," Pogo sighed, "I'm the last person who'd be interested." As he turned back around, presumably to finish up the last few lines of the ink job, you noticed the hair on his head had grown out long enough for him to wrap half of it up into a ponytail.

"We're two of Reginald's wards," you explained softly, "We're from a different timeline." You shifted slightly at the sound of thick chains jingling from beltloops as members of the gang approached from deeper within the secluded room. From their faces, it seemed they hadn't taken kindly to the intrusion from the visibly younger adults.

At your words, Pogo scoffed, "Timelines." He chuckled sardonically before turning around.

Five took a small step closer to the short individual, "You and I have met, remember 1963? You were a diaper-wearing chimp in dire need of a manicure." As he yanked down the stiff collar of his shirt, he added, "You even gave me a nasty scar as a souvenir."

After finishing the tattoo and placing his equipment in a small bag, he turned to fully face the two of you, joined by two much taller, wider men. "If you're telling the truth, I should be speaking to a man well into his sixties." He was still unimpressed, "Now, I've had a very long day, so if you don't mind . . ."

As he turned to leave, moving past the menacing men, you called out, "Pogo—" You both were encircled by gang members, each one's sneer worse than the last. "Fun," you grumbled.

Before any of the gang members could even breathe, Five grabbed your hand and blinked out of the back room. Disoriented by the sudden breeze in your hair, you found yourself and Five back at the entrance of the establishment. Pogo, the quick little bastard, was already driving away on a short ape-hanger. Five let out a long, frustrated groan. By the sound, you determined he wouldn't be able to track him through jumps.

Looking around at the bikes, you grumbled, "Fucking hate Harleys." You broke the lock on what you deemed to be the least -affronting bike in the lot, jamming a crystal into the ignition to take shape of the key needed. "Let's go!" you called to Five. In an instant, he was on the bike behind you, arms tight around your waist as you tore out of the lot, crystals taking shape into a helmet over your head.

You drove until the sun was back up in the sky—another Kugel wave had threatened to tip your stolen bike about halfway through the trip—and finally watched Pogo hang a slow left. Following after him, you found yourselves in a small clearing just off the side of the road in which sat a small motor home. Just in front of the motor home, on a small chair, sat a buxom woman with a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other.