Chapter Text
They started walking along the shore after finally hitting the ocean, keeping so close to the waterline that every few steps a wave would roll in and nip at their ankles—well, Junior's mostly, staying closer to the water than both his parents—cold, sharp, like the world tapping Junior on the shoulder just to show it's not that scary. Junior didn't mind it at all. Weirdly enough, he liked the tiny jolts, which made him feel awake.
It was easier this way, he'd figured that out after just a couple of hours. Easier to rinse their hands after dealing with meat, easier to scrub dirt or sand off before it worked its way into their attempt at clothes, easier to gather water once Father started filtering it through whatever makeshift contraption he has been fussing with since dawn. Xeno had tried explaining how it worked—some mix of chemistry and physics that probably made perfect sense if your brain was built like his. Junior tried to follow along, he really did. But the details just slid right off his mind, no matter how many times Father went through them. He still nodded anyway, because the little spark in Xeno's eyes when he explained things felt... nice to keep alive.
It wasn't home.
God, it wasn't even in the same solar system as "home." But the constant hush of waves that slowly stopped sounding threatening and started sounding like something nice, the salt-heavy breeze brushing over them, the rhythm of sand shifting beneath their feet—it chipped away at the panic that had been living in Junior's ribs since the day everything fell apart. Bit by bit, the monstrousness shrank, the world didn't feel quite so big, quite so sharp-edged, quite so impossible to survive.
Somehow, in tiny, scattered ways, it became... familiar. Not safe, but close enough that Junior could pretend—just for a second, just long enough to take a full breath—that he wasn't completely, hopelessly lost.
Most of the walking time was filled with chatter—light, noisy, wandering chatter that bounced between them and filled up the empty spaces in a way that helped more than Junior would ever admit out loud. It was never anything important. Just silly stuff, pointless stuff, the kind of conversation people made when they were trying really, really hard not to think about the things that actually hurt.
Dad would ramble about some knife he was trying to sharpen, complaining dramatically about how "prehistoric garbage stone" wasn't worth the effort. Or he'd slip into some deployment story—always the sugar-coated versions, the ones meant to make Junior laugh, not worry. The ones where everything ended fine, and nobody ever bled or died.
Father, meanwhile, would mutter to himself about rocks and mineral composition and water flow, like the universe was a puzzle he was determined to solve while walking in a straight line. Every so often, the muttering turned into an argument with Dad over some memory from years ago—half a joke, half a genuine "you're remembering it wrong."
Junior liked those moments the most. The unfinished stories Dad started and then got distracted from. The times Father would huff up like he was annoyed, only for Junior to catch the tiny betrayed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when Dad teased him a little too perfectly. The way they'd both fall into a rhythm without trying—steps matching, voices overlapping, like they remembered how to be a family even if the world around them didn't, even if they weren't a family with the missing members.
And somewhere along the way, Junior realized he'd started looking forward to it every single morning. The sound of their voices, the beat of their footsteps close beside his. The quiet reminder that they were still here, still trying, still choosing each other even when everything else had been ripped away.
He needed that more than he had words for. More than he'd ever tell them. Even though he probably should, even though there were a thousand things he could say—gratitude, fear, how much it meant just to walk beside them, how much it mattered they chose to turn back on their way just to try and revive him and the twins —but the words never seemed to line up right when he tried to grab them. They slipped away, slippery as the salty water between his fingers.
Junior didn't join in the conversations much. Partially because he never felt like he had anything important to add, and partially because listening felt... safer, easier. He'd let their voices wash over him, laugh at the right moments, hum when they paused like he was thinking, even if his mind was mostly drifting.
But when he did speak, it was almost always about Helia and Cobalt.
The trouble those two caused felt like a universe away, but talking about them made the ache in his chest loosen just a little. He would tell Dad about the time the twins smuggled three frogs into the house "for scientific observation" and then panicked when they all escaped under the furniture. Or the time Helia decided Junior's backpack was the perfect place to stash her stolen snacks, and he spent an entire school day smelling like strawberry puffs. Or how Cobalt once marched boldly into Father's lab and "borrowed" a tool because he was convinced he could fix the wobbly kitchen chair himself.
Little things, dumb things, good things.
Stanley listened to every single story like it was an order—nodding, snorting, teasing him gently when he got too dramatic about the chaos. And Junior felt himself smiling more than he meant to, the memories landing soft and warm inside his chest instead of sharp like they had been.
He told Stanley every tiny thing he missed. Every scrap of normal he still carried, every piece of the life that felt too far away. And somehow, saying them out loud... didn't hurt as much as he expected. It felt like keeping the twins alive in the only way he could right now, like keeping himself alive, too, in a way he didn't fully understand yet.
It reminded Junior of the quiet moments long ago, the rare times when it had just been the three of them—just Junior and his parents—before Helia and Cobalt had brought chaos and laughter into every corner of the house. Those moments had felt small, simple sure, yet comforting in a way he always missed with the twins by his side.
He remembered Father, always patient, always attentive, giving him gentle pats on the head and letting him crawl into the big bed whenever Dad was away on deployment. The warmth, the steady presence, the comforting mix of both of his parents' scents, the quiet murmurs of reassurance had always been enough to make the world seem right. Even in the middle of a storm or after a scraped knee, Father's hands had always grounded him.
Junior thought about the way Dad would come home after deployment, weary and sunburned or dusty from another mission in the middle of nowhere, and somehow still manage to tuck him in, ruffle his hair, or make a joke that made him giggle even when he was exhausted.
Or the birthday pancakes Dad would always make for him on the morning of his birthday, carefully stacked and decorated just so, a ritual that became all the more important when Dad was away. Father would do the same for Helia and Cobalt in those moments, making sure no one felt forgotten. Junior had picked up the habit himself once he reached his teenage years, trying to recreate the warmth and care in small, imperfect ways.
It stung a little whenever Helia and Cobalt said mean things about Dad—a man they had never even met properly. Junior knew better than to take their words to heart—their little jabs weren't truly malicious. They didn't have the filter yet, and didn't understand the weight behind the things they said. Still, hearing them twist their father into some sort of villain made his chest tighten, a tiny ache he tried to shove down and ignore while he gently scolded the twins for their words before Father heard.
He hoped Dad would ever find out about that. God, the second he imagined it—Dad hearing that his own twins talking trash about him, that Junior just... let it happen frequently? Yeah, no. Junior would absolutely dig his own grave, climb inside, and let the dirt bury him out of sheer shame.
Even just thinking about it made his chest twist painfully. Dad had always loved them—loved all three of them and Father—even when he'd been gone, even when he didn't get the chance to see the twins grow up. And Junior—just letting those two tiny chaos gremlins believe Dad was some big, scary, absent question mark? It made guilt crawl up his throat like a lump he couldn't swallow.
He kept replaying it in his head—what if Dad did know? What if Dad thought Junior agreed with the twins? Knew Junior didn't defend him the way he should have had? The thought alone was enough to make him want to curl up in the sand and never get up again.
Ugh...
He could really go for some of those birthday pancakes right now. Just the thought of anything soft, sweet, or warm other than meat made his stomach twist in longing. He knew he shouldn't complain—he ate enough to fill himself, and most importantly, he wasn't starving—but the memory of Dad's pancakes, golden and fluffy, drizzled with a lot of syrup and a kind of topping his heart desired made him ache.
How did Dad even manage it? Catching rabbits or birds was hard enough, but making them into a proper meal? Junior thought about how the last part was done, having been witness to that once, but he didn't know how his father did it with such ease—or maybe it just seemed easy because he had always made it look effortless. Still, the thought of those pancakes lingered, a little warmth in his chest amid all the exhaustion and endless walking.
"What're you thinking about so hard, kid?"
Stanley's voice cut through Junior's wandering thoughts, soft but curious, like a gentle nudge.
"Uh... nothing much," Junior mumbled, quickly looking down at the sand stuck between his toes, hoping Stanley wouldn't notice the way his stomach twisted at the memory of pancakes and home.
Stanley didn't press—just gave a small, knowing shake of his head, as if he could see right through him anyway, and kept walking beside him.
"We should be reaching a major city soon," Xeno said, voice steady but carrying that familiar analytical edge he always slipped into when he was half-planning, half-talking to himself. "We've covered quite a bit of ground—more than I anticipated, honestly. At this pace, we should be able to catch up with the others without too much trouble."
Junior perked up a little at that, lifting his gaze from the sand. "Really? What city?"
"Santa Cruz," Xeno replied without missing a beat. "Or what used to be it, more accurately. It's the closest major landmark along this stretch." He continued, eyes scanning the coastline as if they would be able to find any kind of ruins and willing to materialize them on command. "But our main goal is farther north. We need to reach San Francisco, locate corn samples, and find a flat enough area to start establishing something stable."
Junior blinked, eyes widening as he tried to picture it all. "A flat area and... corn?" The words sounded absurd coming out of his mouth, like some strange dream he couldn't quite grasp.
"It's more crucial than you think," Xeno said, slipping seamlessly back into lecture mode, the calm, measured tone he always carried when discussing plans. "Corn is genetically stable, easy to breed even in primitive conditions, and essential for sustainable food production. It's not just about eating—it's about creating a reliable, renewable source of nourishment for everyone. And the land... well, we'll need enough flat space to plant, grow, and expand. We can't do that in hills or rocky terrain. It has to be practical, manageable. Efficient, and in other ways elegant even."
Junior tilted his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it.
"Not to mention," Xeno continued, voice tinged with a rare excitement, "with corn we can also produce fuel. Ethanol, biofuel—and quite a few more others too. That'll be invaluable for building a stable place, powering whatever equipment we manage to construct, and ensuring the others can thrive without relying solely on hand tools or firewood."
Well... that made sense, he supposed, but the idea of jumping straight into something so complex made his head spin. Corn for fuel, flat land for planting, sustainable food production—how could they even start thinking about all of that when they didn't even have proper tools yet? No machinery, no electricity, nothing but the barest scraps of survival equipment.
Even if Junior didn't understand the mechanics—or the chemistry, or the physics—he trusted that his parents knew what to do. That thought gave him a small, shaky sense of relief as he trudged along the sandy shore.
By the time they reached what used to be Santa Cruz, they wouldn't have known it if Xeno hadn't said it out loud. There were no buildings left, no roads, no rooftops tangled in vines, no ghostly outlines of houses swallowed by green.
Nothing, absolutely nothing. Just open land and wind and the soft crash of waves.
The only clue—the only thing that told them people had ever lived here—were the statues.
Piles upon piles of them.
Clusters scattered like someone had thrown humanity across the sand and left the pieces where they fell.
Some stood upright, only a bit buried in the sand, frozen mid-stride. Others had toppled over long ago, half-buried in earth or tangled in drifting roots. A few were cracked down the middle, vines curling through the fractures like nature was stitching them shut.
When Junior saw, he could only stare, feeling something cold slide down his spine. He hadn't seen other statues until now—other than Helia and Cobalt's. Just his siblings, small and familiar and painful to look at. But here...
Here it was, dozens of people, thousands maybe. Silent, still, like a graveyard without graves.
There was absolutely no trace of the buildings that once stood here. No restaurants, no beach shops, no homes, no pier—none of the things Santa Cruz should've had. Just the sea, the sand, and this eerie forest of stone people, frozen in their last moments.
He swallowed hard.
"...Were there already statues when you two woke up?" He asked quietly, eyes still moving over the scene.
Stanley slowed his steps, expression tight. "Yeah. Plenty."
"Just like this?"
"Worse in some places," Dad admitted. "Sometimes they're... almost fussed together, probably people who were in cars and crashed with each other."
Xeno stopped walking just behind him, hands clasped behind his back as his eyes swept over the field of stone. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter than usual, not clinical, not lecturing. Just... human.
"This is what remains of our civilization," He murmured. "People caught mid-routine, mid-argument, mid-joy, all frozen in time. Nature has reclaimed everything else, but... not them."
Junior didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to breathe around the feeling clawing through his chest.
He stepped a little closer towards Stanley without thinking. Not touching, not clinging—just close enough that the warmth was there, steady and real in a place that suddenly felt too quiet.
Father exhaled slowly, as if forcing the heaviness out of his chest, then straightened his shoulders and nodded down the shoreline.
"Come," He said gently. "We should keep moving. There's nothing more we can do here." Junior nodded, legs already shifting to follow—but his eyes didn't move with him.
They stayed glued to the statues.
He didn't want to stare, he really didn't.
But something about them tugged at him, subtle at first, then sharp as a hook in his ribs.
Junior tried to tear his gaze away, but only managed halfway. His feet moved, his body turned just enough to follow Xeno's voice, but his eyes—those stayed snagged on a family petrified like a hook caught in his ribs.
His gaze landed on a cluster half-buried in the sand—three figures caught in a collapsed heap.
A woman kneeling, arms curled protectively around a child, a man leaning over them both, one hand reaching as if shielding them from something that never came. They seemed almost untouched, whole even, so dull and motionless, but the posture—the shape—the familiarity of it was unmistakable.
His throat tightened, breath hitching in a way he didn't mean for it to. He felt the sting behind his eyes before he even realized he'd gone still.
"It's better not to look, kid," Stanley said quietly, not gruff, not scolding. Just soft, because he had seen the exact thing—only for him, it involved the statues of Junior, Helia, and Cobalt, petrified and helpless to change that.
Junior blinked hard, dragging his eyes away as if they weighed a ton. Dad wasn't scolding—just... trying to spare him. But it didn't really help, not when those stone faces were already burned into his brain.
"I know..." Junior whispered, even if he didn't. Even if he knew, he would still see those shapes the second he closed his eyes tonight.
Stanley slowed beside him, walking just a half-step closer, like he could sense Junior's thoughts spiraling off somewhere sharp.
"C'mon," He said, tender this time. "We can't help 'em. But we can help the people ahead."
Father was already a few paces forward, waiting without saying so, the wind stirring the ends of his white hair. Junior forced himself to move, one foot after the other, sand sliding under his heels.
He didn't look back again, he didn't have to. The image followed him anyway, tucked deep behind his heartbeat, making him walk faster—like distance might make it hurt less.
The rest of the way became a blur to him. Every time Junior forced his gaze to the ground, he could still feel them—the endless rows of stone faces, frozen mid-life, like they were watching him from behind.
Xeno kept walking, Stanley kept up a steady pace. Junior followed because stopping felt worse, like if he paused even a second too long, the silence would swallow him whole.
His footsteps grew uneven, sand crunching under his feet louder than it should've, echoing in his skull. He kept telling himself Don't look, don't look, don't look, but the silence made his thoughts too loud, too sharp. And every time the wind shifted, brushing past the statues, it sounded almost like whispers.
Stanley glanced back at him more than once, jaw tight, pretending he wasn't watching for signs that Junior was about to break. Father didn't say anything either, but he slowed his pace just a little—not enough to call it comforting, but enough that Junior didn't fall behind.
The shoreline stretched on and on, endless and bone-white with salt and other things. The sun dipped lower, catching the faces of the last signs of stone statues in soft gold.
Junior swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. He wished the statues would stop looking at him, stop feeling like ghosts he was walking past, stop reminding him that he, too, walked by his own family the same way—helpless and not able to do anything.
But he kept walking.
Because what else could he do?
"We should stop here for tonight," Father said at last, after walking so long that there were no more statues near like before. By then, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving behind only a fading smear of orange. The moon had taken over—big, bright, almost perfectly full. Its light spilled across the barren landscape in a way that felt both comforting and unreal, painting silver edges on every rock and ripple of sand.
The sky above them was wide open, cloudless, endless, filled with clear stars.
They put a real good distance between themselves and that place. No more half-buried families, no more silent crowds frozen in their final moments. Just empty coastline and the steady hush of waves.
Stanley gave a short nod and scanned the area, checking for a good place to settle, looking for any kind of danger, anything that would help make the night better. Junior stayed still for a moment, finally letting his shoulders drop the tiniest bit when he realized—yeah. There were no statues here, nothing staring, nothing waiting.
His chest loosened just enough for him to breathe properly again.
Father seemed to find a well spot, already figuring out the perfect place where they could start a fire. "We'll rest, eat something, and start again at sunrise," He said, voice practical but quieter than usual.
Junior wandered a couple of steps away, just far enough to pretend he wasn't shaking out the tension in his hands. The moonlight made the ground look soft and pale, almost like it belonged to another world, one untouched by the horror they'd walked through.
"I'll... um. Go find some wood," Junior said, already taking a half-step backward. Anything to get his head off the statues, the silence, the way that sound still echoed under his skin. "I can go check the trees or— I dunno, maybe there's something near the rocks."
He didn't even finish the thought before Father's voice cut in, gentle but absolute.
"That won't be necessary," Father said, not even looking up from the rocks he was arranging in a circle. "Stay here."
There was no room for debate in his tone—not sharp, just final, the kind of voice that came from someone who had already run several calculations in his head and didn't like the outcome of any plan involving Junior wandering off alone in the dark.
Junior's mouth clicked shut. He knew that tone well, worry-filled but hidden behind a thick wall.
Junior swallowed, cheeks warming faintly. He just... wanted to be useful. Ever since he got revived, he has barely helped.
"I wasn't gonna go far," He muttered, but he sank down onto a smooth patch of sand anyway. His fingers curled into the grains.
Father finally lifted his gaze. The moonlight caught his eyes, washing them dark and hollow. "I know. But it's dark, and we don't know the terrain that well. So you stay here."
He shifted slightly, settling into the sand and offering his lap again—just like that first night Junior woke up in this strange, brutal new world. The gesture was automatic, practiced, gentle in that quiet Xeno way that felt more like logic than affection... except Junior knew better. It was both.
Stanley was already off in the distance, a dark shape moving between trees and brush, doing what he always did—gathering food, checking for tracks, making sure they didn't wake up dead. He'd taken that role again without asking, without complaint, like he'd been waiting for something to do with his hands.
"I..." Junior started, and immediately wished he hadn't. His throat tightened, words snagging on everything he didn't want to say. "I don't..."
He didn't want to admit he didn't want the comfort—or that he did, or that he hated needing it. That being held made all the fear feel too real, he felt small next to these two men, who kept doing everything while he could barely keep his head straight.
He stared at Father's lap like it might swallow him whole.
"I don't—" He tried again, but the words died, shriveling into nothing before he could shape them.
Father's eyes softened, shadows deepening around them. He didn't reach forward, didn't push, didn't coax—he simply let the space exist.
"I understand," He murmured.
And somehow that made Junior's chest twist even tighter. Because Father did understand—far too much. Because he saw the cracks Junior tried to hide, because he didn't ask for explanations, didn't require reasons, didn't make him justify being overwhelmed.
He just... understood.
Even when Junior didn't want him to.
Even when it made Junior feel more seen than he was ready for.
Even when it made his eyes sting, and his throat ache, and his hands curl into fists in the sand just to keep himself together.
Father didn't move closer.
He just waited, quietly, patiently—like Junior could take the time he needed and the world wouldn't fall apart around them.
And somehow, that was worse—and better—than any comfort Junior could've asked for.
"You should try and get some rest, however," Father added softly, shifting just enough to make space beside him. "We'll wake you once there's food."
Junior let out a shaky breath, he hoped it didn't sound as shaky as it felt. Rest, right, that was still important, even if his brain was a storm chewing itself apart. Like closing his eyes wouldn't replay every statue staring up at the sky, frozen like it was the last second of their lives.
Like, sleep didn't feel dangerous.
But Father's voice was steady, that warm, stubborn gravity that had carried him through scarier things than Junior could imagine. And Dad was out there—somewhere in the dark—making sure nothing with teeth got too close.
"Okay..." Junior mumbled, though it came out small, tired in a way he didn't want anyone to hear.
He shifted closer, just enough that he wasn't technically leaning on Father, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that if the world tilted sideways again, if the fear tried climbing his throat, he wouldn't be completely alone.
He pulled his knees up, tucked his arms around them, and stared out at the quiet waves rolling over themselves. He let the rhythm settle into his bones, let the moonlight soften the edges of everything that felt too sharp.
He wasn't ready to sleep.
But he was... less afraid.