Chapter Text
Five digs the graves first. They’re shallow, and unworthy, and shitty, but they’re all he can do. There’s no convenient shovel in site, just towers of crumbling rubble and tangles of warped wire stretching endlessly to the horizon, licked by flames and obscured by ash and dust. So he has to use his hands and whatever trash he can use as a tool. There are four rectangular-ish holes, clawed into the dirt in a haphazard line. 1, 2, 3, 4. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus. Plus himself, that’s 5 out of 7. Five is torn between wishing the last two, the lost two—Ben and Vanya, 6 and 7—were here with the rest of his siblings, so that he could put them to rest too, could know for sure where they lay. The other part of him is grateful he can’t find them, so he doesn’t have to see their burned and broken bodies too. So he can hold onto the faintest glimmer of hope that they’re out there somewhere, wandering the streets like him, alive. (He knows, deep down inside, that they’re not. There’s no life here. There’s nothing but him. He’s alone, alone, alone, and his family is dead. They’re dead. Oh God, they’re all dead.)
Anyway. Once the graves are finished Five has to dig his siblings out of the rubble. He gags more times than he can count and vomits more than he’d care to admit. It’s just… those are his brothers, his sister, they’re older than he’s ever imagined them to be and they look vastly different than the young siblings that he knows, but it’s still them. It’s still the corpses of his family. Stiff and stinking, decomposing in the heat, streaked in dried blood and ashen with dust. They’re the only people in the world he’s ever known, the only ones he’s ever loved, and now they’re gone and he’s all that’s left and he cant get home, and he has to drag his siblings from underneath broken concrete to a resting place so inferior to what they deserve that he almost can’t handle it. But there’s no other option.
He digs out Luther first. Five’s hands are already scratched and bleeding from hollowing the graves, his nails rough and jagged and his knuckles scraped, but he knows just from looking at Luther lying underneath the rubble that he will be the heaviest and most difficult to drag out. Five is parched and can see no access to clean water anywhere around him, no food either, and not only is he both emotionally and physically exhausted but something deep within his core feels empty. The time travel has drained him in ways Five didn’t even know he could be drained, and the worst part is no matter how much he tries, every attempt to jump in time again just ends with a weak flicker of azure around his hands and a fruitless pull against the empty well of nothingness inside him. But the point is, Five figures he’ll need his strength for burying Luther more than he’ll need it for the others, so Luther has to go first before Five weakens any further. It’s hard, and it takes a long time, but finally his brother is lying in the shallow pit. His eyes are closed and his blond hair is powdered with soot and Jesus, what the fuck happens to Luther’s torso in the future?!
It’s not easy, pushing the sand and dirt over the body of his brother. Gouging out the grave, tugging big Number One out of the rubble, that was difficult, and it had hurt. But watching his own hands push dry soil over Luther’s face until his features disappear is a level of pain Five didn’t know existed, didn’t even know he could feel. His tears drip off his face and water the grave in tiny splotches, and when he’s done Five can’t help but touch the top of the mound reverently, apologetically, mournfully.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though he’s not sure what for. He doesn’t know what’s ruined the world like this, but the fact that his family is dead and he’s still alive feels like something he needs to apologise to them for. Not that they can hear him.
Five goes numb around the time he’s pulling Diego from the destruction. There’s a scar lancing the side of his head that Five doesn’t recognise, and he’s wearing some stupid-looking leather outfit, but its undoubtedly him. It’s Number Two. He’s heavier than Five expects. His limbs are difficult to position in the grave, stiff and unyielding, and Five shudders at the coldness of his skin when he touches Diego’s hand. It’s unnatural, it’s wrong. Diego is a hothead, full of fire and life—or he was. Now he’s just… nothing. Five can’t help but wonder what Diego was like as an adult, how he’d changed. How they all had. If they were close, if their personalities had stayed the same, what their lives had been like. He’d found all of their bodies still in the academy; did that mean they’d never left? That they still shared a house, were still a family? Five can't see Reginald anywhere either, so maybe they finally managed to kick him out and band together as a proper family. The thought brings Five some cold comfort. Maybe they lived together. They died together, too. He watches Diego’s brown skin disappear under the dirt and gently caresses the top of the grave where his head would lie, more tender than anything he’d ever shown Diego while he was alive. The death of his entire family, the whole world, is putting a lot of Five’s priorities in place. Namely, how much he loves his family; how loyal and devoted he is to them; how much he cares about them all, deeply and selflessly and without thought.
The idea that Five might never see them again, that he’ll be stuck in this hellscape with the taste of smoke, the barely marked graves of his siblings, and useless powers forever, is one so awful and terrifying he can’t even think about it right now. He turns to Allison instead—she’d grown up to be beautiful, even when devoid of life—and struggles to pull her to her grave. Five gets her nice clothes dirty, dragging her over. Well, they were already streaked with dust and blood, but he smears it further and its filth is stark against the sharp black fabric. Somehow seeing Allison’s neat, put-together outfit ruined is what shoots through the foggy barrier that had constructed itself around him like a bullet of pain.
He leans back on his knees, staring down at her in her final resting place (she almost looks peaceful, somehow,) and something inside of him breaks. His hands clench in the dirt, in the material of his shorts, and he screams. It’s hoarse and broken and tortured, and when his voice gives out he shudders forward and collapses, head on his knees, careful to avoid his sister’s grave. He’s gasping, sobbing dryly, everything’s too much for him, but for some reason he’s not even crying properly. There aren’t really tears, he just can’t breathe. He’s panicking. He wants—he needs—someone to help him. Five has never been the type to ask for help, stubbornly determined to do everything on his own or not do it at all, because needing assistance means showing weakness, and that’s not something Five’s ever prepared to do. Except he feels weak now. He’s empty and grieving and exhausted and burying his family alone and he’s thirteen. He’s thirteen! He’s too far in the future and he’s stuck and the smell of death is cloying his senses and there are people burnt to a crisp lying under rubble if he looks around and the only people he’s ever known are adults now but they’re dead and he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what to do, he needs somebody else to take control. He needs to close his eyes and block this whole situation out, needs to clench his fists and disappear in a flash of blue, needs not to be alone anymore. Five has never, not once in his life, wanted Reginald to be around, but the old man always seems to know exactly what’s happening and what to do next. Reginald is a monster, but right now Five wishes he were there just so he could scold Five for being stupid and time travelling when Reginald told him not to, then to somehow fix everything and take Five back, take him home. Take him back to where his siblings are young and alive and not dead and lying in shabby graves or collapsed buildings.
Five isn’t sure how long it takes, but even with the ash filling his lungs he eventually manages to regain control of his breathing and ground himself. He looks up, blinking heavily, and is greeted with the sight of his sister’s body. She’s so still. Five shakes his head, rubs his eyes, sobs breathlessly once more, then focuses on the mission. He scoops the dirt over Allison, apologising mutely as she disappears into the earth, and when he's finally done he stares at the pile obscuring her for a long minute. The sun is going down. The clouds burn brighter than the fire surrounding him, orange and red hues illuminating the sky, their shine heightened by the plumes of ash and smoke covering the world.
Three out of four done. Only Klaus is left, and Five can’t leave him lying under rubble overnight, can’t dishonour him like that. Not when all his other siblings are resting in graves, pitiful as they are. He needs to lay Klaus to rest as well, it’s the least he deserves. So even though his limbs feel filled with lead Five sniffles then forces himself upright. He stumbles over rocks to where he knows Klaus is lying, and almost crumples again upon seeing his corpse. Klaus is the only one who died with his eyes open. He looks so different than what Five is used to, but his eyes, even glazed over with death, are the same olive green.
Five carefully clears the rubble off of Klaus. He’s not pinned by heavy chunks of it like Luther was, more just… covered in part by bricks and stones and dust. Mostly his legs are trapped. Once the bigger pieces are gone Five, for some reason, tries to brush the dust off the ridiculous fur coat Klaus is wearing. The outfit is so him, so utterly Klaus, that Five almost smiles despite his pain. It’s comforting, knowing that at least in this aspect Klaus won’t ever change. Five’s gaze flickers sadly over Klaus’ body, mainly trying to figure out how best to manoeuvre him to the last grave, and his eyes catch on the tattoo. Klaus’ wrist is turned up and resting on a brick, displaying his umbrella sigil to the world like one last little act of defiance. It was seeing that tattoo for the first time which finally drove in the fact to Five that the sprawled bodies he was seeing were truly his family. Without seeing it he could’ve passed them off as being random people, if he chose to be so wilfully ignorant, but that fucking tattoo was an undeniable identifier. None of them had liked that tattoo, except maybe Luther, but Five was glad for it now. It connected them all together, he and these bodies, affirmed the fact that they were his family. They’d hated the tattoo as it always seemed like a reminder that they were practically Reginald’s property, little soldiers moulded into his exclusive little group, but it seems it introduced Klaus into tattoos as a general concept. It’s an idea Number Four appears to have ran with, as Five notices another one scrawled onto the palm of the same hand. Goodbye, it mocks. Five’s lips part as he stares at it; it feels like a cruel joke. Goodbye. Goodbye, family. Goodbye, world. Goodbye, correct time. Goodbye, Klaus. Five has to say goodbye to it all, now. His lip trembles and he tears his eyes away from the word, back to the inked on umbrella. He glances at his own wrist, traces the identical shape, then leans over and for some reason touches Klaus’ tattoo with shaking fingers. Checking they’re still the same, making sure its really there. Klaus’ skin is cold as death, just like the rest of his siblings' had been. Five lets his hand linger for a moment, steeling himself, preparing to grab on tight and haul the corpse to its grave.
What’s he’s not expecting is for Klaus to suddenly take in a deep, shuddering gasp, cough harshly, and flail around until he slips off the mound of rubble he’d been lying on with an abrasive clatter.
Five snatches his hand back with a shriek and stares wide-eyed as Klaus props himself up on his hands, blinks hard, and glances around at his surroundings until his eyes catch on Five.
“Oh, shit,” Klaus says, looking almost as shocked as Five feels. “Five?"
Five promptly bursts into tears.