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“Darling?”
Usually the response is immediate, coming from wherever you were in the house. In all honesty you were with Five for most of the time though so he rarely had to call when you were just an arm’s length away. He didn’t like you being out of sight and you savoured every last drop of affection he offered so it worked out well. On the off occasion you weren’t in the same room, however, you would come running at his call, sliding onto his lap as if it was where you belonged. Which, in Five’s opinion, you did.
The mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticks on, surprisingly loudly. Five’s eyes rake over the words of the Shakespeare play he’s reading but no meaning registers in his brain. His eyes scan over the same line but there’s a clear barrier preventing any understanding of it, your delayed response (or lack thereof) being the cause. Had you not heard him? No, that couldn’t be it; you once verbalised that his voice was your favourite sound in the world. Were you not at the mansion? You always politely asked beforehand if you ever did have to leave and he always accompanied you if he could. You valued his approval like that. Like a good girl. Like his good girl.
Fuck it. The book just wasn’t sinking in, so he snaps it shut, tucks it under his arm and sets out to identify your exact location.
With each room that he inspects, Five’s worry grows, as well as the discomfort of overusing his power. At first, he thought you might have been napping (it must be tiring being as perfect as you are, after all) but you aren’t in his room snuggled under the covers. Nor are you in any of the other forty-two bedrooms. Nor are you studying in the library. Nor are you showering in any of the nineteen bathrooms. Did you actually go to the bathroom like you said? One minute you were leaning against him, reading ‘Troilus and Cressida’ over his shoulder, humming attentively here and there, the next minute you excused yourself to the bathroom and seemingly vanished.
A small seed of panic germinates from deep within Five’s chest, and he tries squashing it as much as he can because that means considering an idea he doesn’t even want to entertain right now.
Five hopes this isn’t some joke you’re pulling on him. Because it wasn’t funny.
No one else seems to home, save for Grace dutifully dusting all the paintings on the wall when Five turns the corner to the gallery room. She hums a soft tune as she moves from frame to frame. Upon hearing his footsteps, however, she looks up. A warm smile lights up her features.
“Hello, Five.”
At his curt nod of acknowledgement, she turns back to her dusting. His mother spent all the time in the mansion, having a virtual blueprint of the entire building etched into her motherboard most likely. Her flawless memory meant no detail, no matter how small, could evade her.
She was the perfect person to ask.
“Mom, have you seen (Name) by any chance?” He ventures, hands stuffed into his pockets.
Grace doesn’t even pause in her gentle action, continuing to hum quietly. “Yes, dear. She passed by on her way to the bathroom.” She glances back at him momentarily, flashing him a bright smile. “She waved at me too. Such a nice girl.”
His heartstrings are tugged a little but he continues his questions. “Did she have anything with her?”
Now moving on to the wall adjacent to the one she just finished, Grace shakes her head. “No.”
Five internally expels a sigh of relief.
Or maybe it didn’t warrant being relieved. Five isn’t sure but he won’t stop until he finds out.
A vague plan of your last steps slowly formulates in his mind. At 3:27PM you were with him, leaning against his shoulder as he quietly read. At roughly 3:30PM you excused yourself to the bathroom. He’s almost tempted to draw this plan out on his bedroom wall but resists, not wanting to even consider that idea that tried rearing its ugly head minutes before. It couldn’t have been later than 3:35PM that he called your name, and he had carried out his run-down of the academy, quickened by way of his teleportation, by 3:42PM. Now the small clock on the wall of the gallery room tells him it’s 3:45PM. Yet he isn’t any closer in finding you.
Five was eerily skilled at suppressing his emotions. When he first developed feelings for you he suffocated them as much as he could, reducing any life that could sustain them and allow them to infect his insides any longer. He despised how warm his chest became around you and how strong the urge to hold your hand was when you were within close proximity.
As a being that operated on logic and reasoning, it was sickening to him.
Your soft words, however . . .
He had to admit how good it felt when you directed a sweet smile at him, or when you poured him a cup of coffee precisely the way he liked it, or when you asked his opinion first upon hearing something, or when you called him when you were black-out drunk at some party, confessing your love in between hiccups and watery sobs.
He had grown tired of the immense love for his family that drove him to time travel back again and stop two apocalypses; look where that had gotten him. But the feeling that settled in his chest whenever he felt your wide-eyed gaze on him . . .
Maybe emotions weren’t so bad.
Which is why he abhors the idea of you not being with him right now. He had gotten equally addicted to the love and affection that poured from each cell in your body, all meant for him and only him. You were the sun and he relished basking in your warm rays. So now he felt like dark clouds were blocking your sunlight, preventing you from reaching him. He must uncover what those clouds are.
Five still couldn’t fathom technology for the life of him, but appreciated how it kept you in instant contact with him. Regardless of how many times he checks his phone, though, he sees no message from you detailing your whereabouts. No text, no DM, no snap. Nothing. You vanished into thin air. Poof.
He cracks his knuckles. He’s not giving up that easily.
He combs through each of your possible locations, flashing from room to room, only this time properly searching the rooms themselves. Pillows are thrown around, drawers emptied, clothes hangers shoved back. No stone is left unturned in his hunt for you. He rattles off each of the bedrooms in his head, ticking one off once he’s rummaged through the room.
By the time he reaches your shared room, there’s a sting in his heart. The bed is untouched; he concludes you hadn’t even made it to his room. He doubts you even made it to the bathroom. He wanders inside, now nervous to touch anything. Perhaps this could be a crime scene now. Well, looks like he’s donned the title of detective. The duvet is soft but cold underneath his fingertips as he pulls it back. To his surprise, a slip of white is tucked beneath the pillow. If Five’s worry hadn’t intensified as it had, he would have been curious. He picks up the cream envelope, turning it this way and that in his hand.
To Number Five, it reads in flamboyant cursive. Five grits his teeth.
He thought he exterminated this problem years ago.
Pushing his bubbling anger down for now, he carefully opens the letter. What he reads, though, pushes his fury to the boiling point.
It is a cruel, cruel world out there. And all Five was doing was shielding you from it, taking bullets and knives so you wouldn’t feel a thing. You hadn’t witnessed the dangers of the world yet, hadn’t endured several decades in a barren wasteland like he did. Of course he would never want you to. He refused to allow the world to taint or corrupt his little angel in any way.
These are the thoughts he recites to himself as he stalks up to the rundown apartment block. He can’t quite recall how he went from yours and his shared room to the darker side of town, but since the result will be him rescuing you he doubts the journey really matters. Jaw clenched and muscles tight, his eyes skim over the letter once again, confirming the address. The building is derelict, the bricks cracked and the wooden door chipped. Surely no one had been living here recently, but the threatening letter clearly proved otherwise.
Five angles his neck in just the right position for a satisfying crack. It reverberates around the crumbling concrete walls as his feet carry him through the hallway.
Blood rushes past his ear like an aggressive river. It seems his anger has bubbled over into his bloodstream now, permeating each of his muscles with a deep-set tension. Everything Five worked so hard to protect you from had now captured you in its jaws. He can’t fathom the fear you must be feeling, especially without his presence.
How dare they take you from him? Snatch you away like in some cheesy childhood cartoon. Five didn’t believe in good or evil, and his superhero upbringing hardly helped with that, but let any higher power witness him squash the true evil that took his beloved from him. He feels almost like a failure, that he didn’t manage to truly keep you from harm in the first place. All you did was excuse yourself to the bathroom and someone supplanted themselves in his brief absence to steal you away. No matter, though, he tells himself; he’ll make up for it now.
Five could do anything, if it was for you.
Thankfully he had the foresight to bring a weapon with him, and he lets the shiny axe weigh heavy in his hands. In some ways, he preferred blunt force trauma, mainly due to it resulting in a far smaller amount of blood. Less mess to clean up. But there was a macabre joy he found in the blood of a victim covering him. Another job well done. Another successful kill for his resumé. Another tooth-baring grin from the Handler. Another empty compliment from whoever else was in the staff breakroom as he fetched his morning coffee.
He didn’t enjoy killing, no. But he took pride in his work. And he’s certain you will bestow even more pride onto him. He just has to fulfil his role as a caretaker.
The building is eerily quiet. If Five didn’t know any better he would have deduced no one was here at all. Except for the love of his life. And your captors. His chest tightens once again when he thinks of how you must be feeling right now. Praying you haven’t given up on him, he trudges further into the darkness.
It’s here when his ears pick up on movement. He developed animalistically accurate senses, and he’s euphoric that they haven’t failed him now. It’s coming from a closed door. As quietly as he can, Five makes his way to the direction of the noise, his fingers staying firm around the handle of the axe.
“He’ll be here any minute now . . .”
The voice was heavily muffled but still made its way into his ear. It was definitely male, taunting and teasing. He wonders if his enemies would make it that easy, putting his princess in the same room as one guard, but then another, more feminine voice, joins in and he remembers who he’s dealing with once more.
“She’s only been here for ten minutes, there’s no way the guy would be here that quickly.”
He scoffs.
The male voice must agree with him as he says, “You clearly haven’t been in the commission long enough. Once Five sets his mind on something, he goes ballistic towards anyone in his way. And he’s pretty set on this little civilian. Trust me, you don’t want to see a ballistic Number Five.”
Damn straight.
He ponders if he should wait for any longer outside, or keep holding out for dramatic effect. Suddenly your stifled voice cuts above their idle chatter and Five’s heart nearly stops. It’s incredibly faint, and he wouldn’t have heard it if not for the fleeting silence of the commission pigs. You sound to be crying out, but not stringing any words or sentences together and he guesses they’ve taped your mouth shut. As if that would stop him from hearing you.
The flimsy door comes crashing down and Five briefly muses how quickly this little mission will pass by.
“I hope I’m not too late, gentlemen,” he spares a glance at the one female commission member present, “and lady.”
He thinks to himself that maybe simply appearing in a spark of blue light in the middle of the room would have been more terrifying but the look in the recruit’s eyes betrays her unsaturated fear.
“Oh shit,” she mutters, eyes wider than saucers. Her eyes flicker to the taller male in the room. He shoots her an I told you so look right back.
All the stories of his infamous escapades regularly make their rounds in the commission, Five is fully aware of this. He was their most prized possession so naturally they couldn’t let his resignation go. He wonders how these bright-eyed recruits view him now; he wasn’t trapped in his thirteen-year-old body anymore, and his ID photo of his almost sixty-year-old visage was still circulating the company. He would bet his entire inheritance the Handler kept that photo pinned above her bed. The reverence she gave him was unhealthy, in his opinion. Like a shot of shitty coffee that befouls your taste palette hours after you had the displeasure of drinking it. The look in this recruit’s eyes however; that was unsaturated fear.
Oh well, he supposes it’s redundant right now.
They won’t have their eyes (or their heads, for that matter) for much longer.
A dark corner of his mind enjoyed that terror, anticipating eliciting more of it, before being drowned out by the majority focusing on you and your whereabouts. Which, to his immense anxiety, was not in this room.
They all certainly put up a good fight; the damn company instilled a fighting nature in all of them. Half their combat techniques he originally recommended to the organisation. The highlight of the commission, however, was also their downfall; all the members trained the same way meant they all fought the same.
Which made them all the easier to subdue.
They reminded him of mice scurrying away from a starving barn owl, darting between dark leaves on the forest floor, scrambling for any sort of purchase. It emits high-pitches squeals as it forces its body to carry on, hoping this won’t be its last day on earth. It nicks its leg on a particularly jagged rock it disregarded on its run, and realises all too late what little speed they had before will be non-existent now. Time to pray a god existed. The owl is victorious, swooping further down, sharp talons closing in on its evening dinner. The axe comes down just as vehemently, and the only thought in Five’s mind is he’s one step closer to getting you back.
Off with his head.
His eye twitches as crimson liquid splashes onto him.
Something that he observed over so many missions was the effect of fear on the blood. Adrenaline can cause the blood to coagulate, thickening and even risking blood clots in extreme cases of anxiety. Although Five tried as hard as he could to exterminate targets as quickly as possible, without their awareness if the circumstances allowed, inevitably some anticipated their end. Goosebumps would erupt across their skin. Their eyes would constantly dart around them, fully alert. They would compulsively lock and unlock their doors. One moment they were preparing for a Christmas family gathering, the next minute they would call all their loved ones frantically babbling about how much danger they were in. These targets tended to be the most bothersome, the most determined not to die. It almost roused a sense of sorrow in Five’s heart, but usually it was just mild pity. All the world was a stage and all the inhabitants were simply actors, fulfilling roles like the showmen they were. So, Five couldn’t really be blamed for him performing his purpose. The show must go on, after all.
He just wished the victims wouldn’t get scared so much. Their blood was always more difficult to wash out.
The floorboards creak underneath him as he stalks across the room, searching for any sign of you. During the struggle, the rickety wooden table in the middle of the room had been snapped and splinters now scattered the floor. He carefully steps over them.
His ears strain but now you seem to have gone eerily quiet. Uneasiness rises up to his throat but he pushes through; he had enough fight left in him for a few more commission agents if needs be.
The unfamiliarity of the area is why Five doesn’t just flash in and out – he was still wondering if another trap was lying around somewhere.
Then, as if to call for him, your cries pierce his ears. It’s only slightly louder than the last time he heard it but he rejoices nonetheless, eyes brightening. Instantly he envisions you, allowing your undoubtedly terrified face to fill his vision. If he could visualise you just right then focus on your location . . .
The world is good again.
Your chest is heaving, deep breaths rapidly leaving your body. Pitch-black tape covers your mouth and your hands are tied behind the chair, along with your legs bound together. The same outfit that you wore just over half an hour ago is still on your body, albeit disordered and even ripped in some places. Hot tears stream down your cheeks and Five’s chest aches seeing the almost-dry trails they left on your skin. There aren’t any physical wounds on you but Five can’t resist rushing over to you to check.
Once more the noises you make are stifled by the tape. Ever so gently, rubbing your cheek with his thumb while he’s at it, he pulls it off.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, eyebrows furrowing, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner.”
Your shake your head. “You’re here now.”
He makes quick work of the ties on your hands, as well as the ones on your legs. You stay perfectly still though, maintaining intense eye contact with him. As he looks between your two teary eyes, he doesn’t miss the swirl of emotions nestled in both of them. He can see himself in those irises of yours, a show of spattered red and clear struggle. He notices the light smear of the liquid he left on your cheek, but you’re unperturbed. Someone else’s life essence is staining almost every visible square inch of his skin, not to mention his crisp white shirt and argyle sweater, yet you’re the exact image of a Golden retriever when its beloved human comes home. He’s leaning over you in all his murderous glory. There’s a sparkle in your eyes and, despite this entire situation, the corners of your lips are pulling up.
He has little time to reaction before you lurch forward, capturing him in a deep kiss. He almost splutters, certain his lips were bloodstained too, but your hands fly to his cheeks to keep him in place. There’s nothing to do but reciprocate. Slowly he crouches down to your level, the previous position paining his back. His skin shivers as your hand slides down from his face to his neck, further coating him in blood.
All too soon you pull back. His eyes flutter open and the sight awaiting him restarts his pulse. The warmest of smiles adorns your features, even your eyes crinkling as you gaze at him.
Five doesn’t enjoy killing. Who enjoys willingly ending another human’s life?
But to see his babygirl’s reassuring smile . . .
It’s completely justified.