Chapter Text
When the world ended, Lark was holding the bloody knife. This was a constant across many universes. Always Lark, always a knife, always the static roiling and twisting inside him until it spilled out in a great wave of violence and despair. Usually, though, usually there was another constant, a key factor that made all the difference. One shift that let the world steady on its axis, kept from tipping beyond the point of no return.
Lark was always holding the knife as the world ended. But usually, usually, Henry was holding Lark.
—-
There’s a lot to say about guilt. Lark was sure that if you asked Sparrow Terry Jr. about it he could list all the types, all the nuances, all the ways to treat it, to cope. If you asked Nicky, he’d probably scoff and brush it aside, claim that people assigned guilt too often to other people, that only you could determine your own guilt, Lark, and-
If you asked Grant, he’d probably just avoid the question. Lark liked that option best. There was a lot to say about guilt, sure, but Lark didn’t say much of anything these days. Had no reason to, really. A thirty year old (was he thirty? It was hard to track the years when the sky was black as pitch and you didn't have any reason to care) muttering to himself, alone, about guilt and repentance would probably not be the most reassuring sight to any sane survivors he may stumble across. Then again, Lark thought as he looked down at himself and itched at his beard, he probably looked haggard enough to drive them away anyway.
That’s fine.
It was for the better, honestly. The world had gone to shit, and most people had gone with it. Lark knew he was wanted man number one, cream of the Doodler’s crop. Prophesied and powerful and all that bullshit. It was safer for him to just stay away from other people as a whole. Who knows what the Doodler’s acolytes would do to him if they caught up to him, what Lark could do in their hands. What he could do in his own.
Head down, hands on a weapon, feet on the move. That was his life now. For nearly twenty years, that had been his strategy, his way of staying ahead of the consequences of his actions. It had worked so far, and Lark wasn’t about to stop now.
He drifted through the long abandoned streets of some crumbling city. He traced his route on his mental map as he did the cracks in the pavement, taking note of all that had changed since his last cycle through here (two years, three days. Ahead of schedule, but he’d been forced to flee a few safehouses early. The masses were getting antsy. Or maybe it was their god above, hungering for its final form). The nearby stores all had clearly been wiped clean a long time ago but Lark had expected that – he’d be more concerned if there were signs of life. He passed a firearms store whose roof had caved in and let himself smile, just a little, remembering busting in there with Nick just a few years into the apocalypse. They’d been more reckless back then, but it suited Lark just fine, now. No one was looking for him in the charred wake of his youth. He slipped down a few alleyways, climbed under stacked cars and gaping sinkholes, until he finally neared the spot he was looking for. He could already feel a bit of the tension he carried prepare to unravel. This was one of his more comfortable hideouts, and he was looking forward to resting somewhere solid for a couple months after weeks of roadside travel.
Nothing ever went Lark’s way, though. Why would it? He heaved a quiet sigh as he noticed signs of disruption in the area. He rolled his shoulders back and pulled out his knife (this city was too quiet to draw unneeded attention, but he rested his hand on his gun, just in case), lowering his stance and creeping along the trail of disturbance. Lark’s concern grew as he noticed it circle closer and closer to his safehouse. Last thing he needed was for it to be cleared out or, even worse, now home to a Doodlerized maniac.
Sure enough, the door – covered by rubble with only a small hole to crawl through, unnoticeable and quite a squeeze for Lark once he’d grown into teenagehood and beyond – was left slightly ajar. Lark swore softly under his breath and switched his knife for his gun after he’d wiggled his way through. Not a survivor, then. They’d know better than to leave the door open. If Lark had stumbled onto someone’s hidden stash like this, he’d have barricaded it shut until he was ready to go. The best he could hope for was for them to be long gone, with no need to keep the place secure. More likely was someone too out of their mind to think themself fallible.
Lark slunk through the dark hallway, thankful for the worn down carpet beneath his feet. This had been a small motel once, tucked flush between two much larger buildings that now leaned precariously towards each other. It had only ten rooms, three of which were beyond usable last Lark had been here. He knew all the spots that creaked, making it easy to stealthily check each room he came across. The office and lobby were empty, as were the usable rooms. The kitchen had been touched – Lark’s brow furrowed, seeing some food left open and out on the counters. No mold, this intrusion was recent. He took a steadying breath and moved to the stairs, gun readied.
The second floor was in more disrepair than Lark remembered. A new patch of mold grew on the left wall and he could see through an open doorway how one of the previously safe rooms now had a dangerously sagging ceiling. Further down the hall part of the ceiling had caved in, letting dim red light filter through.
Lark didn’t have to search every room this time. He heard his enemy before he even saw the open door. Whoever it was had taken the room across from where Lark stayed when he was here, where most of his supplies were stashed. He crept closer, back to the wall to hide his approach and muscles tense as he got closer to the room, soft footsteps hidden by cheery humming.
Lark placed his gun in the slot between door and frame, pushed it open, and stepped swiftly into the room, eyes sweeping left then right before settling on the figure by the wall, gun aiming towards them before he’d even processed what he was looking at. His finger froze on the trigger as he locked eyes with a young boy.
“Oh, fuck.”