luther "the big shy one" hargreeves | #00.01 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obediences) wrote2019-03-08 12:15 am
obediences) wrote2019-03-08 12:15 am
Entry tags:
for ltbrownnoser.
for
When the world breaks, it breaks everything.
Number Five has sheltered his siblings from the brunt of it like scooping up an armful of lost ducklings, but they're scattered across the universe as the reality storm heaves its way across existence, roiling and rippling in the wake of the apocalypse. The moon-turned-meteor punching the earth and Five ripping the timelines apart, then messily stitching them back together, isn't a neat process. It's a fist driven through a pane of glass, all the disparate pieces shattering and falling apart and that, ladies and gentlemen, is what the fabric of space-time looks like now.
Luther doesn't even know where or when the others have wound up, except that he wakes up alone, breathing the dust of their destroyed mansion, hands in the dirt and thinking, So this is what Five went through.
Over the next few hours, he digs his way through the rubble, tossing crumbled walls aside and searching for bodies, but there aren't any. He walks the whole circumference of the City, looking and looking for his siblings. Constantly convinced that he's going to turn a corner and there they'll be, all waiting for him, or that Five's going to materialise. Any moment now.
Any moment now.
But the more he searches and the more the days drag on, the more apparent it becomes that the world is shockingly, painfully empty. If there are survivors, they're not on this side of the seaboard. Luther scavenges alone, jumpstarts cars alone, drives alone, scrounges for supplies alone, and feels the crawling panic working its way up the column of his throat that he might be the only person alive in the entire goddamned universe. He's done a version of this before. He doesn't want to do this again.
(How did Five survive? How did he not just put a bullet in his own skull and be done with it?)
As soon as that fleeting thought crosses his mind, though, he knows what keeps them both going: it's hope. That dangling hope that he'll be able to find his family again somehow, that they're just in the next neighbourhood, the next city. That Five will come back for him, again, and round them all up. Again. Luther's beard grows ragged again; he gathers weapons; readies himself for a battle that never, ever comes.
—Until the day there's an unusual dark storm gathering on the horizon once more, so similar to what they saw when Five finally dragged his way home. It's time. It's finally happening.
Luther drives like a bat out of hell, getting closer to the storm before he parks dizzily on the next block, and emerges just in time to see that it wasn't a darkhaired thirteen-year-old who came stumbling out. Instead, it's a short blonde woman, furious and swearing up a storm at some kind of tech on her wrist.
It's his first sight of another human being in weeks. He still wasn't sure anyone was alive. Luther instinctively takes a step closer; his boot crunches on debris, alerting her to his presence.
Number Five has sheltered his siblings from the brunt of it like scooping up an armful of lost ducklings, but they're scattered across the universe as the reality storm heaves its way across existence, roiling and rippling in the wake of the apocalypse. The moon-turned-meteor punching the earth and Five ripping the timelines apart, then messily stitching them back together, isn't a neat process. It's a fist driven through a pane of glass, all the disparate pieces shattering and falling apart and that, ladies and gentlemen, is what the fabric of space-time looks like now.
Luther doesn't even know where or when the others have wound up, except that he wakes up alone, breathing the dust of their destroyed mansion, hands in the dirt and thinking, So this is what Five went through.
Over the next few hours, he digs his way through the rubble, tossing crumbled walls aside and searching for bodies, but there aren't any. He walks the whole circumference of the City, looking and looking for his siblings. Constantly convinced that he's going to turn a corner and there they'll be, all waiting for him, or that Five's going to materialise. Any moment now.
Any moment now.
But the more he searches and the more the days drag on, the more apparent it becomes that the world is shockingly, painfully empty. If there are survivors, they're not on this side of the seaboard. Luther scavenges alone, jumpstarts cars alone, drives alone, scrounges for supplies alone, and feels the crawling panic working its way up the column of his throat that he might be the only person alive in the entire goddamned universe. He's done a version of this before. He doesn't want to do this again.
(How did Five survive? How did he not just put a bullet in his own skull and be done with it?)
As soon as that fleeting thought crosses his mind, though, he knows what keeps them both going: it's hope. That dangling hope that he'll be able to find his family again somehow, that they're just in the next neighbourhood, the next city. That Five will come back for him, again, and round them all up. Again. Luther's beard grows ragged again; he gathers weapons; readies himself for a battle that never, ever comes.
—Until the day there's an unusual dark storm gathering on the horizon once more, so similar to what they saw when Five finally dragged his way home. It's time. It's finally happening.
Luther drives like a bat out of hell, getting closer to the storm before he parks dizzily on the next block, and emerges just in time to see that it wasn't a darkhaired thirteen-year-old who came stumbling out. Instead, it's a short blonde woman, furious and swearing up a storm at some kind of tech on her wrist.
It's his first sight of another human being in weeks. He still wasn't sure anyone was alive. Luther instinctively takes a step closer; his boot crunches on debris, alerting her to his presence.
Sarah's next assignment is boring with a capital B. Most of them are, quite frankly, but this one is especially so because it isn't even an interesting artifact that she's meant to collect. If you asked her, a broken iPhone in the 1970s is hardly going to get noticed, given that it bloody well doesn't turn on. All the same, with a roll of her eyes and a two-finger salute, Lt. Sanders punches the coordinates into her Vortex Manipulator and takes a deep breath to prepare herself for the rough ride.
...which turns out to be much rougher than it typically is and about halfway through the seconds-long trip, Sarah realizes exactly why. Her Vortex Manipulator lights up, its screen flashing red and, rather than landing herself squarely in 1970s Beijing, the whole time-space vortex loses its brilliant purple and blue colors, shattering almost into a blue-black nightmare that dumps her clumsily out in the wrong place. When normally she would appear on two feet exactly where she intended to appear, Sarah stumbles and practically falls over when she lands on a loose rock and turns her ankle, sending up a flurry of expletives.
The screen of her interface is still flashing red, but she tries to work around it. This is a bloody wasteland, so it's going to do her exactly no good to stay. Only, halfway into re-entering the correct coordinates, the screen goes black. Completely.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You actual bloody fucking piece of goddamned junk! Come on!" she snaps at it, tapping furiously at the blank screen before finally taking the whole thing off and intending to shake it in both hands, as though that might change anything. "This is fucking bollocks, come on! Oh, you're fucking crap!" she snaps, putting it back on her wrist and taking a deep breath to centre herself before she tries with a more gentle touch.
Before she can do that, though, the sound of crunching debris in the otherwise silent apocalyptic scenario catches her attention and Sarah looks up. Immediately, her reflex is to reach for her firearm, but rather than actually pulling it, she hovers a hand over it. "Stop right there," she warns. The Vortex Manipulator powers back on with a flash of blue light and she looks quickly down at the screen which announces quite plainly where and when she is. Shit.
"Name, rank, and serial number," she calls out to the man as she looks up again. There are no people in this event. It's a fixed point on the timeline and it is so because it wipes out Earth, paving the way for New Earth. She's actually seen Earth end; it looked a lot better from the space station skybox than it does on the ground, that's for bloody sure. The only explanation for another person being here is that he's with another branch of the Agency, in which case, it shouldn't be of any surprise to him that she's asking.
...which turns out to be much rougher than it typically is and about halfway through the seconds-long trip, Sarah realizes exactly why. Her Vortex Manipulator lights up, its screen flashing red and, rather than landing herself squarely in 1970s Beijing, the whole time-space vortex loses its brilliant purple and blue colors, shattering almost into a blue-black nightmare that dumps her clumsily out in the wrong place. When normally she would appear on two feet exactly where she intended to appear, Sarah stumbles and practically falls over when she lands on a loose rock and turns her ankle, sending up a flurry of expletives.
The screen of her interface is still flashing red, but she tries to work around it. This is a bloody wasteland, so it's going to do her exactly no good to stay. Only, halfway into re-entering the correct coordinates, the screen goes black. Completely.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You actual bloody fucking piece of goddamned junk! Come on!" she snaps at it, tapping furiously at the blank screen before finally taking the whole thing off and intending to shake it in both hands, as though that might change anything. "This is fucking bollocks, come on! Oh, you're fucking crap!" she snaps, putting it back on her wrist and taking a deep breath to centre herself before she tries with a more gentle touch.
Before she can do that, though, the sound of crunching debris in the otherwise silent apocalyptic scenario catches her attention and Sarah looks up. Immediately, her reflex is to reach for her firearm, but rather than actually pulling it, she hovers a hand over it. "Stop right there," she warns. The Vortex Manipulator powers back on with a flash of blue light and she looks quickly down at the screen which announces quite plainly where and when she is. Shit.
"Name, rank, and serial number," she calls out to the man as she looks up again. There are no people in this event. It's a fixed point on the timeline and it is so because it wipes out Earth, paving the way for New Earth. She's actually seen Earth end; it looked a lot better from the space station skybox than it does on the ground, that's for bloody sure. The only explanation for another person being here is that he's with another branch of the Agency, in which case, it shouldn't be of any surprise to him that she's asking.
Her fingers are fanned close to her gun, a familiar motion, and he's already doing the mental math: the blonde could easily reach it before he could do anything about it. His skin is tough, but bullets go right through him like they do anyone else.
Name, rank, and serial number. Blank incomprehension crosses the man's face before he says automatically, instinctively: "Luther Hargreeves, Space, Number One."
Because that's what he is, the neat categories he's jotted into. He's captain of the Umbrella Academy; everybody knows who he is, and that's his number. It's the closest thing he has to answering her question.
He's pretty sure that's not what she actually meant, though.
Luther's standing balanced on the rubble, sizing up this strange new arrival and trying to decide what he makes of her. She's not dressed in the clean-cut tailored suit of the Temps Commission, and that more than anything else spares her from him immediately leaping to hostilities. He falls back on de-escalation tactics instead, keeps his hands raised and his voice cool and level. Although he looks unshaven, unkempt, his clothing worn down from weeks in this harsh, blasted wasteland. It's not a place for people.
"Otherwise, I don't really know what you mean. Who are you?"
Name, rank, and serial number. Blank incomprehension crosses the man's face before he says automatically, instinctively: "Luther Hargreeves, Space, Number One."
Because that's what he is, the neat categories he's jotted into. He's captain of the Umbrella Academy; everybody knows who he is, and that's his number. It's the closest thing he has to answering her question.
He's pretty sure that's not what she actually meant, though.
Luther's standing balanced on the rubble, sizing up this strange new arrival and trying to decide what he makes of her. She's not dressed in the clean-cut tailored suit of the Temps Commission, and that more than anything else spares her from him immediately leaping to hostilities. He falls back on de-escalation tactics instead, keeps his hands raised and his voice cool and level. Although he looks unshaven, unkempt, his clothing worn down from weeks in this harsh, blasted wasteland. It's not a place for people.
"Otherwise, I don't really know what you mean. Who are you?"
For a second, Sarah just stares back at the man, her jaw slightly slackened and brow creased with confusion. "...what the fuck?" she blurts out after a long pause.
What she'd originally assumed was an aesthetic choice, she's realizing as she looks at him longer, is actually just self-neglect. So this bloke has been here for a little while. At least a week, maybe longer, she thinks as she looks him up and down. His hands are raised and he doesn't sound like a threat; he's certainly not ringing any alarm bells in her head. Therefore, sighing, Sarah drops her hand back to her side.
"Lieutenant Sarah Sanders, Time Agency," she introduces herself with a frown. "Are you a civilian?" she asks, reflexive incredulity in her tone and very clear on her face. "There shouldn't be any life on Earth right now...it's gearing toward Earth End..." she explains, moving forward slowly to get a better look at him. Once she gets a little bit closer, Sarah can see that he's not quite a human, at least not upon visual glance, so what the fuck is he doing on Earth during its ending? It's not going to implode, yet; there's a few years left before that finally happens, but it's little more than a wasteland at the mo. Anyone can see that, even without the extra knowledge of the timeline that Sarah has as an Agent.
"You can't be here, love," she adds, sounding sympathetic. "There's nothing left, yeah? Come on, then...let's see if I can get this bloody working again and get you somewhere safe," she goes on, taking her steps toward him carefully.
She finally stops when she's about a yard away from him. Well, she'd neither been planning on the detour nor the pit stop finding someone stranded on Earth End forces upon her, but she can make it work. Deadline is several days from now and, even if it weren't, that's one of the beautiful things about time travel: never, ever missing a deadline, even if she gets held up on a mission.
"Oi...big boy, aren't you, Luther Hargreeves?" she asks, looking not intimidated or uncomfortable in any way. Instead, Sarah looks impressed. "Well fit," she murmurs mostly to herself with a thoughtful little smirk and a nod as she looks down at the Vortex Manipulator with a soft sigh.
"Where and when are you from, my darling?" she asks, looking back up at him and lifting her eyebrows in question. "Only, I'll have to put in some coordinates. It's all right if it's vague; we can figure out the details later. Planet and year will do just fine."
What she'd originally assumed was an aesthetic choice, she's realizing as she looks at him longer, is actually just self-neglect. So this bloke has been here for a little while. At least a week, maybe longer, she thinks as she looks him up and down. His hands are raised and he doesn't sound like a threat; he's certainly not ringing any alarm bells in her head. Therefore, sighing, Sarah drops her hand back to her side.
"Lieutenant Sarah Sanders, Time Agency," she introduces herself with a frown. "Are you a civilian?" she asks, reflexive incredulity in her tone and very clear on her face. "There shouldn't be any life on Earth right now...it's gearing toward Earth End..." she explains, moving forward slowly to get a better look at him. Once she gets a little bit closer, Sarah can see that he's not quite a human, at least not upon visual glance, so what the fuck is he doing on Earth during its ending? It's not going to implode, yet; there's a few years left before that finally happens, but it's little more than a wasteland at the mo. Anyone can see that, even without the extra knowledge of the timeline that Sarah has as an Agent.
"You can't be here, love," she adds, sounding sympathetic. "There's nothing left, yeah? Come on, then...let's see if I can get this bloody working again and get you somewhere safe," she goes on, taking her steps toward him carefully.
She finally stops when she's about a yard away from him. Well, she'd neither been planning on the detour nor the pit stop finding someone stranded on Earth End forces upon her, but she can make it work. Deadline is several days from now and, even if it weren't, that's one of the beautiful things about time travel: never, ever missing a deadline, even if she gets held up on a mission.
"Oi...big boy, aren't you, Luther Hargreeves?" she asks, looking not intimidated or uncomfortable in any way. Instead, Sarah looks impressed. "Well fit," she murmurs mostly to herself with a thoughtful little smirk and a nod as she looks down at the Vortex Manipulator with a soft sigh.
"Where and when are you from, my darling?" she asks, looking back up at him and lifting her eyebrows in question. "Only, I'll have to put in some coordinates. It's all right if it's vague; we can figure out the details later. Planet and year will do just fine."
At Sarah's appraising look, the admiring comment, Luther's brain flat-out grinds to a halt trying to process it. Because those words plainly don't make any sense, do they?— they simply don't track with the clumsy vessel he's trapped in, a pale shade of what he used to be—
So he just ignores it. Pretends it didn't happen. Focuses on the logistics of their situation instead, the lieutenant's actual question, his brow creasing in confusion as he tries to focus on the baffling situation. Not for the first nor the last time, he desperately wishes that Number Five were here. Coordinates, planet, year— this is the sort of thing that Five could handle, deftly and flippantly, and would likely snipe at him for being too slow on the uptake. What he wouldn't give to be sniped at by his brother, right about now.
"I'm from here," he says instead, blunt and simple. Like debriefing with a fellow soldier, because it's becoming apparent that's (sort of?) what she is. "I was born in 1989. I'm pretty sure it's 2019, and the world ended— we tried to stop it and, uh, failed."
Her blasé mention of the Time Agency immediately raises his hackles, tightens that knot of tension in his neck and shoulderblades, practically expecting the worst. But the name is slightly off. It sounds like the bureau that his brother worked for, but...
So, not without a little suspicion, he asks: "Are you a time traveller?"
It helps, at least, having a brother who has a casual attitude towards continuity. Because that's what she has to be, right? Her questions don't make sense otherwise, and how else could she be here? They've both been stranded on the wrong end of an apocalyptic event, just like Five had been.
So he just ignores it. Pretends it didn't happen. Focuses on the logistics of their situation instead, the lieutenant's actual question, his brow creasing in confusion as he tries to focus on the baffling situation. Not for the first nor the last time, he desperately wishes that Number Five were here. Coordinates, planet, year— this is the sort of thing that Five could handle, deftly and flippantly, and would likely snipe at him for being too slow on the uptake. What he wouldn't give to be sniped at by his brother, right about now.
"I'm from here," he says instead, blunt and simple. Like debriefing with a fellow soldier, because it's becoming apparent that's (sort of?) what she is. "I was born in 1989. I'm pretty sure it's 2019, and the world ended— we tried to stop it and, uh, failed."
Her blasé mention of the Time Agency immediately raises his hackles, tightens that knot of tension in his neck and shoulderblades, practically expecting the worst. But the name is slightly off. It sounds like the bureau that his brother worked for, but...
So, not without a little suspicion, he asks: "Are you a time traveller?"
It helps, at least, having a brother who has a casual attitude towards continuity. Because that's what she has to be, right? Her questions don't make sense otherwise, and how else could she be here? They've both been stranded on the wrong end of an apocalyptic event, just like Five had been.
An incredulous laugh escapes Sarah as she starts to program the Vortex Manipulator. "Yeah, I'll say. You can't change a fixed point in time, love, it's fixed for a reason. But, all right. 2019 'right here,' it is." She looks up at him after a moment and beckons him closer with two fingers. "Come on, then, you've got to hang on. It's a bit of a rough ride. Don't throw up on me, that's my only rule."
She holds her hand out to him when he doesn't immediately come to her side; it isn't as though she expects him to. She wouldn't expect anyone to, really, especially someone from the 21st century, well before the Time Agency was established.
At his question, she makes a face. "I am a Time Agent, I'll thank you very much," she replies, sounding slightly offended. There are time travelers and there are Time Agents. "I don't bloody travel, that's for leisure, yeah? This is my job. I make sure the timeline is safe. Now come on, let's get out of this wasteland," she says.
Only because she's currently on the clock, Sarah shows patience waiting for him to come close enough that she can hold onto him to make sure she doesn't drop him in the Vortex. Christ, that could take ages to find him again and put it right; that happened exactly once and it hadn't been a person, thank fuck. It had still taken three weeks to find the damn book she'd dropped; it had landed several centuries and planets away from where she'd been trying to go. Never again.
When she tries to activate the Vortex Manipulator, though, all it does is flash red at her. It's only then that she actually processes what he'd said. They'd been right here trying to stop Earth End, whoever they were, so she can't travel with him back to where he belongs. He is where he belongs. Only, the history books and all of her training suggests that no one survived the blast that kicks off Earth End. So what the hell is he doing here?
Sarah sighs. "...shit..." Should she leave him? That wouldn't be right, would it? He's an anomaly and that won't do, either. "Right, I can't take you anywhere if you're right where you're supposed to be. But..." she sighs heavily, "I can't bloody leave you here, either, yeah? So...erm... What do you reckon? Any time you've ever wanted to see? Start fresh on a Leisure Planet, maybe? There's a place near Messaline where you'd fit right in. I reckon you must stick out like a sore thumb on Earth, looking like that, yeah? They're a bit hairier there but big," she assures him with a gesture at his considerable size. "What do you think?"
She holds her hand out to him when he doesn't immediately come to her side; it isn't as though she expects him to. She wouldn't expect anyone to, really, especially someone from the 21st century, well before the Time Agency was established.
At his question, she makes a face. "I am a Time Agent, I'll thank you very much," she replies, sounding slightly offended. There are time travelers and there are Time Agents. "I don't bloody travel, that's for leisure, yeah? This is my job. I make sure the timeline is safe. Now come on, let's get out of this wasteland," she says.
Only because she's currently on the clock, Sarah shows patience waiting for him to come close enough that she can hold onto him to make sure she doesn't drop him in the Vortex. Christ, that could take ages to find him again and put it right; that happened exactly once and it hadn't been a person, thank fuck. It had still taken three weeks to find the damn book she'd dropped; it had landed several centuries and planets away from where she'd been trying to go. Never again.
When she tries to activate the Vortex Manipulator, though, all it does is flash red at her. It's only then that she actually processes what he'd said. They'd been right here trying to stop Earth End, whoever they were, so she can't travel with him back to where he belongs. He is where he belongs. Only, the history books and all of her training suggests that no one survived the blast that kicks off Earth End. So what the hell is he doing here?
Sarah sighs. "...shit..." Should she leave him? That wouldn't be right, would it? He's an anomaly and that won't do, either. "Right, I can't take you anywhere if you're right where you're supposed to be. But..." she sighs heavily, "I can't bloody leave you here, either, yeah? So...erm... What do you reckon? Any time you've ever wanted to see? Start fresh on a Leisure Planet, maybe? There's a place near Messaline where you'd fit right in. I reckon you must stick out like a sore thumb on Earth, looking like that, yeah? They're a bit hairier there but big," she assures him with a gesture at his considerable size. "What do you think?"
Even with Sarah gesturing him closer, the man approached like a skittish wild animal, too wary to come closer or let her touch him — the Hargreeves had never learned to be trusting, let alone with strangers. They'd been taught to be an isolated unit, to only rely on each other, closing ranks like they'd been trained down to their marrow. And he hates having people touch him in general, even through the layers, even just an innocent hand against his arm.
But. He has no goddamn clue what to do in this wasteland or how to get back.
And in contrast, it seems like she knows what she's doing.
So he lets the stranger's fingers snare in the fabric of his sleeve, while she squints down at her wrist. And at the eventual barrage of Sarah's running frustrated commentary, though, the look she gets back is just wide-eyed, perplexed. Luther's experienced no end of strange, bizarre enemies and reality-bending weirdness — it's part of the territory, being in the Umbrella Academy — but other planets are the threshold he hasn't crossed yet. Doesn't have any experience with. (Although of course he'd wanted to. He'd idolised the astronaut-hero St. Zero, who had gone as far as Mars. Not further. Not yet.)
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Luther admits, and there's a weary kind of bitterness in the back of his throat. He hates admitting when he's at sea, out of his element. He's not accustomed to it; feels that prickling ill-at-ease of not being the most authoritative person in the room. But he does latch onto one thing, like a life raft: Any time you've ever wanted to see?
"Take me back. Before it hits," he says, with a tip of his head gesturing vaguely towards where the crater hit on the other end of the world. Where the mantle of the Earth got hit like an egg being cracked, a shudder as the moon collided. "We were jumping— back. To stop it, to try again, but something must've gone wrong. Can you send me back?"
(Luther, you are just not getting it.)
But. He has no goddamn clue what to do in this wasteland or how to get back.
And in contrast, it seems like she knows what she's doing.
So he lets the stranger's fingers snare in the fabric of his sleeve, while she squints down at her wrist. And at the eventual barrage of Sarah's running frustrated commentary, though, the look she gets back is just wide-eyed, perplexed. Luther's experienced no end of strange, bizarre enemies and reality-bending weirdness — it's part of the territory, being in the Umbrella Academy — but other planets are the threshold he hasn't crossed yet. Doesn't have any experience with. (Although of course he'd wanted to. He'd idolised the astronaut-hero St. Zero, who had gone as far as Mars. Not further. Not yet.)
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Luther admits, and there's a weary kind of bitterness in the back of his throat. He hates admitting when he's at sea, out of his element. He's not accustomed to it; feels that prickling ill-at-ease of not being the most authoritative person in the room. But he does latch onto one thing, like a life raft: Any time you've ever wanted to see?
"Take me back. Before it hits," he says, with a tip of his head gesturing vaguely towards where the crater hit on the other end of the world. Where the mantle of the Earth got hit like an egg being cracked, a shudder as the moon collided. "We were jumping— back. To stop it, to try again, but something must've gone wrong. Can you send me back?"
(Luther, you are just not getting it.)
Sarah opens her mouth to assuage his upset by telling him that she doesn't actually expect him to know what she's talking about so much as he might as well just roll with it. But then he speaks again and Sarah heaves a sigh.
"You'll never stop it, my darling," she tells him firmly. She's soft-spoken, but it isn't wavering. "This is the beginning of Earth End. It's a fixed point in time, like Pompeii and 9/11; all four World Wars and the Holocaust. It's always going to happen, no matter what you do. You'll never win it. It always happens. I take you back there and what? I buy you one more try; you'll be right back here where you started only I'm not going to go through a feedback loop with you. One trip. I'm still on the clock," she says.
Then, she sighs again. Perhaps she's being insensitive. This isn't her home; of course it means little to her to abandon it now. "Listen," she says gently. "Time isn't linear and it's...malleable. That said, there are fixed points in time. They're like...landmarks, I suppose is the best way I can describe it. Nothing can ever be done to change them; they're meant to be where they are and unfold exactly the way they did or will unfold. Earth End is one of them. I'm really sorry, my love, but I'm not going to waste a trip to take you back for a suicide mission. That's all it'll be."
She has the grace, at least, to give him a look of sympathy. "You gave me 'Space' as your rank...have you ever actually been? There's so much more out there than this one smoldering rock, Luther. You can go anywhere. Anywhen. Except back to try to fix this because you can't. No one can."
"You'll never stop it, my darling," she tells him firmly. She's soft-spoken, but it isn't wavering. "This is the beginning of Earth End. It's a fixed point in time, like Pompeii and 9/11; all four World Wars and the Holocaust. It's always going to happen, no matter what you do. You'll never win it. It always happens. I take you back there and what? I buy you one more try; you'll be right back here where you started only I'm not going to go through a feedback loop with you. One trip. I'm still on the clock," she says.
Then, she sighs again. Perhaps she's being insensitive. This isn't her home; of course it means little to her to abandon it now. "Listen," she says gently. "Time isn't linear and it's...malleable. That said, there are fixed points in time. They're like...landmarks, I suppose is the best way I can describe it. Nothing can ever be done to change them; they're meant to be where they are and unfold exactly the way they did or will unfold. Earth End is one of them. I'm really sorry, my love, but I'm not going to waste a trip to take you back for a suicide mission. That's all it'll be."
She has the grace, at least, to give him a look of sympathy. "You gave me 'Space' as your rank...have you ever actually been? There's so much more out there than this one smoldering rock, Luther. You can go anywhere. Anywhen. Except back to try to fix this because you can't. No one can."
Edited 2020-06-27 05:24 (UTC)
Those casual terms of endearment are so jarring, for a family who never even had real names for the first thirteen years of their life. Just cold hard numbers, utilitarian. Every time she drops another flippant darling or love, he blinks a little in surprise, unaccustomed to even that small warmth.
And then Luther pauses, listening to her. He can imagine it. Their attempts Looping over and over and over, trying and failing, trying and making it worse, trying and failing again. And again. And again. Hadn't their own experiences confirmed her theory, in a way? Five had come back to prevent the apocalypse, but instead, they'd just wound up causing it another way instead.
So. The end of the earth is inevitable. Inevitable. The one thing they were supposed to do, the thing their very lives and existence had been crafted for, the whole purpose of them, the reason Hargreeves bought them to begin with...
His breath hitches. "You're wrong. There's got to be a way. If you just get the right factors, manage to get ahead of it in just the right way, find the right combination, there's got to be..." The man's voice peters out. His face is looking stricken, like he's been physically punched in the gut, all the breath driven out of him.
You can't. No one can.
Luther shakes his head as if he's trying to physically shake off that truth. It feels like he can't breathe. Dizzied, he snaps back in response to her question, "Of course I have. I was the first boy in space. Youngest astronaut in history."
Still a point of pride, even after all these years. It's one of the few things he has to hang onto. Not that it really counts: one cramped, lonely moon base the size of an RV pales in comparison to what she's seen. It's strangely disorienting, hearing that there's a greater, wider universe out there — and so there's more than a little longing in his voice when he speaks up again, his blue eyes re-focusing on Sarah. The woman standing in front of him like an anchor.
"Does that mean you've been to other planets? Out in the future? You've, what, met aliens?"
And then Luther pauses, listening to her. He can imagine it. Their attempts Looping over and over and over, trying and failing, trying and making it worse, trying and failing again. And again. And again. Hadn't their own experiences confirmed her theory, in a way? Five had come back to prevent the apocalypse, but instead, they'd just wound up causing it another way instead.
So. The end of the earth is inevitable. Inevitable. The one thing they were supposed to do, the thing their very lives and existence had been crafted for, the whole purpose of them, the reason Hargreeves bought them to begin with...
His breath hitches. "You're wrong. There's got to be a way. If you just get the right factors, manage to get ahead of it in just the right way, find the right combination, there's got to be..." The man's voice peters out. His face is looking stricken, like he's been physically punched in the gut, all the breath driven out of him.
You can't. No one can.
Luther shakes his head as if he's trying to physically shake off that truth. It feels like he can't breathe. Dizzied, he snaps back in response to her question, "Of course I have. I was the first boy in space. Youngest astronaut in history."
Still a point of pride, even after all these years. It's one of the few things he has to hang onto. Not that it really counts: one cramped, lonely moon base the size of an RV pales in comparison to what she's seen. It's strangely disorienting, hearing that there's a greater, wider universe out there — and so there's more than a little longing in his voice when he speaks up again, his blue eyes re-focusing on Sarah. The woman standing in front of him like an anchor.
"Does that mean you've been to other planets? Out in the future? You've, what, met aliens?"
"I'm not," she counters evenly, shaking her head and giving him a sympathetic frown. "It's fixed, Luther. It will never stop, no matter what you do. It might change, but it will always happen, one way or another. I'm sorry, love." Her flippancy in using the terms of endearment is more natural than intentional; a habit she picked up from her mum and was nailed down by a fellow officer in the Academy when she'd been in training for the Time Agency. But when she says it this time, it's softer in tone and it weighs a bit more in her mouth because she feels for him, really and truly.
She does find herself smiling at him a little when he seems proud to announce that he was the youngest astronaut in history. It's not true anymore, at least not in her time, but that's hardly shocking given she's from over three thousand years in his future. That's a long bloody time to break a record, after all.
Something in him changes and Sarah watches it shift, feeling admittedly a little endeared at the almost childlike awe in the tone of the question. Not in his voice, but in the words themselves.
"Oh, loads of them, my darling! You know, you said you're from 2019? Me?" she asks, pointing to herself. "I'm from 5052." She huffs softly with amusement at the word aliens. "They're not aliens if you're on their planet, mate; then you're the alien," she points out. "But, I've met loads of other people from other planets and times! All shapes, all sizes, all sorts. So what do you say, shall we go for a quick adventure and find you a new home?"
She does find herself smiling at him a little when he seems proud to announce that he was the youngest astronaut in history. It's not true anymore, at least not in her time, but that's hardly shocking given she's from over three thousand years in his future. That's a long bloody time to break a record, after all.
Something in him changes and Sarah watches it shift, feeling admittedly a little endeared at the almost childlike awe in the tone of the question. Not in his voice, but in the words themselves.
"Oh, loads of them, my darling! You know, you said you're from 2019? Me?" she asks, pointing to herself. "I'm from 5052." She huffs softly with amusement at the word aliens. "They're not aliens if you're on their planet, mate; then you're the alien," she points out. "But, I've met loads of other people from other planets and times! All shapes, all sizes, all sorts. So what do you say, shall we go for a quick adventure and find you a new home?"
Five thousand and fifty two. Those numbers are clearly a surprise, and Luther seems to reel a little more upon hearing them. He's always known and half-suspected there were more things on heaven and earth, sure — but jesus, some things you don't expect. "Wow," he says, blurting out the word, some more of that stunned awe slipping loose.
And her offer is tempting. Sarah's a stranger and he doesn't trust strangers, not one bit, but it's almost unavoidable too. (Inevitable.) He can't live here forever, by himself, for twenty-some years. Simply can't. When a woman materialised to Number Five in the wasteland and offered him a lifeline out of it, he'd had taken the offer too, didn't he?
Luther looks back at the broken shattered buildings around them, and considers. "There's... someone I need to come back for. Someone I'm waiting for. If I leave forever, go to a different planet, he probably won't be able to find me. But even if we leave, you can still bring me back to this point, right? I know, it's fixed, whatever. But I could come back?" She can almost see those gears turning in his head, as he weighs the decision and considers it.
There's not a question in his mind, either, that Number Five will be able to find a way back eventually. His brother will come back for him. Number Five is too much of a goddamned know-it-all to not figure it out.
"So... okay. Yeah. Alright. Sure. Let's get out of here."
He's talking more than he ought to, words tripping over themselves in an attempt to convince himself he's okay with this. The last time he'd been shunted through time and space, he'd been together with all his family, all their hands interlinked and clutched in a bone-breaking grip. Vanya in his arms, Allison to his left, Klaus to his right. Now, though, he's forced to reach out to a stranger, but he eventually does so, one over-large hand grudgingly extended to hers.
And her offer is tempting. Sarah's a stranger and he doesn't trust strangers, not one bit, but it's almost unavoidable too. (Inevitable.) He can't live here forever, by himself, for twenty-some years. Simply can't. When a woman materialised to Number Five in the wasteland and offered him a lifeline out of it, he'd had taken the offer too, didn't he?
Luther looks back at the broken shattered buildings around them, and considers. "There's... someone I need to come back for. Someone I'm waiting for. If I leave forever, go to a different planet, he probably won't be able to find me. But even if we leave, you can still bring me back to this point, right? I know, it's fixed, whatever. But I could come back?" She can almost see those gears turning in his head, as he weighs the decision and considers it.
There's not a question in his mind, either, that Number Five will be able to find a way back eventually. His brother will come back for him. Number Five is too much of a goddamned know-it-all to not figure it out.
"So... okay. Yeah. Alright. Sure. Let's get out of here."
He's talking more than he ought to, words tripping over themselves in an attempt to convince himself he's okay with this. The last time he'd been shunted through time and space, he'd been together with all his family, all their hands interlinked and clutched in a bone-breaking grip. Vanya in his arms, Allison to his left, Klaus to his right. Now, though, he's forced to reach out to a stranger, but he eventually does so, one over-large hand grudgingly extended to hers.
One trip, she wants to remind him, but if it'll get them off this wasteland for her to keep her mouth shut until they've already gone, well, then sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. There's no point coming back here because even if she did bring him straight back here, what of it? She's not an interdimensional chauffeur, so she'd just have to, again, leave him here.
"Sure," she says, a little flatly, if she's honest with herself, because sure. If he really wants to come back after getting out of this, she can drop him off, and then, unfortunately, he'll just have to be on his own.
He holds a hand out to her finally and Sarah smiles, taking it with absolutely no show of surprise or distaste as to its size, the inhuman skin, or the fact that he looks like he'd really rather not be offering it to begin with. "Bit closer, darling, you'll have to hold tight. It's a rough ride, as I said before," she reminds him and she moves closer to him, letting him decide how exactly he'll feel most secure hanging on. "You don't want to fall, mate, I'll never bloody find you if you do, so hold tight," she says, more serious in tone. Only once she's satisfied that he won't drop off into the Vortex at a sudden jolt does Sarah finally punch in the coordinates for one of her favorite Leisure Planets; the one with the Midnight Tour and the best spa she's quite literally ever had the pleasure of indulging herself in.
"Right, off we go!" she announces. "No throwing up on me," she says, reminding him of her only rule, and then she taps on the screen of her Vortex Manipulator to send them off into the Vortex.
...only, nothing happens.
Sarah blinks, looking confused, and taps the screen again.
Nothing.
"What," she says flatly, sounding irritated. "Come on, you powered back on, now do your job," she tells it as though it can hear her. For all Luther knows, it can. The screen fades from its bright blue to a dull red and flashes an error message.
VORTEX OFFLINE. VOYAGE ABORTED.
"Vortex offline, what the bloody...?" she asks, mostly to herself, letting go of Luther and taking a step back to give the situation her full focus. She taps the screen again when it turns blue once more. Again, it turns red and flashes the error message.
VORTEX OFFLINE. VOYAGE ABORTED.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me...no wonder I fell of course. Some fucking idiot took the whole goddamned Vortex offline! We're both stuck, now!" she complains. "The fuck am I supposed to bloody do on Earth End with no fucking supplies?! Useless piece of shit," she adds, giving the Vortex Manipulator a dirty look like it's at fault for her being stuck here.
"Sure," she says, a little flatly, if she's honest with herself, because sure. If he really wants to come back after getting out of this, she can drop him off, and then, unfortunately, he'll just have to be on his own.
He holds a hand out to her finally and Sarah smiles, taking it with absolutely no show of surprise or distaste as to its size, the inhuman skin, or the fact that he looks like he'd really rather not be offering it to begin with. "Bit closer, darling, you'll have to hold tight. It's a rough ride, as I said before," she reminds him and she moves closer to him, letting him decide how exactly he'll feel most secure hanging on. "You don't want to fall, mate, I'll never bloody find you if you do, so hold tight," she says, more serious in tone. Only once she's satisfied that he won't drop off into the Vortex at a sudden jolt does Sarah finally punch in the coordinates for one of her favorite Leisure Planets; the one with the Midnight Tour and the best spa she's quite literally ever had the pleasure of indulging herself in.
"Right, off we go!" she announces. "No throwing up on me," she says, reminding him of her only rule, and then she taps on the screen of her Vortex Manipulator to send them off into the Vortex.
...only, nothing happens.
Sarah blinks, looking confused, and taps the screen again.
Nothing.
"What," she says flatly, sounding irritated. "Come on, you powered back on, now do your job," she tells it as though it can hear her. For all Luther knows, it can. The screen fades from its bright blue to a dull red and flashes an error message.
VORTEX OFFLINE. VOYAGE ABORTED.
"Vortex offline, what the bloody...?" she asks, mostly to herself, letting go of Luther and taking a step back to give the situation her full focus. She taps the screen again when it turns blue once more. Again, it turns red and flashes the error message.
VORTEX OFFLINE. VOYAGE ABORTED.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me...no wonder I fell of course. Some fucking idiot took the whole goddamned Vortex offline! We're both stuck, now!" she complains. "The fuck am I supposed to bloody do on Earth End with no fucking supplies?! Useless piece of shit," she adds, giving the Vortex Manipulator a dirty look like it's at fault for her being stuck here.
Edited (sorry, I can spell, I swear.) 2020-06-28 00:31 (UTC)
Despite himself, he'd started to feel that tell-tale little flicker of hope and excitement in his chest — because at least it'd be human company again, and a ticket off this ruined planet that he feels far, far too responsible for breaking, and a potential lead on what seems like a set of time travellers (sorry, agents) who could maybe help him track down Five...
But then the light on her wrist fades, and he feels his hope fade with it, even as Sarah's temper jacks upwards. There is that very small, very quiet voice at the back of his head that murmurs: Oh, shit.
"Your tech's broken?" he asks politely, standing next to her with his hands now dangling helplessly by his sides. Once again, Luther has the distinct sensation of the ground being unsteady beneath his feet, and the wrong Hargreeves brother being saddled with this woman. There's only one of them who'd know what to do in the event of being stuck in time and, well, he notably isn't here.
But then the light on her wrist fades, and he feels his hope fade with it, even as Sarah's temper jacks upwards. There is that very small, very quiet voice at the back of his head that murmurs: Oh, shit.
"Your tech's broken?" he asks politely, standing next to her with his hands now dangling helplessly by his sides. Once again, Luther has the distinct sensation of the ground being unsteady beneath his feet, and the wrong Hargreeves brother being saddled with this woman. There's only one of them who'd know what to do in the event of being stuck in time and, well, he notably isn't here.
Shaking her head, Sarah looks up at Luther. "No, my tech is working just fine. The time-space continuum is broken," she says patiently if only because it isn't his fault that the Vortex isn't available to connect to at the moment.
...unless it is, she thinks, but quickly brushes that off. There's no way that just because he and whoever else was included in the "we" to whom he'd been referring took down the entire time-space continuum. No way.
"Right, it's okay," she tells herself aloud for both of them to hear. "It's fine. It's just a glitch; it'll come back online and we'll go. There are no survivors of Earth End, so there's no way that we get stuck here. Fixed events don't change that much."
Do they?
Clearing her throat, Sarah takes in a deep breath and huffs it out softly. "Okay, well..." She shrugs a small backpack, hidden largely from view by both its small size and the fact that the straps are thin rope rather than thick fabric, off her shoulders, and reaches into it to pull out a flask of Hypervodka. "I reckon we entertain ourselves for a bit, then." Sarah takes a pull from the flask and then lifts her eyebrows in question, holding it out to offer to him.
...unless it is, she thinks, but quickly brushes that off. There's no way that just because he and whoever else was included in the "we" to whom he'd been referring took down the entire time-space continuum. No way.
"Right, it's okay," she tells herself aloud for both of them to hear. "It's fine. It's just a glitch; it'll come back online and we'll go. There are no survivors of Earth End, so there's no way that we get stuck here. Fixed events don't change that much."
Do they?
Clearing her throat, Sarah takes in a deep breath and huffs it out softly. "Okay, well..." She shrugs a small backpack, hidden largely from view by both its small size and the fact that the straps are thin rope rather than thick fabric, off her shoulders, and reaches into it to pull out a flask of Hypervodka. "I reckon we entertain ourselves for a bit, then." Sarah takes a pull from the flask and then lifts her eyebrows in question, holding it out to offer to him.
And he stares down the line of her arm, her hand, to the bottle she's offering with its bright gold liquod. The brand and the text are unfamiliar and nothing that's been seen on Earth 'til now, but he recognises a liquor bottle when he sees one. There's a small throb in his temple, a reminder of a killer hangover that seems like an entire lifetime ago but was only... what, a day before the apocalypse? Two at most?
"You don't think finding real supplies is more important, right about now?" There's a stiffness to Luther's voice, a faint disapproval. (Welcome to meeting the persnickety stick-in-the-mud Number One, Sarah!)
He's wearing a larger and sturdier canvas backpack, too, but he's only been gathering enough canned goods to feed one person, not two. He's got that car a block over, but no real place to sleep; he's been roaming, sleeping cramped in the backseat, moving on and on in that vain search for his family, because the alternative was just to sit down in the rubble and give up. But if they really are stuck here together—
His atrophied planning instincts are slowly creaking back into motion. Because if so, they should probably stop. Find a place to hole up, and start turning it into an actual base, a safehouse. (Somewhere Five can find him, later.)
"You don't think finding real supplies is more important, right about now?" There's a stiffness to Luther's voice, a faint disapproval. (Welcome to meeting the persnickety stick-in-the-mud Number One, Sarah!)
He's wearing a larger and sturdier canvas backpack, too, but he's only been gathering enough canned goods to feed one person, not two. He's got that car a block over, but no real place to sleep; he's been roaming, sleeping cramped in the backseat, moving on and on in that vain search for his family, because the alternative was just to sit down in the rubble and give up. But if they really are stuck here together—
His atrophied planning instincts are slowly creaking back into motion. Because if so, they should probably stop. Find a place to hole up, and start turning it into an actual base, a safehouse. (Somewhere Five can find him, later.)
When he doesn't take the flask after a few seconds, Sarah gives a facial shrug and takes another drink herself before capping it and putting it back in her bag with a quiet, "suit yourself." The change in his tone would be a lot more annoying if not for the Hypervodka, so she's especially glad she'd taken it out.
"Why? We're not staying, darling. It'll come back online, it's never been offline for more than maintenance; few hours at most," she says cooly with a confidence that isn't in any way earned. All those "few hours long" downtimes were scheduled, after all. There certainly hadn't been any Agents actively out on missions during scheduled downtimes.
Partially in an effort to distract him from his clear disapproval of her admittedly unprofessional behavior of drinking on the job and partially in an attempt to gauge him, Sarah smirks a little at him. "You know, I could think of a few ways to pass the time that would be a lot more fun than looking for supplies we won't need," she says, her tone intentionally smooth and edging into suggestive. Just in case she needs to be a little bit more blatant, Sarah drops a wink at him and then lifts her eyebrows in a silent what do you say? sort of expression.
"Why? We're not staying, darling. It'll come back online, it's never been offline for more than maintenance; few hours at most," she says cooly with a confidence that isn't in any way earned. All those "few hours long" downtimes were scheduled, after all. There certainly hadn't been any Agents actively out on missions during scheduled downtimes.
Partially in an effort to distract him from his clear disapproval of her admittedly unprofessional behavior of drinking on the job and partially in an attempt to gauge him, Sarah smirks a little at him. "You know, I could think of a few ways to pass the time that would be a lot more fun than looking for supplies we won't need," she says, her tone intentionally smooth and edging into suggestive. Just in case she needs to be a little bit more blatant, Sarah drops a wink at him and then lifts her eyebrows in a silent what do you say? sort of expression.
And what she gets in return is... a long, disbelieving stare, another metaphorical blue screen of death when Luther simply doesn't know how to respond to that. Surely he'd misheard that— except then Sarah goes ahead and makes it abundantly clear with that eyebrow-waggle. It's like Klaus' most blatant, over-the-top flirtations, except suddenly directed at him like a thousand-watt bulb. (Something he's rarely been on the receiving end of, except that one time in the club, with the girl— which he can barely remember.)
Once upon a time, twelve-odd years ago, he'd been all winking and grinning in front of the crowds, practically having to beat the teenaged fans away with a stick.
It's been a long, long time since then, though.
"You're joking," he says flatly. It's not even the unprofessional nature of it while on the clock; stripped of the Academy, he doesn't feel much like they're on a mission. It's more like some cornered animal at the back of his mind, trying to work out all the angles, convinced it must be a trick of some kind, because of course he's noticed that the time agent is gorgeous. So it simply doesn't track. Has to be some kind of malicious joke, toying with him.
"It's not like I'm— You're—" he starts, stutters, stops. Grinds to another halt. Doesn't know what to do with his hands anymore, so instead he scrubs at his face and says, "If it's a few hours, we can just wait it out."
He's patient. He can wait things out.
Once upon a time, twelve-odd years ago, he'd been all winking and grinning in front of the crowds, practically having to beat the teenaged fans away with a stick.
It's been a long, long time since then, though.
"You're joking," he says flatly. It's not even the unprofessional nature of it while on the clock; stripped of the Academy, he doesn't feel much like they're on a mission. It's more like some cornered animal at the back of his mind, trying to work out all the angles, convinced it must be a trick of some kind, because of course he's noticed that the time agent is gorgeous. So it simply doesn't track. Has to be some kind of malicious joke, toying with him.
"It's not like I'm— You're—" he starts, stutters, stops. Grinds to another halt. Doesn't know what to do with his hands anymore, so instead he scrubs at his face and says, "If it's a few hours, we can just wait it out."
He's patient. He can wait things out.
Sarah gives him a little facial shrug. "Am I, though?" she challenges lightly, cocking her eyebrows just once more.
Whether he's flustered or just annoyed at her willingness — under the duress of a stressful situation, mind — to drop any pretense of her professionalism, Sarah's not really sure, but either way, she gathers that he isn't interested.
Until he stammers over an addendum, and Sarah's off to the races.
"It's not like you're what, darling?" she asks. "I'm what?" She looks genuinely interested to hear him fill in those blanks and that's because she is genuinely interested to hear him fill in those blanks. Sarah's dying to know what he'd been about to say. To someone like her, starting a sentence only to abandon it, change tack, and abandon that sentence as well...? Christ, he might as well be offering her a spliff, taking it away, offering it once more, and then snapping the bloody thing in half and flushing it down a toilet. Why in God's name would anyone do something so heinously cruel and thoughtless? Honestly.
Her eyes move over him once again as he shows a more blatant display of his discomfort, scrubbing his face with both hands. "If you insist," she agrees with a shrug, letting him off the hook for the moment and unbuttoning the top three buttons of her crisp, white blouse. She looks around, wrinkling her nose. "Fuck's sake, how are you wearing that coat still. It's all fire and bloody brimstone, aren't you hot? I'm sweating, mate..."
She isn't doing it to get a rise out of him; Sarah's sincerely uncomfortable in the heat that comes with being surrounded in small, smouldering fires and being rained on by falling ash.
Whether he's flustered or just annoyed at her willingness — under the duress of a stressful situation, mind — to drop any pretense of her professionalism, Sarah's not really sure, but either way, she gathers that he isn't interested.
Until he stammers over an addendum, and Sarah's off to the races.
"It's not like you're what, darling?" she asks. "I'm what?" She looks genuinely interested to hear him fill in those blanks and that's because she is genuinely interested to hear him fill in those blanks. Sarah's dying to know what he'd been about to say. To someone like her, starting a sentence only to abandon it, change tack, and abandon that sentence as well...? Christ, he might as well be offering her a spliff, taking it away, offering it once more, and then snapping the bloody thing in half and flushing it down a toilet. Why in God's name would anyone do something so heinously cruel and thoughtless? Honestly.
Her eyes move over him once again as he shows a more blatant display of his discomfort, scrubbing his face with both hands. "If you insist," she agrees with a shrug, letting him off the hook for the moment and unbuttoning the top three buttons of her crisp, white blouse. She looks around, wrinkling her nose. "Fuck's sake, how are you wearing that coat still. It's all fire and bloody brimstone, aren't you hot? I'm sweating, mate..."
She isn't doing it to get a rise out of him; Sarah's sincerely uncomfortable in the heat that comes with being surrounded in small, smouldering fires and being rained on by falling ash.
He looks like a deer in the headlights when she calls him out on it (that stuttering, foot-in-mouth, absolutely out of his element because he barely even knows how to carry on a normal conversation these days, let alone—), but thankfully, Sarah lets him loose a moment later. Like a worm squirming on a hook.
So Luther takes the opportunity to choose a particularly large chunk of stone which used to be a store wall, sit down, and make himself comfortable for the wait. As comfortable as he can be, anyway. She's right, it is far too warm after the fires, so it's distinctly unpleasant to be wearing that long baggy coat and the turtleneck tugged up to his throat, but he'd never really considered loosening up. Even if he'd been by himself for weeks. Even alone on the moon, he hadn't ever relaxed that habit or bared some skin for comfort; hadn't even wanted to have it within view for himself.
"I'm fine," he says, extremely unconvincingly. His gaze follows the flick and movement of Sarah's hand, accidentally drifts down to watch as she unbuttons the top of her shirt, then his gaze snaps back to his boots and what must be a fascinating pile of rubble. He fumbles with his backpack and pulls out his own bottle of lukewarm water, takes a sip.
"Is this your, uh. First trip to an apocalypse?"
In terms of icebreakers, it's one of the weirder ones he's ever gotten to try.
So Luther takes the opportunity to choose a particularly large chunk of stone which used to be a store wall, sit down, and make himself comfortable for the wait. As comfortable as he can be, anyway. She's right, it is far too warm after the fires, so it's distinctly unpleasant to be wearing that long baggy coat and the turtleneck tugged up to his throat, but he'd never really considered loosening up. Even if he'd been by himself for weeks. Even alone on the moon, he hadn't ever relaxed that habit or bared some skin for comfort; hadn't even wanted to have it within view for himself.
"I'm fine," he says, extremely unconvincingly. His gaze follows the flick and movement of Sarah's hand, accidentally drifts down to watch as she unbuttons the top of her shirt, then his gaze snaps back to his boots and what must be a fascinating pile of rubble. He fumbles with his backpack and pulls out his own bottle of lukewarm water, takes a sip.
"Is this your, uh. First trip to an apocalypse?"
In terms of icebreakers, it's one of the weirder ones he's ever gotten to try.
Her eyebrows lift dubiously at his assertion. "Right, sure you are, my love," she says with just the slightest taste of sarcasm on her tongue. He must be roasting in that. It never occurs to her that he might be uncomfortable in his own skin because she's always been comfortable in her own and she can't relate to that. Besides, he's well fit, so she wouldn't be able to understand it, even if she could relate.
In spite of the fact that the icebreaker is weak, Sarah hardly notices as she tugs lightly on the top button that's still fastened, creating a fanning effect with her shirt. "It's not, actually," she replies casually. "I mean, well..." she pauses thoughtfully and shrugs again. "It's my first time having front row seats, so to speak. I did have box tickets for the Implosion, but...I reckon that's not what you meant. So, yeah, I suppose it is and I gotta tell you, mate, in spite of the brilliant view, 1 out of 5 stars, definitely would not recommend. I'd give it zero stars if I could," she replies and when she mentions the view, she gives a vague gesture in Luther's direction.
"How long have you been stuck on this burning rock, anyway?" she wonders aloud. She gives another gesture, this time to her own visage. "D'you always wear it like that or is that Earth End Chic?"
In spite of the fact that the icebreaker is weak, Sarah hardly notices as she tugs lightly on the top button that's still fastened, creating a fanning effect with her shirt. "It's not, actually," she replies casually. "I mean, well..." she pauses thoughtfully and shrugs again. "It's my first time having front row seats, so to speak. I did have box tickets for the Implosion, but...I reckon that's not what you meant. So, yeah, I suppose it is and I gotta tell you, mate, in spite of the brilliant view, 1 out of 5 stars, definitely would not recommend. I'd give it zero stars if I could," she replies and when she mentions the view, she gives a vague gesture in Luther's direction.
"How long have you been stuck on this burning rock, anyway?" she wonders aloud. She gives another gesture, this time to her own visage. "D'you always wear it like that or is that Earth End Chic?"
Despite his faint irritation and confusion, despite this mysterious stranger's attitude which is already leaving him wrong-footed and off-kilter— he finds that he still wants to ask her everything. To drink up all her stories. To hear everything.
"A few weeks," he says wearily. Only a few weeks and yet, with that looming steadily-growing panic that his family was likely dead or scattered across the timeline, and he was all on his own... It had felt like longer.
"And I... I mean, yeah, the environment's kinda run down my clothes. And I haven't shaved in a while." Luther scrubs at his face again, this time running his fingers along the rough-grown stubble. After a while, he'd stopped bothering to scrounge for razors and shaving cream, not finding it a necessity. It's not as bad as the wild flyaway disaster he'd had on his face after four years on the moon, gone absolutely to seed, but the beard is still messier than he'd ordinarily have liked to meet someone with. Number One was supposed to be perfectly clean-cut, presentable, dashing. A figure for the magazine covers. He winces internally.
"You were right about one thing, though. I don't think there's anybody else around. You're the first person I've seen this whole time."
"A few weeks," he says wearily. Only a few weeks and yet, with that looming steadily-growing panic that his family was likely dead or scattered across the timeline, and he was all on his own... It had felt like longer.
"And I... I mean, yeah, the environment's kinda run down my clothes. And I haven't shaved in a while." Luther scrubs at his face again, this time running his fingers along the rough-grown stubble. After a while, he'd stopped bothering to scrounge for razors and shaving cream, not finding it a necessity. It's not as bad as the wild flyaway disaster he'd had on his face after four years on the moon, gone absolutely to seed, but the beard is still messier than he'd ordinarily have liked to meet someone with. Number One was supposed to be perfectly clean-cut, presentable, dashing. A figure for the magazine covers. He winces internally.
"You were right about one thing, though. I don't think there's anybody else around. You're the first person I've seen this whole time."
"Oof," comes her sympathetic and unladylike response. A few weeks is a long time to be alone if you ask Sarah. Generally speaking, most species of sentient beings she's come into contact with are social creatures and she can't imagine whatever Luther is, is different.
She can't help taking note of the way he's scrubbing at his face again and Sarah wonders to herself whether it's some sort of nervous tick or whether he's just used to being clean-shaven and the unwanted facial hair is itchy. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the beard's working for you," she says flippantly.
It isn't surprising to her that there's been no one else around. Of course there hasn't been; no one survives, so why should there be? He's the anomaly, not the fact that he's alone. "How lucky for you that the first person you come across happens to be a Time Agent who can whisk you away just as soon as the Vortex comes back online!" she chirps at him with a genuine smile because she's willing herself to actually believe that she's not really going to be stuck here. She can't be.
"So tell me about yourself, Luther. What's with the Number One, hey? You explained the Space bit; call me curious. Number one what, exactly?" she asks conversationally.
She can't help taking note of the way he's scrubbing at his face again and Sarah wonders to herself whether it's some sort of nervous tick or whether he's just used to being clean-shaven and the unwanted facial hair is itchy. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the beard's working for you," she says flippantly.
It isn't surprising to her that there's been no one else around. Of course there hasn't been; no one survives, so why should there be? He's the anomaly, not the fact that he's alone. "How lucky for you that the first person you come across happens to be a Time Agent who can whisk you away just as soon as the Vortex comes back online!" she chirps at him with a genuine smile because she's willing herself to actually believe that she's not really going to be stuck here. She can't be.
"So tell me about yourself, Luther. What's with the Number One, hey? You explained the Space bit; call me curious. Number one what, exactly?" she asks conversationally.
Luther's still camped out on that lump of stone, backpack slumped between his legs. At Sarah's chirpiness, he tries to give a grateful smile back, but it feels wrong on his face, looks a bit too strained, and he's sure it looks horrifically unnatural. So he soon lets his expression fall back to a placid neutral.
It's odd, having to introduce himself. Even if he's been in seclusion for the past decade-plus, he's always known that people knew who he was: his face on the covers, in magazines, TV interviews, in books and comic books and action figures (even if those toys no longer looked like him).
"Number One of the Umbrella Academy. You really haven't heard of us?" He pauses, long enough to see the lack of recognition on her face, then he shakes his head. Guess there's no real reason to expect their legacy to persist another three thousand years; not when the world that made them lies broken and burning. (That's where their legacy leads.)
"We're a team of six. Superheroes, with special powers. We've been raised and trained to fight extreme threats that ordinary people can't, and to save the world. We were numbered in terms of usefulness. And I'm the leader, so I'm Number One."
Is he, though? There's that twinge of self-doubt; the new revelations that despite all his years of sacrifice and dedication, he'd still been shunted to the side. Luther still hasn't had time to really process that. So he just parrots off the PR line instead, the description of the Hargreeves that comes automatically, like muscle memory. It's easier, particularly with a stranger.
It's odd, having to introduce himself. Even if he's been in seclusion for the past decade-plus, he's always known that people knew who he was: his face on the covers, in magazines, TV interviews, in books and comic books and action figures (even if those toys no longer looked like him).
"Number One of the Umbrella Academy. You really haven't heard of us?" He pauses, long enough to see the lack of recognition on her face, then he shakes his head. Guess there's no real reason to expect their legacy to persist another three thousand years; not when the world that made them lies broken and burning. (That's where their legacy leads.)
"We're a team of six. Superheroes, with special powers. We've been raised and trained to fight extreme threats that ordinary people can't, and to save the world. We were numbered in terms of usefulness. And I'm the leader, so I'm Number One."
Is he, though? There's that twinge of self-doubt; the new revelations that despite all his years of sacrifice and dedication, he'd still been shunted to the side. Luther still hasn't had time to really process that. So he just parrots off the PR line instead, the description of the Hargreeves that comes automatically, like muscle memory. It's easier, particularly with a stranger.
To her credit, Sarah does at least attempt to look apologetic for her complete and total lack of recognition, but honestly, how can he expect for someone three thousand years in the future to know about one small team of six people living on Earth so close to Earth End? It's a bit silly, isn't it?
Still, even as she shakes her head and then listens to him explaining, she finds herself smiling a little. It figures he'd be on some sort of team or another to protect people — a big hulking guy like that, she'd have guessed a branch of the military, but superheroes? Sure — or generally being do-gooders.
Having no context beyond what he's just said, Sarah has no idea the landmine on which she's about to step when she jokes, "numbered in terms of usefulness? Christ, imaging being Number Six in that lineup," with a huff of amusement at the idea of it. How embarrassing to have to wear your low worth as a name of sorts; Sarah can't imagine it. "Ever have any particularly exciting missions, then?"
Still, even as she shakes her head and then listens to him explaining, she finds herself smiling a little. It figures he'd be on some sort of team or another to protect people — a big hulking guy like that, she'd have guessed a branch of the military, but superheroes? Sure — or generally being do-gooders.
Having no context beyond what he's just said, Sarah has no idea the landmine on which she's about to step when she jokes, "numbered in terms of usefulness? Christ, imaging being Number Six in that lineup," with a huff of amusement at the idea of it. How embarrassing to have to wear your low worth as a name of sorts; Sarah can't imagine it. "Ever have any particularly exciting missions, then?"
Her joke is innocent enough, but it accidentally rips him open. Another punch to the gut, and it's hard to breathe through it.
He's had thirteen years to go over and over that calcified wound, though, so Luther's expression is a carefully-controlled exercise in neutrality. Trying to remember the boilerplate statements they were supposed to pull out, soundbites for the reporters about the Horror's death. Because what do you say about Ben Hargreeves? That death on Luther's conscience, the albatross hanging around his neck, the responsibility that he'd squandered and misplayed. The Monocle had pinpointed Ben as the weakest link, and he was the first to die, so maybe the man was right.
"Could be worse," he says carefully. "There's a Number Seven, and she wasn't even on the team."
He should feel guilty about that, horrid for how they all excluded Vanya, but at least it's a distraction from the more palpable guilt writhing deep in his gut over Ben. Thankfully, talking about exciting missions is easier.
"Plenty. You want to hear about the psychotic magician, the killer robots, or the designer of the Eiffel Tower?"
He's had thirteen years to go over and over that calcified wound, though, so Luther's expression is a carefully-controlled exercise in neutrality. Trying to remember the boilerplate statements they were supposed to pull out, soundbites for the reporters about the Horror's death. Because what do you say about Ben Hargreeves? That death on Luther's conscience, the albatross hanging around his neck, the responsibility that he'd squandered and misplayed. The Monocle had pinpointed Ben as the weakest link, and he was the first to die, so maybe the man was right.
"Could be worse," he says carefully. "There's a Number Seven, and she wasn't even on the team."
He should feel guilty about that, horrid for how they all excluded Vanya, but at least it's a distraction from the more palpable guilt writhing deep in his gut over Ben. Thankfully, talking about exciting missions is easier.
"Plenty. You want to hear about the psychotic magician, the killer robots, or the designer of the Eiffel Tower?"
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