DAEMON・DAES

now that he had no time for at all .

his shoulders rolled && his tongue clicked against his teeth . ❝ happens to you ? ❞ blue eyes flicker . ❝ interesting . ❞ that comment was more to him than it was her .

then , his hand went back to her elbow , not gripping it this time , but merely positioned . a surge of energy begins to radiate from his hand . ❝ watch out for the whiplash . ❞ he warns , knowing that diego hated travelling this way because of the feeling it gave him . he didn't explain it any further && instead let the surge of energy surround them , && then pushed hard , blinking them both into the diner that they had both agreed upon .

well , what five agreed on .

She’d braced herself, arms out, ready to duck and roll if necessary, but there was hardly any residual momentum at all. In fact, she caused herself to stumble forward a step. Interesting. Not exactly like her mother then. She had questions, but they could wait. There were other needs to attend to first.

After a casual glance around the diner, she quickly moved into the booth. It had been bad enough on the street, the way people stared, and their grand entrance here was no better. Clearly, he was unaffected by the attention, so she shut the other patrons out of mind.

“Thanks for the concern, but you’re not my first,” she offers blithely. “It’s just my first time with you.”

Just as she ignored the attention, she elected to ignore the fact that the implied other party in her very weak sex joke was her own mother. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—the same as that “lucky” bolt from the blue, miraculously affecting nothing but her. Being friendly in a more conventionally acceptable way was hard enough. Humor was next to impossible. Sacrifices had to be made.

“You’re not a regular here.” A vague wave was cast in the poor waitress’s direction. Nutmeg might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if she wasn’t still suspicious of this kind stranger.

this causes him to turn back around , blinking in front of her quickly , but as soon as he does that , there is a sharp flash of light && five finds his balance lost , tripping over his heels && on instinct , blinking back another foot to protect himself from the thunderstrike . it happens so quickly && his reaction is so fast that only really he is able to make sense of it .

which , considering he can't make sense of what he's just witnessed [ yet ] is probably for the better . he finds his mind working through almost every possible eventuality , before landing on the obvious .

abilities . or at least connected to abilities .

instead five stared at her when she asked him how far was that diner . he slowly tilted his head , mind storming .

He would take her with him. Weird. He really was like her mother. She'd never met someone else who could do it so simply, unaided by machine. "Powers have me." She jerked her elbow away, then snatched up her parasol, which took much more damage than her. It wouldn't serve its intended purpose anymore, but it still worked as something she could waggle lightly to put a more respectable distance between her and the boy. "Careful. I could still shock you." That probably wasn't true, but it sounded real enough an excuse.

She tried hard to stop her subtle swaying and focus her gaze on him. Leaning on the parasol like a cane helped. The disorientation would pass quickly. Until then, she didn't want to give him cause for concern or for mockery. "I'm fine. We're good. I just felt a bit...thunderstruck." She also felt like she could die from embarrassment, but the universe wasn't kind enough to spring that on her.

"I should've reflected it—like a mirror, let it bounce off me," she explained, more for her own benefit than his. Her lips tugged sharply downward. "I absorbed it. Rookie move."

She didn't want it to sound like she wasn't in total control of herself, like an animal—or worse, a child. "I didn't see it coming. I wasn't ready. It happened too fast, that's all." That made it sound worse. She had no idea what he was thinking. That made it even more worse.

Her head dipped slightly to one side as she raised her brows: a silent plea for him to say something, anything.

August peeked into the room, stepping in. He leaned against the doorway, watching Cherry (or Charity but either was perfect) from behind for a few seconds. Then a second or two more. It was always a good idea to linger on a masterpiece, right?

He knocked twice on the doorway. "Hey, Cher, can you come here a second? I need to run something by you."

Cherry ignored August at first. Rather, there wasn't anything to acknowledge. She could feel his eyes, feel his presence, before he even entered the room, but he wasn't saying anything. He'd state his purpose in his own time. For now, he could stare. It was comforting to know she'd captured his attention. When he finally spoke, she regarded him with a perplexed smile.

it would explain a lot .

so , five finds himself at ease during this conversation . as much as it might annoy both her , && his siblings .

❝ apocalypses . ❞ he corrected easily . ❝ plural . three of them actually . ❞ he paused . he then gestured around him , turning on his heel && returning to walking normally . ❝ i think you'll find we succeeded . ❞ no way was he going to give that credit to reginald . ❝ at least for now . ❞ he added . the universe might not be in any immediate danger , but the truth was , five could not be certain of that either .

then she asked about the killing . && five slowed , hands stuck in his pockets . his gait became more focused as his mind trailed to the people who;s lives he had cut short . whether that was because they were on the docket && needed to be gone to correct the timeline , or if they simply got in the way .

he shrugged . ❝ there's no equation to it . no kill four bad people && it absolves you of killing one good person . ❞ he needed that margarita more than ever now . he wondered briefly if they did it in pitchers .

Nutmeg wasn't sure what happened at first. Somehow, she blinked and (with a strange little flash) he was suddenly several feet away. She said nothing, only stared at him, as it dawned on her. Their conversation. Whoever he was supposed to be. Whatever he was trying to do. She had her suspicions before, but she understood it now. He "blinked" in and out of existence, teleporting mere feet away, with the casual grace she’d only witnessed in one other person. She stopped in her tracks.

No more pretending. She wasn't playing a game of make-believe with some edgelord normie who got too close to the truth. He was the real deal: psycho killer (qu'est-ce que c'est) head of some kind of space-time law enforcement, and apparently savior of the world thrice-over. Or something. Maybe today was her day of reckoning. Her pulse quickened, and within her hardy boots, her toes curled. She bristled, shimmying her shoulders to shake off the nerves. Beyond her fear, against all logic, there was excitement. She began to run straight at him.

"I knew it! You really are a frea—"

Despite the relatively pleasant weather, a bolt of lightning struck her down before she could finish her sentence.

It wasn't a true bolt of lighting, of course. Not in the conventionally understood sense. Although it shone with similar brilliance, it seemed to only affect her and the ground immediately around her. There was no earsplitting shockwave of damage. In fact, it was eerily silent. Then, with curses mumbled under her breath, Nutmeg sat up.

now here's the thing . five has had an understanding that there is something beyond the commission . fact was , the commission wasn't the only time agency out there . the tva , the time agency , the department of temporal investigations , the time patrol - there was so much && every time he got on that damn subway express he found another one . but from what he could discern , the commission was on top . above all other agencies . they were the ones controlling everything .

all other shit was just ... well shit .

so time cops was not an unreasonable . it causes a frown to form on five's face as he thinks about it .

❝ well , i was a member of the commission , an organisation that carries out executions to correct time line && all roads lead to an apocalypse . ❞ he told her . ❝ && unlike you , i found that an alternative , 100 year old version of myself created said commission to stop the apocalypse . go figure . ❞

He plays along so smoothly, never missing a beat. It's a little disconcerting, but he's not wrong: she doesn't know the half of it. There's no way anything he's saying is even remotely true—no way that he could actually be familiar with whom she's speaking of—but it's just close enough that it gives her pause. Her mother is cagey when it comes to time-related authorities. All Nutmeg actually knows is that, because of her mother's actions, their family would technically be considered fugitives. No "time cop" has come to arrest her personally, but it's surely a...matter of time.

"The founder, huh? So you're some kind of big cheese. I guess that's cool," she scoffs. "Or not. That must be a lot of pressure. Actually—" Her brow knits and she squints until her eyes are no more than smoldering slits.

"You formed the organization to stop the apocalypse, but the apocalypse still happens?" If she wasn't so sure they were just screwing around, his words would instill fear in her. His face is a mask. He's good at this. She walks a little faster, until the tips of her shoes are nearly touching his, if only to encourage him to stop showing off with his backwards gait. "The way you tell it, it's like you...failed. Or are going to fail." Time is relative. He gets what she's saying, whether or not the verb tense is right.

"That's depressing." Her mouth snaps shut. She's not about to rag on a guy for not being the hero in his own fantasies. "How do you live with it?" Her hand spins in the air, prompting him further. "The killing, I mean."

❝ i never said anything about it being used as emergency surgery . ❞ five pointed out , looking over as he walked . && that was true , he let his lip curl slightly into a smirk at the thought as he moved . blinking would be quicker , but he had been told off by viktor that it unnerves people without abilities . so he waits for her to catch up .

“You're weird,” she decides. It's clearly not as judgmental as it sounds, because it doesn't stop her from continuing to follow him. Weird isn't bad. Her whole family is weird. Her dark stare doesn't falter under his piercing gaze. It's only slightly impressive that he manages to not trip or bump into anything while walking backwards.

“But you got one thing right: I’m the youngest officer in the history of Time Cops. They made me in a lab just to search every timeline until I found you...I also have a license to kill.” It sounded like something her mother would say. Nutmeg was fairly certain the time police were real, regardless of whether or not any normal, chronological civilian would know of them, or even believe in them. Right now, it didn't matter. “You’re under arrest for crimes against humanity…like gross misuse of a straw.”

"Whatever you say, little prince." She toys with the handle of her parasol, spins it gently as she appraises him. He's really coming in hot. She doesn't know why he's so annoyed in the first place. Not understanding the intricacies of his mood swings—or at least his penchant for insults—is different from actual stupidity. Of that much, she's certain.

There's a remarkable similarity in the way they both take the bait, unable to let the other have the final word, but that's not something worth dwelling on now. His perception of her intelligence shouldn't matter, but he manages to be just tetchy enough to let it get to her.

❝ straws are also great for preforming impromptu tracheotomy . ❞ he says , not indulging any further as to why he would know this or his judgement on it . she didn't need to know that he had used a straw to do that .

Nutmeg allows herself a moment to mull over the proposition. She loves a good gift, and knowledge is amongst the greatest of them. She knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he’s a little mouthy—or a lot. On the off chance he’s not joking, it would behoove her to keep track of any place that won’t card for drinks. More than that, more than she’ll let on, she really wants the crazy straw.

Her heavy boots clop along after him.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure of performing emergency surgery.” One eyebrow raises. “Maybe I should start carrying a straw on me? Pen, pocketknife, straw: perfect EDC.”

Her head inclines curiously. She doubts he’s speaking from personal experience, but just in case—

at least he can be certain that she won't try && take another bite .

five chews at the marshmallow && peanut butter treat . take as good as she got , he supposed as she retorted that she needed it around him . go figures . most do . his eyes narrow slightly before then reaching into his trouser pocket , fishing out his hipflask . turning it over in his hand , he then held it up .

❝ i could offer you this - but i've decided . i don't want to . ❞ he gives a shrug && sticks it back in his pocket .

"Don't flatter yourself—I was just messing. Alcohol's not, like, part of my food pyramid. Unless? Could maybe count it as a grain, actually..." She's not sure how to feel about that. Even then, if he'd actually passed the flask her way, she'd have gladly taken a swig.

His next words catch her attention. Her eyebrows raise. She hums her approval. "Pure fuel! A man after my own heart." That came out stranger than anticipated. Her face crumples in much the same way it did when she tried Five's sandwich. "Yeah, I'll pour one out in his honor." Hardly an ounce of sarcasm.

The point of food isn't its flavor, but its content; if it keeps her going without gumming up the system, she doesn't much care what it is. For someone else, she'd go to great lengths to whip up the most lavish meal she could with whatever she had on hand, but her own meal prepping was much less remarkable. It wasn’t exactly her choice (the “other guy” had far more discerning taste) but for the sake of her sanity, it was easier to pretend the opposite. There was a time in her life she might have relished such an ostentatious sandwich. She couldn’t exactly fault Five, even as she chided him.

❝ the french sometimes place their wine in boxes . not all the time , but it's nothing to quibble about . ❞ he thinks back to a chataeu lafite that he found in the hollows of a cellar - once owned to an extensively elegant mansion . not a boxed wine , but on the subject , five can't help but let his mind wander back .

"Whatever you say, little prince." She toys with the handle of her parasol, spins it gently as she appraises him. He's really coming in hot. She doesn't know why he's so annoyed in the first place. Not understanding the intricacies of his mood swings—or at least his penchant for insults—is different from actual stupidity. Of that much, she's certain.

There's a remarkable similarity in the way they both take the bait, unable to let the other have the final word, but that's not something worth dwelling on now. His perception of her intelligence shouldn't matter, but he manages to be just tetchy enough to let it get to her.

five stops dead , looking over with venom in his eyes && he bristles slightly at the comment . he doesn't actually know how old he looks , he reckons it's not fourteen . or ten . he definitely thinks that he's looking nearer seventeen or eighteen now .

She clicks her tongue as her eyes flick him up and down. He really let that get under his skin. “Don’t act like you’re above grape juice.” To his credit, he looks similar to her in age. It's his retort that brings her impish joy and splits her face with a sardonic smile. What a kid.