@prcudmcm​ said: ❛ Where are you going? ❜

[ x - accepting ]

He stopped in his tracks because this was Grace. Mom. As much as he acknowledged that she was in fact a robot, and was not attached to her like Diego. She was their mother. She took care of them, the only reason he even had the knowledge of how to stitch himself up was because he saw Grace do it, and then read up on it.

He felt like a thirteen year old boy when in her presence, and he didn’t have the courage to correct her. He could be snippy and rude to the best of them, but their mom was a true weak spot. Vanya didn’t even get off scott free from his attitude, and she was his favorite.

He had no idea where his siblings where, not that he needed them, he needed some time to collect his thoughts when he woke up, noting the bandage, which he had no recollection of getting, but it was the handy work of their mother certainly. The best way to do that is to get something to eat, or coffee, he’d be happy with either.

It isn’t the first time a botched time traveling venture has skewed the timeline, and he’s beginning to think it won’t be the last...

Five is exhausted. While not ideal, the rest of his siblings got weeks or even years to settle in the 60s before facing yet another impending apocalypse. He however, has leapt directly from deserting the commission, trying (and failing) for eight days to circumvent the apocalypse, flinging his entire family back to the 1960s only to discover that the End of Days followed them there.

If time travel for one is like jumping into freezing water and emerging as an acorn, then time travel with five hitch-hikers is like being an acorn the size of a bowling ball and made of steel. It was hardly his fault.

The point is, the Boy is perhaps not as careful as he otherwise would be when he blinks into the Sparrow Academy equivalent of his bedroom.

@prcudmcm​ said:  𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱’𝔰…𝔞 𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡.

             ˜”*°•.    Christmas lights:  flashing  blue, flashing  green,  flashing yellow,  red  and white.  Always  changing but  always  beaming. Always  on  but   always off:  the  pattern quick,  rapid,  vivid. Gaze  dissolving  into the  light  -- mind  attacked  by the  different  colors --.  Voice  distant, an  almost  echo:  fighting  against his  daydream,   his  overthreatening  unconsciousness.  His dazzling  sight.  Blinking, he  bounced,  stepped back.  Grace’s  presence alarming  him,  getting  his guards  back  on --  only  for her  voice  to finally  give  birth to  a  relief, a  reassurance  //  a  reminder he was  not  standing across  from  an enemy  --.

Gaze  searched for  the  blood on  his  clothes --  every  inch of  fabric  dressed in  a  reddish costume  --.  Dried. Staining.  ❝ It  really  isn’t. ❞  Words of  indifference  escaping his  lips  --  mannerism  as casual  as  if he  were  looking for  shoes.  Blood was  nothing,  after all:  scarlet  liquid once  flowing  thick in  one’s  veins now  betraying  the  outcome  of a  battle,  of  a  war. Victory  and  defeat, crown  and  downfall. Nothing  important,  nothing serious,  nothing  worrisome. And  yet,  there he  was:  incapable of  convincing  himself --  for  his mind  was  still processing  that  evening,  that incident,  that  slaughter // for  whatever  scattered pieces  of  serenity had  once  settled on  his  mind,  had  now ebbed away  into  nothingness --.