Chapter Text
The story goes like this:
Once upon a time, there was a man. He was alone, stranded in a world that wasn’t his. The only person he’d come to love was gone from him, and he had nothing left of her, anymore. He’d given up her life’s work when he’d lost her, letting the magic she’d stolen from the heart of something unknowable loose onto a world that didn’t know what was about to hit it.
The man didn’t know that what would come from her work was the children.
They weren’t human. They were something else pretending to be, the same as what their father was. The world looked at them and saw something extraordinary. The “family” tore itself apart agonizingly slow, a spectacle that slowly became less and less entertaining. The children were ravenous to rip each other apart, but how could they know any better? They were raised by him. They tried to trick everyone into thinking they had fallen far from the tree, but they kept proving they were just derivatives. They were his children, through and through.
He'd claimed they were meant to save the world. They ended it instead. That’s why we’re here, now, left in the ashes of his mistakes and the ruins of his children’s arrogance.
The story also goes like this:
Once upon a time, there were ordinary people. We did our best to get by. We were honest, we worked hard. We didn’t fawn over the spectacle; we focused on what was truly important. Those of us who did know now that they were deceived. We didn’t ask to be collateral damage for one man’s whims, nor did we ask to be pawns in the world he crafted for his own amusement.
This is the truth we keep. This is what the world isn’t ready to hear, because they’ve been subjugated and blinded by him. It’s our duty to remember. It’s our calling to rebel. It’s an honor to be the few who remember the world before, our lives and families. You will be told that this is sickness. You will be told you are unwell. Know that we believe you. Know that there are others like you with us, and that your voice is heard.
He sets the manifesto down on the desk and sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and pushes his chair backwards, the wheels squealing slightly as he slides over to the pinboard he’s set up along one of the walls.
It’s not even in a state of organized chaos, just regular chaos. There’s no rhyme or reason to the arrangement of the clips of newspaper, glossy photos, and colored pins holding it all up. He’s got a system to it. It’s just not something he’s ever tried to think too hard about or explain to anybody else. He takes a moment to scan over it, the silence stretching as he stares blankly at the faces pinned up. The new ones he’d added in the wake of recent developments are layered on top of older article snippets, the old ones strung together with thread and punched through with multiple pins to signify importance. It’s a wreck. The new manifesto—which he had to work ridiculously hard to get the local branch to hand over, thank you very much—means that he’ll need a new color for pins, which means a new categorization system and a sweep through all that he has so far, and—
“Heeeeeey, Fiver,” a sing-song voice comes from the doorway to the room.
He sighs and lets his shoulders drop a little. “Klaus.”
He saunters over, placing the mug he’d brought in with him onto the desk, careful to avoid setting it on top of any papers. Five doesn’t turn to look at him. He moves to stand beside him, one hand resting at his hip.
“And I thought I was a bag of cats,” he jokes. It’s drier than it used to be. Five hates how there’s the slightest hint of concern behind the words.
“It makes sense,” he responds, “It’s a system. I have a system.”
“A system that’s running on caffeine and a prayer, maybe.”
He huffs and rolls his chair back to the desk, picking up the manifesto. He turns it over and picks at the staple, raising one half and then the other to slip it out cleanly through the front.
Klaus tilts his head. “Something new for the murder board? You’re really out there working the fake stache, huh?”
He slides the desk drawer open and takes the box of pins out. Red, orange, green. He’ll have to put the pages in a placeholder category for now.
“It’s not a murder board. You know that. And the ‘stache’ is for my cover.”
Klaus lingers as he pins up the new pages beside the grainy photos of the couple. He’d had them developed at the pharmacy two streets over, entirely forgoing the idea of having his own darkroom after Klaus had accidentally opened the door and ruined the entire set of photos he’d been working on developing. The clerks there don’t ask questions when he brings in rolls of film. He appreciates that.
He doesn’t miss the way his brother’s eyes linger over a few of the photos, the ones not taken by him and instead printed off or cut out of magazines. Klaus knows better than to interfere with the way the board is set up, even if the photos he lingers on the most have slowly been taken over by more and more of the scraps Five collects. He’s got his own contributions to it all, bits of magazines he’s found while out and the precious scraps taken from the new way computers work in this world. He can’t wrap his head around it on a good day, let alone while he’s trying to properly piece things together. Klaus managed to work it out by himself over the course of a very long weekend, a few months ago.
“Well, anyway,” he offers, “I didn’t come in here to join the X-Files roleplay. I made shrimp alfredo and I’m more than willing to let Felicity and Tango have your share.”
He gives the board one last glance before turning to look at Klaus again. He’s wearing that stupid kiss the cook apron again. He should’ve seen that bit coming.
“You spoil them both with wet food already,” he grumbles. He sets the pins down and switches off the desk lamp, silent gestures that he’ll listen and put the work down, if only for a little while. He figures a break with the cats will probably be beneficial. It’ll give him time to process the new intel.
“Because they deserve it! They were orphans, Cinco! Out on the streets, all alone!”
“They’re going to get fat. Or sick. Or both.”
“Nope,” Klaus replies as he leads the way out of the makeshift office, “they won’t. They’re just fine. Shiny coats, bright eyes, and whatnot. I’m an incredible father.”
He doesn’t dignify it with a response, but he settles in to eat with his brother. The radio drones in the background, switched to whatever pop station Klaus had presumably been singing along to while making the pasta. They fall into a comfortable silence.
He tries not to fixate on the empty mismatched chairs around the table. They’ve had them for years, acquired from different thrift shops across the city during the initial burst of energy Klaus had had after they found each other. For when everyone else gets here, he’d said. He’d been so set on the idea that it would be a repeat of Dallas, that whatever had happened this time had just happened to drop the two of them into the same place at the same time. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. They wouldn’t get lucky enough for a repeat.
There’s the big one made of dark wood at the leftmost end of the table, clearly for Luther. The one beside it with slightly chipped yellow paint is undoubtedly for Allison. The barstool with the nick in the front right leg is meant for Diego, and the smaller brown one with the cushion in its seat has to be for Viktor. Klaus would never admit it, but the wicker chair that matches his own is for Ben. It’s his own system, just like how Five has the board. It keeps him sane in the same way. It’s regulation. He wouldn’t say soothing, but it’s something. His own chair is metal, cold against the skin. He’s sure it means something. He doesn’t care to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about the hollowed out hope that follows them to every meal they have at the table, screaming for attention.
That, and the cats. The therapist he’d found encouraged adopting them, citing something about how having something to care for could be motivating. Five told himself he was just humoring the two tuxedoes, but he never complained when Tango decided to lope over and flop into his lap, purring away.
He eats and Klaus jabbers. It’s regular. His mind is elsewhere. That’s also regular.
He doesn’t like what the manifesto is giving him. It’d taken too much bargaining to get here, and he’s in too deep to turn back—not that he wants to. It just unnerves him how deeply rooted the Keepers are. The local branch is small, and even then it pulls at least 50 people into the community center nearby every Thursday. It took months to establish himself as trustworthy enough to be initiated into some of the deeper aspects of the cult, and he’d been playing them like a fiddle for it. The single advantage of being stuck looking the way he does is that looking pathetic enough to make someone buckle out of kindness is easier. He hates utilizing it, but he knows better than to ignore one of the better items in his arsenal. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s told them the half-truth of being in his 60s, they still fall hook, line, and sinker for the distressed 19-year-old act.
He finishes eating and takes the dishes as Klaus gets up to tend to the cats’ bowls. They work in tandem, silent and well-oiled. It’s a departure from what he’d ever imagined he’d have. Felicity weaves between his feet as he stands at the sink, chirping for attention. He wishes he could revel in the domesticity, in the fact that there is dinner to eat and there is an apartment to come back to. He can’t find any comfort in it when there’s still empty chairs and missing pieces.
He resolves to look over the manifesto again, after Klaus has taken his melatonin supplements.