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Five (jumps) wrote in somerealityrpg,

A second chance. Was that what this place offered? A place to start over, a place to live without the same worries he had at home? No looming threat of an apocalypse or near soul crushing loneliness. No desperate need to save his family, to see his family again and just be around them even if he'd long since lost the ability to know how to do that. Because most of them were here. They'd been here when he'd been hijacked during his attempt to save them. He still didn't know what had happened to Allison and Luther, if they were safe somewhere in another time in his own reality, or if they would show up here but later. But Vanya and Klaus and Diego were there, and, maybe, just maybe, he had a second chance with them. If they let him.

And, if he let himself, maybe he would have a second chance at a decent life. Maybe not a happy life, but something filled with anything but how stay alive from one moment to the next.

"I don't think," he began, picking up his glass, "that there's much of anything for me to go back to." And if there was, he thought as he took a sip, he suspected it would contain a lot of the same things as before; the Handler and the Temps Commission hunting him -- hunting his family -- the threat of an apocalypse, and the struggle to stay alive just a little bit longer. It was exhausting, and Five was tired -- so damn tired. He didn't think he could ever rest properly, but that didn't stop exhaustion from pulling at his mind, from wanting some kind of respite from having to be on high alert.

Idly, he rolled his glass between both hands, watching the liquid inside slosh about. "I wouldn't mind staying, either," he said after a moment, glancing up at her. "I don't know about doppelgängers, but if I have one..." His brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together for a second. The possibility of having another version of himself back home was strange and presented its own mystery, though his brain didn't want to dwell too much on it just yet. Thankfully. It was too full to handle one more thing right then. He shook his head slightly. "I don't know. "Maybe he's handling things like yours is. Maybe he's handling it better than I could." Or maybe, if he had a double, that double was dead. A depressing thought, but he couldn't help it from formulating.

"Regardless," he raised his glass toward her, "to second chances and new friends." Presumptuous, perhaps, to call her a friend, but what else did you call someone who saw you so clearly when no one else did? He quickly drained his glass before he could think too much about that.