[ When they all join hands in front of the little farm house, Klaus fully expects that they'll make it home. There's something in the air, the resolve, the confident way they all link hands and wait on baited breath as Five cracks open the suitcase with the ease and confidence of a man who has done it thousands of times before.
The jump is the worst part, really. He remembers it from his trip to Vietnam and back, from the way they'd left the Icarus that fateful night in 2019. It pulls at his stomach in a way that makes it flip sickly in his gut, pulls in a way that sucks the air out of his chest. Though whether that's the actual act of time traveling or the gut-wrenching nerves and memories that he associates with it are up for debate.
When his feet hit the ground he almost stumbles to his knees but he catches himself on a table, fingers gripping the edge to keep himself upright. It slides, the familiar, smooth lacquered wood dusty under his touch and on the other end? A bowl of spoiled fruit loops slides and crashes to the terracotta tiles below, the solidified mush splattering every which way.
Home.
The kitchen is one he recognizes, but as he looks around, he realizes everything seems untouched. The power is off. The windows are cracked, smashed, covered in cobwebs and dust. The rotting pile of food is starting to reek and he pushes to the doorway, listening and looking.
Is the house empty? ]
Five? Allison? Luther?
[ His voice echoes back to him, hollowly bouncing through the vacant halls. Slowly moving through the corridors, boots plodding against burned rugs and holey, wooden flooring, he knows that somehow, they haven't made it home at all. Certainly not the 2019 they'd been hoping to return to all this time.
When he enters the foyer, just off the main sitting room where little Five's painting should hang, he stops. The painting has fallen, the roof overhead all but ripped off, and when he approaches one of the tall, blown out windows, he sees it.
Devastation. A city turned to craggy, empty holes, with nothing but brick and mortar and cement haphazardly jutting out of the ground where buildings and businesses used to be. His hands come up to his head, fingers sifting into his hair, knocking the cowboy hat askew. ]
sorry for this novella
The jump is the worst part, really. He remembers it from his trip to Vietnam and back, from the way they'd left the Icarus that fateful night in 2019. It pulls at his stomach in a way that makes it flip sickly in his gut, pulls in a way that sucks the air out of his chest. Though whether that's the actual act of time traveling or the gut-wrenching nerves and memories that he associates with it are up for debate.
When his feet hit the ground he almost stumbles to his knees but he catches himself on a table, fingers gripping the edge to keep himself upright. It slides, the familiar, smooth lacquered wood dusty under his touch and on the other end? A bowl of spoiled fruit loops slides and crashes to the terracotta tiles below, the solidified mush splattering every which way.
Home.
The kitchen is one he recognizes, but as he looks around, he realizes everything seems untouched. The power is off. The windows are cracked, smashed, covered in cobwebs and dust. The rotting pile of food is starting to reek and he pushes to the doorway, listening and looking.
Is the house empty? ]
Five? Allison? Luther?
[ His voice echoes back to him, hollowly bouncing through the vacant halls. Slowly moving through the corridors, boots plodding against burned rugs and holey, wooden flooring, he knows that somehow, they haven't made it home at all. Certainly not the 2019 they'd been hoping to return to all this time.
When he enters the foyer, just off the main sitting room where little Five's painting should hang, he stops. The painting has fallen, the roof overhead all but ripped off, and when he approaches one of the tall, blown out windows, he sees it.
Devastation. A city turned to craggy, empty holes, with nothing but brick and mortar and cement haphazardly jutting out of the ground where buildings and businesses used to be. His hands come up to his head, fingers sifting into his hair, knocking the cowboy hat askew. ]
Shit. Shit. Shit.