There's so much happening that time seems to slow to a crawl — not like wielding Five's powers, but rather like that adrenaline ratcheting higher in his throat and making him suddenly pay attention to everything he can, noting the tiny details, like the reflex and observation tests they'd had to run over and over and over and over until the Monocle was finally satisfied. The movement of all the robots as they swarm in, the positions of the rest of the Academy as they assemble around him. Old training kicking into place after so many years dormant, the five of them settling into the roles they used to hold, arraying themselves on the battlefield by each others' side again.
Luther sees it unfold like a series of staccato images: Allison skidding into place, looking painfully gorgeous in her gown, and he glances at her and looks temporarily gobsmacked, distracted, and tries not to look gobsmacked, before he manages to drag his attention back to the fight; a robot receiving a faceful of cake, which to Klaus' credit actually helps scramble its optical circuitry; Diego bending a storm of bullets away from Klaus, which merits a quick admiring remark from Luther, "You're getting good at that, Two." (He doesn't catch the confused look he gets in return from Diego.)
And then instinct takes over.
As Five puts down another robot, its construction half-finished and leaking wiring everywhere, Luther simply picks it up and swings it round like a shield, blocking another enemy right before it can slam down on Allison's head. And he cuts loose like he'd never gotten to do in Dallas — always fighting in the boxing ring with kid gloves on, everything tamped down and on a tight rein, only operating at a mere percentage of his potential. (What an absolute waste, Number One, a familiar voice chides, and he tries not to think about it too much.)
Luther swings his prodigious strength and rips another robot's head off; throws it like a frisbee, and Five blips out of the way. If Luther just blinks, for a moment, it's like the past layering over the present like transparent sheeting, outlines traced over the people around him. All of them thirteen years old and arrogant and glorious, tearing through the Terminauts.
But— no— it's not the Terminauts, he has to keep reminding himself of it, these are sleeker models, humanoid but with small details off, most of them modelled after imPorts but the face is always too stiff, the eyes glowing red.
Five is the only one he never really has to keep an eye out for — he's too quick, darting around the battlefield faster than Luther can watch, and so he resigns himself to it with the unshakeable, unassailable faith that Number Five knows what he's doing. (He's more experienced than any of them, after all.) At some point Luther finds himself back-to-back with Klaus huddling in his shadow, before the other man leverages a burst of telekinesis from behind that human cover.
Whenever a threat looms, Luther automatically inserts himself between it and his family; like a brick wall materialising and taking the hit, letting it bounce harmless off his broad shoulders, his back. The arm of his suit jacket eventually rips and he glances down at it, mildly annoyed. Misses his combat suit suddenly.
And— god, how he's missed this. This synchronicity that they fall into. A song they stopped singing long ago, but they're finally picking up the tune again. It feels like family. It feels like home.
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Luther sees it unfold like a series of staccato images: Allison skidding into place, looking painfully gorgeous in her gown, and he glances at her and looks temporarily gobsmacked, distracted, and tries not to look gobsmacked, before he manages to drag his attention back to the fight; a robot receiving a faceful of cake, which to Klaus' credit actually helps scramble its optical circuitry; Diego bending a storm of bullets away from Klaus, which merits a quick admiring remark from Luther, "You're getting good at that, Two." (He doesn't catch the confused look he gets in return from Diego.)
And then instinct takes over.
As Five puts down another robot, its construction half-finished and leaking wiring everywhere, Luther simply picks it up and swings it round like a shield, blocking another enemy right before it can slam down on Allison's head. And he cuts loose like he'd never gotten to do in Dallas — always fighting in the boxing ring with kid gloves on, everything tamped down and on a tight rein, only operating at a mere percentage of his potential. (What an absolute waste, Number One, a familiar voice chides, and he tries not to think about it too much.)
Luther swings his prodigious strength and rips another robot's head off; throws it like a frisbee, and Five blips out of the way. If Luther just blinks, for a moment, it's like the past layering over the present like transparent sheeting, outlines traced over the people around him. All of them thirteen years old and arrogant and glorious, tearing through the Terminauts.
But— no— it's not the Terminauts, he has to keep reminding himself of it, these are sleeker models, humanoid but with small details off, most of them modelled after imPorts but the face is always too stiff, the eyes glowing red.
Five is the only one he never really has to keep an eye out for — he's too quick, darting around the battlefield faster than Luther can watch, and so he resigns himself to it with the unshakeable, unassailable faith that Number Five knows what he's doing. (He's more experienced than any of them, after all.) At some point Luther finds himself back-to-back with Klaus huddling in his shadow, before the other man leverages a burst of telekinesis from behind that human cover.
Whenever a threat looms, Luther automatically inserts himself between it and his family; like a brick wall materialising and taking the hit, letting it bounce harmless off his broad shoulders, his back. The arm of his suit jacket eventually rips and he glances down at it, mildly annoyed. Misses his combat suit suddenly.
And— god, how he's missed this. This synchronicity that they fall into. A song they stopped singing long ago, but they're finally picking up the tune again. It feels like family. It feels like home.