This story is an alternate retelling that's planning stage was completed roughly a month before the film came out. As odd as this sounds, this was purposely done so I would have no (for lack of a better word) precedent of events and would be able to make a story that would be more entertaining for readers because it isn't a simple rehashing of what we've already seen.

Also, as the planning stage was going, I realized slightly different versions of the characters had taken over this story. Personally, some of my favorite fanfics are the ones that have different takes on the characters but I do know other readers have problems with this so I would like to warn those people up front.

Now that I'm done of my badfic-esque author's note, I'll let my fic speak for itself. I do hope you enjoy, but if there are any problems, please let me know. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

Birth

It was useless listening to the radio anymore. Before, the reports were always the same, talking of doom and an end hunting them into a corner. After that came only the sound of static, telling him what he already knew. He was alone.

The man turned away from the window and the view he didn't want to see anymore, instead focusing on every object on the table behind him. The small pile of papers he checked again that nothing was missing, then stacked and restacked the sheets before setting them back down exactly as they'd been. The projector with just enough energy left for a few minutes of film he made sure was parallel to the wall. He didn't want the image to be tilted even a millimeter.

With nothing more to procrastinate with he finally turned his eyes to the doll sitting in front of him, its head weighing its small body slightly forward. He'd spent countless hours going over every detail of that doll, knowing this was his last chance, and now he thought he'd gladly throw all those hours away for only one more day if he could. Still, the want to rectify a mistake was stronger and this doll would be his way to succeed.

There was only one more thing to do. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the device he'd held onto for so many years. It was an item almost insignificant in size by human standards but in comparison to the doll was large enough to fit comfortably in a single hand. His fingers felt as stiff as the doll's metal ones as he secured the device in its palm. In that one movement, any doubt he'd had left his heart and he knew this was really the end.

He was aware of how ridiculous it was to talk to something that couldn't reply yet the man said, "Whatever happens, make sure you stay alive."

Slowly, time faded color from the room. Stories began and finished, some that had never been remembered, others that would never be forgotten.

The papers so neatly organized were strewn over the table and floor, and the projector so carefully placed had become nothing more than an empty box. As for the doll, he sat on the windowsill, his back against the frame, the once blank eyes staring at the device set in front of him.

Remember everything, he'd been told. His hands clasped together tightly but he refused to back away from the memories. He would remember it all, no matter how long it took.

He leaned his head back and thought of the first moment in his life.

It all began with the color black and one thought—more of an awareness, really—that could be translated to I am alive. The lenses in his eyes opened and blinked to adjust to the light streaming over him. It was near impossible to recall what he thought while staring at the ceiling so his mind moved on to the sudden and rather obvious realization he was lying on his back and should sit up.

He could remember using his left arm to support himself because when he put weight on his right side again he felt something odd and, checking, was amazed to see he was holding an object. Dropping it, he raised both hands in front of his face, opening and closing his fingers for what felt like ages without once getting bored.

What followed was a moment of innocent wonder he would never feel again. Actions he'd find simplistic later were marvels, from a stumbling stand to a tiny jump, they were all spectacular feats to him. Every sound was music, especially the odd chinking noise that came when he ran a finger over the zipper on his front, and every sight was art. He was circling in place, examining the way light fell on the fabric he was made of, when something caught his eye and the moment ended.

The something was on the floor to the other side of the small room, beyond where the light reached. He couldn't see any details and could only guess it might be a pile of clothes. He reached down to pick up the previously ignored object without looking away, thinking the something might disappear if he so much as blinked.

He hopped from the table, to a chair, to the floor, always trying to keep his eyes on what he was now sure was a pile of clothes. Curiosity tugged at him and he followed it, but, the closer he came to the something, the slower his steps became until he stopped completely. It was a pile of clothes, no doubt, but the shape looked different, not at all like when you throw a jacket absently on the floor. It almost seemed like it was supposed to resemble a certain shape...

He backed away hastily, the curiosity gone. This was wrong. Whatever the pile of clothes was or had been, it shouldn't have been lying on the floor like that.

He had to leave. Out of the light, everything appeared grey and the air he was breathing felt thick and choking. He held the object close as he left the room, watching the shadows all around. He didn't dare look behind him.

The rest of the house he walked through was no better. Darkness covered the walls, every window either shuttered or draped with cloth, and the only sound was his feet on the floorboards. He kept telling himself he was simply paranoid, that nothing was hiding and waiting to catch him, but it didn't stop the feeling of the air pressing down on his shoulders.

It wasn't until he was making his way down a flight of stairs—a time-consuming task for a small, very cautious person—when he saw light again. He was in such a hurry to reach it that he fell down a few steps, the object clattering down more and landing in the light. He muttered to himself as he went to pick it up. Why he wanted to keep it he wasn't sure, but whatever it was must have been given to him if he'd woken up with it. Maybe it would help him later if he ever figured out what exactly it was, or what 'later' entailed for that matter. For now, it was just something for his hands to wrap around and distract them from shaking. He turned towards the comforting sunlight and found himself looking at nothing.

One wall was gone, from rot or another misfortune he didn't know, and a desolate landscape stretched out before him, filled to the horizon with what his mind somehow knew were the remains of a city. The crumpled buildings and other bits of destruction didn't seem real with the sun illuminating them harshly. The sight would have disturbed anyone else but, for him, he only saw the world he'd been born into, not knowing it was once so much more than this.

He continued down the stairs, glancing every now and then to the landscape for no reason other than to see it. The wood, at first so sturdy, began to creak beneath him the further he went and soon he could feel it bending under his weight. He was wondering if he should go back up or continue when the step decided for him and he dropped so quickly he hit the ground without realizing he'd even been falling and barely avoided the piece of wood that came after. He had to replace the breath knocked out of him before making sure he was fine—sore but still able to move—and that he still had the object—it had amazingly never left his hand—before he moved away from the house as fast as he could.

He started to relax once there was a good distance between him and that place he was certain he'd never return to. Without bleak walls on all sides of him, the air was easier to breathe and the pressure on his shoulders lightened. He told himself what he'd felt in the house had simply been his imagination and nothing terrible could happen in broad daylight. So why was he so worried the weight on his shoulders hadn't left completely?

A doll with the number 2 on his back raised his head. There'd been a sound in the distance, similar to the snap of wood, but when nothing followed it a minute later he went back to searching. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, he never was, but it didn't seem right to go out and not bring anything back.

He was studying a broken magnifying glass, thinking there must be some use for a wooden frame, when he heard another sound, like something walking behind him, and he turned to see someone like him. The other was still a ways off but 2 could see him enough to think It's somebody new.

Moving carefully closer, he watched the other that hadn't seen him yet and wondered when would be a good time to say hello. He would usually introduce himself right away but considering the other's posture—slightly hunched shoulders, arms tucked in, hands held up to his chest—it wouldn't be the best idea for 2 to yell a greeting at him. At the same time, turning around and seeing someone watching you couldn't be much better.

He puzzled over these only options he could think of, hidden under the shadow of a vehicle, now close enough to have seen an expression if the other had been facing him and not looking over the opposite horizon. So caught up in not wanting to be alarming, 2 wasn't paying attention to his surroundings and the hat he wore hit against a piece of metal above him. It wasn't so much the small plink that surprised him as much as his focus suddenly being diverted and he mumbled an exclamation he would've otherwise overlooked if the person he'd been watching hadn't whipped around.

2's thoughts were simply Well, that didn't work so well.

The other checked all around him, body tense, but couldn't find the source of what startled him. He called out, "Who's there?" Poor thing was trying to sound brave with an unsteady voice.

2 stepped out to where he could be seen, surprised when the other jumped back, and decided introductions would come later. With all kindness, he said, "You don't have to worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

The other believed him, 2 was certain. Although he leaned away, he shuffled forward slightly when asking "Who are you?"

2 took another step and smiled. "I'm someone you can trust."

He didn't cross the space between them. Instead he waited for the young one hanging back. Soon, with some hesitation still clinging to him, the other moved forward and 2, with a sense of relief, closed the gap between them.

It wasn't until they were nearly in front of each other that 2 saw that the hands the other kept so close to himself held something. Quiet curiosity in his voice, 2 asked, "What is that?"

The other's first reaction was to try and hide the object but, after giving his head a slight shake, he held it out and while looking down said, "I don't really know but I think it's mine."

2 stared at it, wanting more than anything to know how this mysterious object worked. He glanced up to the other. "May I see it?"

The other tightened his grasp protectively but after a moment offered the object to 2, who thanked him and promised to be careful.

If it had to be described as something, the object resembled a dead spider, "legs" curled in, the "body" a shining metal that reflected his face back at him. He couldn't guess any original use for it, and he longed to take it apart. Maybe later. For now, he thought if they made doors to their size it would make an excellent doorknob.

The other had been quiet, if a bit fidgety, and now asked, "Is it yours?"

2 had to restrain from laughing at the ring of guilt in the question. Passing the object back, he assured, "No, I know as much about it as you do." The other he could see was finally calm, so he said, "My name is 2. What's yours?"

The other opened his mouth to respond but it appeared a thought went through his mind and his gaze drifted down.

He is new. "No need to look so embarrassed. Finding out names is simple because they're written on us." He turned full circle to show his own number. "See? This way everyone knows who you are."

The other looked at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief before trying in vain to see over his shoulder. This time 2 couldn't contain his laughter as the other spun around, attempting to read the number on his own back. The other's expression when he stopped only asked for help. 2 told him, "Spin around once more, slower this time so I can see."

The other complied and turned in place. When they were facing again, 2 grinned and said, "It's very nice to meet you, 9."

The other's face was slow to change but, once it did, his first smile was enough for 2 to think of all the times he'd gotten in trouble for going outside and know they were all worth it to find moments like this.

9 replied, "It's very nice to meet you as well."

They didn't speak much after that, apart from 2 explaining 9 could keep the object inside him—odd but both truthful and useful—and suggesting he come with him. When asked where they were going he answered, "Home." The odd thing was, though, they didn't seem to be heading anywhere. 9 had no problem following and talking—and, in truth, wanting to prove he wasn't an idiot even though he hadn't known his name—but he couldn't understand why 2 would stop to examine what he thought of as only rubbish.

On a good note, having a companion lessened what he could only call trepidation of the world around him. Most of his anxiety had probably come from simply being alone and already he was feeling safer. 2's personality certainly helped. He'd never thought a person could be so happy all the time, over the most impractical of things. It was nice to find humour in nothing important, to forget the feeling he'd had in that house.

Although he told himself everything was fine, he would often check behind him, for what he couldn't explain. His attention drifted from the landscape when 2 asked "What could this be used for?" while holding up a piece of mangled metal. 9, who could only think up one ridiculous use, replied "I'm sorry, I don't know." 2 set the piece of metal on the ground, although it took a moment for him to stop staring after it longingly. 9 glanced behind them again.

The next time they stopped at the discovery of a typewriter, 9 questioned, politely as possible, "Didn't you say we were going somewhere?"

2 replied cheerfully, "We are, but it's only morning, we have the whole day in front of us." He pulled at one of the typing keys and it came off in his hand, almost causing him to fall back. He gave an approving nod to it before climbing onto the typewriter and tugging at more of the keys.

9 looked at the hills of debris and the few remaining brick walls surrounding them and thought it resembled a pit. "Wouldn't we have all day tomorrow?"

There was a soft sigh from 2. "It's sort of frowned upon to go outside too often, or at all, really. We're told it's dangerous, but staying inside all the time gets boring quickly." He turned to 9 with what the other had already started referring to as 'his usual smile'. "The way I look at it, you can't call it living if every day is exactly the same."

9 couldn't say he agreed, since his life consisted of roughly an hour at this point. He said, "You mentioned a 'we'. Does that mean you and I aren't the only ones here?"

2 found this hilarious. A hint of laughter still remained as he said, "No, no, of course not." He pulled out another key and tossed it amongst the rest before explaining, "There's eight—well, nine of us, now that you're here. We're a bit of an odd group, admittedly, but we can all help each other in some way." He must have mistaken 9's silence as miscomprehension because he clarified, "For example, I like to make things. There's also 5, he's sort of a student of mine. You'll like him. Then there's the fighters that protect us, they're much braver than I could ever hope to be, and the twins, who know almost everything."

9 listened, hearing an emotion similar to pride in 2's voice, and wondered what he could add to this group. The option of fighting didn't suit him and he knew already he wasn't creative. He couldn't think of any talent that would be of help.

2 added, "Oh, and there is 1—don't be offended if he doesn't seem to like you, he's the same with everyone—he would be the leader, you could say." He looked up from the typewriter when he heard 9 scoff. "What?"

"I'm trying to imagine myself being like any of these people you talk about." 9 said, "Being a leader definitely isn't me."

Another key was pulled out and 2 examined a broken edge. "You never know. We were all made to do something."

He remembered wanting to counter and say he was much too nervous but when he heard the sound of something fall behind him, any jokes 9 had of his own cowardice fled. The anxiety that had brushed against him earlier hit with full weight when he turned, about to ask what the sound was, and saw 2 frozen, the smile gone. Without taking his eyes off the hills of debris, 2 carefully set the key in his hand down and climbed off the typewriter. He gave a tilt of his head back and whispered, "Come."

9 could feel the air pressing down on him again and it was worse than before. Pointing to the typewriter keys, he started, "What about–"

"We have to leave." 2 was frantically looking around them while backing away. Another sound—like metal scratching on metal—caused them both to jump, 2 worse than 9. He presumably spotted whatever he'd been looking for and in the same hushed voice told 9 again to come with him.

It would have been best if 9 had listened but he couldn't run off and hide, as 2 was now desperately insisting they had to. There were so many questions flashing through his mind—Why was 2 being so quiet? What was making that sound? Why was the typewriter, so exciting a minute ago, now forgotten?—but the most demanding was 'What was about to happen?' It was a feeling a person unfamiliar with nightmares didn't understand but, when he heard scratching metal once more, the urge to know overpowered 2's pleading words and he turned in the direction the noise had come from.

He didn't have to wait long for his answers. On the hill farthest from them, the first thing 9 saw was the glint of light off sharp claws, followed by a skulled head. He realized he was looking at a machine but, with the skull and pieces of rubbish arranged into the image of an animal skeleton, it felt like he was seeing a living thing. The machine's movements were similar to a feline's as it stepped down the hill, its claws pressing down on the trash beneath it.

9 watched the cat-machine—just watched, there was no emotion he could recall feeling—and only when 2 grabbed his arm and dragged him back did he sense a threat. The claws he stared at with amazement could easily rip him apart, and the machine's slow swing of its head and calculated steps matched those of a hunter. There was no doubt 9 and 2 were the hunted.

9 could barely breathe as he was pulled into the hiding place 2 had found, the remnants of a building partially held up by a door that left enough room for it to feel like they were being backed into the corner of a cave. He gasped out, "What was that?" His own voice was painfully loud.

2 ignored him, begging "Please be quiet," and still clutching at his arm. The cat was coming closer and there was one last yank as far as they could go before 2 pressed his body against 9's.

They stared at where the cat was sure to come and find them, breaths shallow as possible, and when the white head peered in, 9 was sure they stopped breathing altogether. The only sound came from rusty joints, the only light from a single glowing red eye as it scanned around the small space. For one horrible instant, 9 could have sworn it was looking right at them, but it turned away and soon drew back and was gone from their sight.

There were no relieved sighs or relaxed shoulders. The propped door gave a view of the outside and the cat still hunting. A tug on 9's arm made him look to see 2 beckoning to their left where a leak of sunlight hinted an escape, With 2 still holding onto him, he and 9 inched so hesitantly towards that light it seemed they weren't moving at all; but, with them receding and the cat making its way up the debris hills, they were getting away from it and the light was almost within reach. They were close, so close, to being safe.

What happened next took more time to remember than the event itself lasted. 9 and 2 were taking small, careful steps back, always keeping the cat within sight but not once checking for dangers behind them. 2 stumbled over something that clattered—what exactly was never found out—and fell, causing 9 to shout at the sharp pull felt up to his shoulder.

The cat's head snapped towards them the same time 2 said to 9 in a harsh whisper, "Go."

9 wanted to run and keep running until he was out of harm's way, but instead of fleeing he helped 2 stand. He heard the rusted joints as an explosive screeching and 2 telling him to leave and pushing him away, then he saw only glimpses: 2's face, sharp teeth, the colour red, and then black and darkened burgundy that was the ceiling as he was knocked down.

When 9 looked back to where 2 had been, he saw him in the jaws of the cat, his body limp with defeat. As he was being taken away, their eyes connected for such a small amount of time that to call it a second would be an exaggeration. But 9 never forgot the way 2 had looked at him, and when the cat backed out of their hiding place, he stopped listening to instincts of self-protection and ran after it.

He yelled at the cat to get its attention, struggling up the hills it could hop over with ease. It gave him no more acknowledgement than it would an insect in its path, but he had to keep trying. If he gave up then the last he'd ever see of 2 would be that look that said all too well goodbye.

9 was falling behind. In less than a minute the cat would be out of his sight. With no better ideas coming to him, he picked up the first rock he found and threw it, demanding "Let him go!"

The rock pinged off the machine harmlessly but was enough to make it turn its head and see another little doll running at it. 9 didn't know what he was going to do and he couldn't bring himself to care because he could see 2 now, watching him. He started thinking of some way to rescue the other when the cat kicked him, a blow to his chest, and he struck a pile of trash, cans cascading down on him. He felt what at first seemed like nothing more than a pinprick in his shoulder but, when he tried to move and yell 2's name, became a searing pain that had him doubled over, holding a whimper inside. It was an effort to lift his head and he saw the cat strolling away as if it hadn't noticed him at all, carrying 2 off with it.

9 glanced at the expanse of land that filled his sight, knowing that by the time he was able to move again it would take a lifetime to guess and find where 2 was being taken.

He hadn't even been alive for a full twenty-four hours yet and already his life was out of control.