For Po.
Word Count: 1354
Protocol Omega. Phillip almost laughs. "End of the fucking world," he mutters to himself.
He doesn't watch where he goes. Why should he? The Director has decided this timeline isn't worth saving, and the other timelines that unfold before his eyes are driving him mad. If he's reckless enough, maybe he'll get lucky and get hit by a bus. If he's honest with himself, that would be better than this.
He pauses long enough to watch a happily yipping mutt appear by the nearby fire hydrant before disappearing again in the blink of an eye. Phillip doesn't want to be bitter, but it's hard not to be. Despite the Director's abandonment, he can still see the timelines happening all at once if he doesn't concentrate. What is tangles with what could be, and it blurs into some nonsensical jumble. He can barely tell what's real and what isn't.
He blinks, and the sidewalk shakes and splits open in a nasty earthquake. Another blink of the eye, and everything is normal again–or as normal as it can be when everything is a chaotic whirlwind of noise and movement and color. Nothing makes sense, and he hates it.
It isn't the Director's fault. He tries again and again to convince himself as much, but Phillip can't quite bring himself to believe it. The Director should have known. It should have found a way to stop this.
Then the nukes wouldn't have gone off, and the world wouldn't be dangerously close to nuclear warfare.
Then David would still be alive, and the team's hearts wouldn't be so heavy, and the world wouldn't feel so goddamn wrong.
He's about to cross at the crosswalk, when he hears a horn blare and feels the sudden whoosh of air as a car zooms by. He blinks and blinks, desperate for the here and now to come into focus. Maybe he doesn't want to get hit by a bus after all.
He shouldn't have gotten rid of the pills. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this mess.
Phillip almost laughs at that. He would end up here either way. With Protocol Omega in place and all the archivists dead or missing, the historians won't have their updates, and they won't get their pills. It's just another way the Director has screwed them over and made a mess of things.
He shakes his head as though it's enough to get rid of the intrusive thoughts. If he thinks like that, if he blames the Director for the program's shortcomings, he's no better than the Faction.
"Jesus, kid."
Phillip turns when he hears the familiar voice. Ray stands before him, thin lips twisting into a small smile. Phillip squeezes his eyes shut; when he opens them again, Ray is still standing there. "Are you real?" Phillip asks, because everything else around him is shifting back and forth, and Ray is the only stable thing.
"Last I checked," Ray says with a chuckle. "You look like shit, kid."
"I feel like shit."
It's the only time he's allowed himself to admit that he's not okay since David's death. In the back of his mind, he's convinced himself that it's not okay for him to grieve. Showing emotion means taking away from Marcy, and he refuses to be selfish.
But Ray is different. Ray gets to be blissfully unaware of exactly how fucked up things are, and how things are only going to go downhill from here.
Ray reaches out and rests a hand on Phillip's shoulder. The weight is gentle and comforting, and Phillip realizes just how broken he really is. When's the last time he's had any physical contact? Other than Trevor, has anyone actually stopped and talked to him lately? When did he become so lonely?
"Come on. I've got a beer at home with your name on it," Ray offers. "We can pick up some Chinese food on the way. Big boxing match on tonight."
Phillip rubs his temples, trying to remember the outcome. Even that is blurry and confusing. "I'm not helping you gamble," he says.
Ray laughs and pushes Phillip gently along. "Listen, that's in the past. I've turned over a new leaf," he says proudly. "Haven't tried to place a bet in nearly a month."
Phillip's lips quirk, but he can't quite bring himself to smile. The world is falling apart, and they have failed, but at least Ray has managed to get his life on track. It's such a small thing, but Phillip will count it as a victory.
…
He doesn't know what he expects Ray's home to look like–run-down, dirty, falling apart, maybe?–but it isn't this. While Ray isn't living in luxury, the place is nice. It's clean and spacious, and Phillip can't help but to be shocked.
"Don't get too impressed," Ray says, setting the takeout containers on the table and grabbing the remote. "It's just a rental."
Phillip opens his mouth to respond, but his com clicks on.
"001 has gone into Jeff," Marcy says in his ear. It sounds like she's about to say more, but Phillip reaches up and disables it. What's the point? This timeline is beyond saving.
Ray turns on the TV and sets the remote aside. "I'll be back with those beers, if you wanna go ahead and start eating."
Phillip wishes he wouldn't leave him alone. At least if Ray–the right Ray–is here, he can keep the timelines from blurring together. The scenes unfold right before his eyes, and he is a silent witness to everything that could have been.
Ray stumbles in, a woman right behind him. They embrace, and the way he kisses her is so desperate that it hurts Phillip to watch. "Money upfront, sugar," the woman tells him. "If you don't pay, you can't play."
Phillip looks away. Ray slumps on the couch in a pitiful heap. There's an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.
Ray sits on the couch. He looks better than Phillip has ever seen him, and his smile is a little brighter. A young man in his late teens or early twenties sits beside him; he has Ray's dark hair and crooked smile, and it's easy to assume that he's Ray's estranged son. The two sit together laughing and watching something on TV.
The sudden noise from his phone snaps him out of it. Phillip takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the here and now. It's probably the team, trying to figure out why he hasn't responded to Marcy's call. He decides to ignore it, but Ray walks through the door, gripping two beer bottles in one hand and holds his phone in the other. He presses a button to illuminate the screen.
"Fuck." The bottles slip from his hand and crash onto the tile floor below, leaving behind broken glass in a pool of cheap beer. "Fuck, kid."
Phillip swallows dryly and lights up his phone. Ballistic missiles are heading their way; this is not a drill.
"Do you…" Ray clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his shirt. "Do you think we have enough time to get somewhere safe?"
Phillip bites the inside of his cheek. Protocol Omega. This is the end. Whatever the outcome of this missile strike, there's no hope for humanity. He shakes his head. "Drink with me," he says, and his voice shakes, but that's okay. He doesn't have to be strong anymore.
Ray's lips tug into a small smile, and tears dot his dark lashes. He nods. "Sure." He disappears into the kitchen and returns moments later with two fresh beers. "You were a good pal, kid. I hope you know that."
Phillip accepts his beer and leans back, his body tense. "Thanks for everything, Ray."
The timelines unfold, and he can see everything that could have been, in another life. Happy endings, tragedy, growing old, finding redemption, losing everything. Phillip sips his beer and watches until he hears the first missile overhead.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and, in an instant, the timelines are no more. There is no more pain, no more confusion. Only darkness.