Disclaimer: I don't own 9, 6 or 7. So there.
AN: First of all, thanks to Ryosei Takahashi Hime, who proofread and edited this for me, and then talked me into posting it. Secondly, I'm doing Six a bit differently this time-- in this particular version, his visions are on all the time, completely flooding his senses 24/7, and it's a struggle for him to sort out what's going on where and when, or even to focus on one thing at a time. Because of this (thirdly), this story is more than a little disjointed. I apologize for that in advance.
.1.
His earliest memory was of something that hadn't happened yet. Maybe it wasn't a memory at all—maybe it was just a vision, dreamed over and over until it was cemented in the deepest crevices of his mind. He couldn't tell for sure. And to be perfectly honest, he didn't entirely care.
He moved through a field of bullets and bodies, feeling dizzy—that's not where they had been, that's not where they would be—that body should be three feet to the left, not there—such details were sketchy and far too apt to change. No, he focused on the things that did not change: the Walker that thundered through what had once been a street, the walls that had been scorched and blasted into rubble, the posters, and there—there!—the car. His car.
Not his car, really—it belonged to the people inside it—but he'd seen himself in that back window so many times he half expected to find his footprints worn into the leather.
He settled into the spot with ease—it felt comfortable, right, like it had been made for him—and searched the road. The Walker marched past, its mammoth foot coming dangerously close to crushing the car's roof above him, but he didn't cringe—he'd seen it before. It never hit.
And besides that, it wasn't important. She was important. She was what mattered. And she would be running down that street, ducking between bits of rubble (these he didn't bother checking—they changed too often to be important), and searching for the tools her friend needed to operate on her other friend's broken eye. She wouldn't expect to find him. She wouldn't even see him at first, until she dodged a spray of bullets—that spray, to be exact—and looked up. And there he was, as he had always been, staring down at his rescuer, his angel, through the window of his car.
She ran to him, so fast she seemed to fly. Maybe she did fly—he remembered feathers on her, and the skull of a bird—but he couldn't be sure where or when she wore those pieces. Definitely not here. Here she was just herself, pale and slender and strong and beautiful.
He forgot to breathe, overwhelmed by the visions, the memories, the premonitions of what would happen—
"Are you all right?" she asked, and he only had the courage to nod breathlessly. Best not to chase away this divine creature with his clumsiness. "Can you run?"
Another nod, but as she reached for his hand he pulled away.
"Careful," he whispered, holding up his too-sharp fingers. He'd cut her before, or he might. Didn't want that to happen now. "Don't want to hurt you."
She smiled at his concern. The way she smiled at his drawings, but not quite the way she would laugh when 5 picked him up and put him on his shoulders and danced with him around a magical contraption of sound. He hadn't made her that happy yet. He would, though. That smile filled him with butterflies, and when she laughed the butterflies all poured out and flew all around them and he felt he could fly with them, he was so happy.
He wanted to keep seeing her smile, but he couldn't just yet. First she had to turn away—the back of her head was pretty too—and run, him following close at her heels. He knew he had to pay attention to this part—the road she took changed all the time, so he couldn't run it from memory. But he knew where they were going. He would have recognized the Sanctuary anywhere.
It was big and imposing and had pretty windows full of color and light and pictures, and inside his friends were waiting—One and Two and Three and Four and Five and Eight (but only after the very end would he and Eight be friends) and someday Nine would come too. But that was a long way off. No need to worry about that yet.
She brought him inside and walked him up to the leader of the group. One sat on a massive throne and glanced down at him with cold scrutiny. Suddenly Six remembered why he became so fidgety around the first of their kind.
"Um…hi," he squeaked. His voice sounded small and bumbly, and suddenly he was embarrassed to be there, looking like an idiot in front of Seven and One. He didn't remember it being so uncomfortable. His averted eyes fell on an empty nook on the chamber's side. It was the place that he would one day fill with his drawings before everything burned to the ground. He thought he should point that out. "I…I like to draw."
One's eyes narrowed derisively. 'A useless habit,' the leader would tell Eight once he and Seven were gone. 'A waste of time and energy.' Six hung his head at the yet-unspoken insult. He didn't even want to look back at Seven. He was scared what she might think of him just then.
"Is… is your ankle feeling… any better?" He mumbled, trying to be polite. If nothing else, the question certainly caught One's attention.
"What are you talking about?" the leader demanded. What Six had said had been far too right and far too wrong. He wasn't supposed to know about One falling and hurting his leg. He wasn't supposed to know that the Scientist had to twist the joint back into proper place. He wasn't supposed to know that the ankle still hurt One now and then. Because all that had happened before even 2 woke up, and he'd never told anybody. "Get out of here," he sputtered, and then he turned to Seven: "Take him to—to the watchtower or something."
Seven obeyed, though the entire time she looked quizzically between One and Six. Not like she was looking at a freak or a madman or something stupid and disgusting. Just curious. And maybe just a little impressed.
The expression was nice on her.