Peter doesn't need to check to make sure his shot hit. He's certain it did. As soon as the shot fires Peter runs. He doesn't try to be quiet, it's too late for that. He runs wildly, avoiding traps and searching for a place that's safe to hide. There's voices suddenly, panicking, but Peter is being careful, he doesn't have time to stop. He's already circled around to the opposite side he'd shot from, and ducks behind a tree, not quite big enough to hid him, but good enough for the dark of night to cover what the tree can't.
There's a shout from Alfred, and then a familiar cracking sound Peter knows too well, and he knows that one ofthemis dead. There's more shouts from both sides, but Peter is pressing himself into the tree, trying to muffle his breath, because he hears footsteps near him. There's a cock of a gun priming near him, and Peter is stiff as a board, doing his best not to flinch. He thinks he'll be found any second, that he needs to run. The rustle of clothes moves flower. Peter balances on his toes, ready to spring forward and run. Then there's a crack of a gun, and a body tumbles prone, gasping, only a few feet away.
Peter doesn't know whether it was a shot fired towards the wrong person by mistake, or if Alfred had somehow gotten a gun off one of them, so he stays hidden and still. The man is gasping in a way that Peter knows too well, and Peter knows that he's dying, just like so many of the kids back at the bunker had. Just like so many of the adults had. Even so, Peter doesn't feel anything but relief at the knowledge. Peter isn't like the other kids, he knows what death is like, what war is like, what killing an enemy is like. He doesn't like it, but he knows what it's like, and such a thing won't make him feel shaken. Peter stares blankly into the forest, listening to the sounds if fighting stop one by one.
"Peter?"
Alfred's loud voice carries well in the woods.
"Peter! It's okay, you can come out now!"
Peter's heart feels like its breaking, but it's not a sad sort of feeling, but a happy one, like a wall that Peter didn't know he'd built was slowly breaking down. Alfred was okay. Jet was also probably okay. Peter was okay. Peter has been running and hiding for so long he'd almost resigned himself to being left alone, but, for the first time in many years, Peter hadn't run away or hid. And, for the first time in many years, Peter finally wasn't alone anymore. Something was changing. Somethinghadchanged.
"Peter!"
Alfred calls his name again, and Peter stands up's up from his hiding place, and steps out from behind the street to head towards Alfred, and to tell him to stop yelling before more of them show up. Then, in just a second, Peter's soaring heart falls into his stomach, and arms come up behind and strong hands cover his mouth, and Peter struggles as had as he can, using every trick he knows, from kicking to biting and wiggling, but something is pressed over his mouth and nose - a cloth, with a strange smell- and everything goes black and Peter's limbs go limp.
As he faints, Peter can hear Jet's concerned voice joining Alfred's in calling his name, but Peter can't respond, he doesn't have the strength too. Peter knows letting his guard down will be the worst mistake of his life. If he's lucky, Peter thinks hazily before his brain shuts down, he won't wake up.
But Peter's not lucky. He never has been. That's why he had to go to the bunkers himself, that's why he was the only one who survived, and that's why he lost Alfred and Jet just as soon as he got them. Maybe that's why he has the nightmare. It's a long and tedious nightmare, not a scary one, but Peter can't even be grateful for that, because a scary one would have been better. If it was a nightmare full of pain and Monsters, Peter could wake up and then tell himself that it was nothing but a nightmare, no matter how real it felt. He could prove to himself that he wasn't hurt, so it couldn't have been real.
But Peter's nightmare feels real in a different. He's sitting, alone, in a place he feels like he should know, the sounds of waves crashing against metal all around him, and the light slipping through the windows that allowed him to see the endless expanse of the blue sea stretching to the horizon. There's a bar made of oats, dried fruits and nuts dipped in chocolate on the table, a single lit match in it, but somehow its not burning down like it ought to, as though waiting for Peter.
Peter knows this place, but he can't remember why, but it feels right, it feels home. Somehow he knows it's his birthday, or at the least the day he's chosen to celebrate his birthday on, a makeshift "birthday cake" made with the last remaining ration of one's that have been running out for months, something Peter has saved despite his hunger for this occasion, a pathetic remake of how he knows others spend their birthday.
There's supposed to be a cake, but Peter doesn't have that, so he's using a candy bar. The candle is replaced with a match. There's supposed to be singing and presents too, but Peter doesn't feel much like singing, and there's no one there to give him a present anyways. After all, Peter's been abandoned. He's known this for a while, but a part of him is still doing that tedious waiting, for -someone-to come back for him. Peter doesn't even remember who he's waiting for anymore.
When Peter leans forward to blow out the match, he pretends he doesn't notice that the scenery has changed back to the familiarity of the bunker, before everything turns black.
Then Peter wakes up.