I've been writing my math equations and working on it for quite a while. Y/n still hasn't left her room. I've walked by it to see if I would hear anything, but all I've heard was moving around.
I knew it was stupid not telling her, but I did it to protect her. I was getting to the end of my equation when I finally got 4 names. "Oh. Okay, I think I've got something, Delores. It's tenuous, but promising," hearing footsteps near my room, I turn thinking it's Y/n, but only for it to be Luther.
"Who are you talking to? What is all this?" asks Luther.
"It's a probability map," I say making final adjustments to my equation.
"Probability of what?" questions him.
"Of—"
"Of who's death could save the world," interrupts Y/n as she moves away from the doorway to look at the names I have. "He's narrowed it down to four," she examines, tapping on the names I wrote.
"Are you saying one of these four people causes the apocalypse?" Luther asks.
"No, I'm saying that their death might prevent it," I answer, turning my attention back to my equation.
"Oh. . ." he mumbles. He moves a bit closer to me and whispers, "I'm not following."
Y/n walks up to him, "Are you mental? Or did the ape brain cells that you have finally turn off and are now depending on your human ones?" I jump off the bed and place a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. She swipes my hand off and sits down on my desk chair; not wanting to talk to me.
Huffing, I jump back onto the bed to finish the equation. "Time is fickle, Luther. The slightest altercation in events can lead to massively different outcomes in the time continuum," I explain.
"The butterfly effect," Y/n adds, using her telekinesis to move two blocks from my desk into the air, then brutally smashing them together, causing Luther and I to jump out of our skin.
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"So all I have to do is find the people with greatest probability of impacting the time line, wherever they may be, and kill them," I jump off the bed and grab Vanya's book filled with all my work and start writing more in it.
"Oh, yeah. . ." Luther moves over to the wall and looks at the names. "Milton Greene. So who's he, a terrorist or something?" he quizzes.
"I believe he is a gardener," I say, jotting down more equations inside the book.
"You can't be serious," Luther says as I lean down next to my bed and grab Dad's riffle. "Wait, this is madness, Five. You. . . Wh—Where'd you get that?"
