Broken- And Fixed Again- (A Jamilton Fanfic)

Chapter 36: The Calm Before The Storm

//TW: guns\\

Listen.

Can you hear the sound of the cars whizzing past, the sound of people shouting across the street for each other, the sound of the beeping at each crosswalk? Can you hear the sounds of the crowded city streets of New York?

It is the symphony of the night, combining the notes of both past and future. It is the song that will be remembered long after the empire city falls, as most tend to do. Long when the world is nothing but dust, all that will be left is the mere memory of the songs that have been sung and the lives that have been lived. It is the truth, for better or for worse, and it hides itself from no one.

Listen closer.

Can you hear the softly mumbled words of the five figures as they walk along the cement sidewalk, dodging large crowds and reveling in the secrets and the laughter meant only for each other? Can you hear the joy that encompasses what it means to belong to one another?

Look.

Can you see the sight of the lights gleaming in the oppressing darkness of the night, the sight of neon signs glistening with the promises they have yet to deliver on, the sight of the towering buildings reaching for the sky? Can you see the sights of the crowded city of New York at night?

New York City. A city to be idolized, to be adored. Perhaps there is some truth to all the esteem it is held in, perhaps it is no different from any other place in the world. The city is built on dreams, both accomplished and destroyed. The city is built on nightmares. 

Look closer.

Can you see the shapes of the five figures silhouetted by the city of light and darkness, of hope and devastation as they slowly make their way home? Can you see the faux-starlight reflected in their gaze as they enjoy each other's company?

Listen.

Two of them are arguing for the sake of making each other smile, to hear the other's laugh. They are arguing about which route to take, a quick shortcut the Frenchman knows that will take them home quicker, or the normal longer way that doesn't involve passing through desolate, silent alleys distantly removed from civilization and light, like the Frenchman proposes.

But one of them knows deep down it doesn't matter in the end. It'll all end the same. The illusion of free-will is just that, an illusion. Destiny has been written down in thick, black ink even as the universe exploded into a violent existence, and it will not change or halt for someone as insignificant as him. To think otherwise is foolishness, a luxury meant for the dreamers and poets. But he has learned, almost a million years ago, that staying grounded in the bleak reality is truly the only way to survive.

"I think Lafayette is right," he volunteers all the same, just to have that fleeting sense of love, of a family he spontaneously found himself in, whether he truly deserved it or not.

"Of course you do."

"Hey! Don't blame me, blame my fortune." He holds up the slip of paper that was recently encased in the hard, crunchy casing of a fortune cookie.

"What does it say?" asks the girl, her black hair whipping in her face as a breeze tugs at the five of them. It is foreboding in nature, but none of them pay it any mind. If only they knew what the breeze has seen before, and all it will see until the end of time itself. Perhaps they would have been more careful, more wise.

The Virginian grins, a rare— but welcome— sight. "When the moment arrives, choose the top."

Silence.