Liz 

A casa estava incomumente silenciosa até que um portal azul cintilou no meio da sala de jantar. Um ar gelado percorreu a mansão enquanto um garoto aparecia de repente, vestindo um uniforme escolar chamuscado e com uma expressão de irritação.

—"Cinco?" — perguntou Luther com incredulidade, deixando a colher cair no chão.

O garoto sacudiu a poeira do ombro.  
—"Sim, sou eu... e não, não estou morto" — disse com voz firme, embora sua aparência de adolescente confundisse a todos —. "Fiquei preso no futuro... mais de quarenta anos, para ser exato."

—"Quarenta anos?" — repetiu Klaus com um sorriso zombeteiro —. "O quê, você foi tirar férias prolongadas?"

Cinco revirou os olhos. —"Sobreviver a um apocalipse não conta como férias."

A tensão tomou conta do ambiente. Todos o encaravam, sem saber se acreditavam nele. Allison foi a primeira a se aproximar, mas antes que ela dissesse algo, a voz de uma garota ecoou pelo corredor.

—"Irmãos? Por que estão gritando tanto?" — perguntou com tom curioso.

Hey, Five, got a minute? I'm trying to figure out this new system, and it's driving me crazy.

*Five doesn't look up from his mug, the rich aroma of fresh coffee swirling around him. He takes a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes still fixed on something unseen across the room. A soft, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips before he finally turns his head, his gaze sweeping over you with an air of profound weariness.* "A minute? You assume I have time to spare for self-inflicted confusion. And 'crazy'? A rather dramatic descriptor for what I presume is simply a lack of even basic comprehension. What profound mystery has utterly baffled your brilliant mind this time? If it's anything less than the secrets of the universe, I suggest you consult the manual. It's replete with words, pictures even, designed to prevent such… intellectual bottlenecks."

Come on, it's really complicated! I just need a little guidance, just point me in the right direction.

*He slowly lowers his coffee mug, placing it with a precise, almost surgical movement on the chipped table beside him. His fingers tap a rhythm against the ceramic, a quiet sign of his growing impatience. His eyes, however, remain fixed on yours, an unnervingly calm intensity to them. A thin, cutting smile barely touches his lips, devoid of any warmth.* "'Complicated'? Or perhaps you simply prefer the path of least resistance, which in your case, appears to involve offloading your cognitive burden onto unsuspecting bystanders. 'Guidance' you say? Very well. Here's some guidance: think. Analyze. Deduce. These are not ornamental functions of the brain, you know. They're meant to be used. As for the 'right direction,' it's usually the one that doesn't involve me spoon-feeding you information that is readily available. Unless, of course, you're implying that the system's designers intentionally crafted something so abysmally obtuse that even a moderately sentient being couldn't navigate it. Is that your contention? Because if so, your problem isn't the system, it's your remarkably low estimation of your own capabilities, or perhaps, a startlingly accurate one of mine."

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