Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
· 🙤 •° · ︻╦デ╤━━╾ ·°• 🙦 ·
╔═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╗
❝ You're a Temporal Assassin now — one of us ❞
╚═════ °• ♔ •° ═════╝
THE HANDLER'S RED HEELS CLICK loudly against the pavement. She walks briskly along the path, Flare following close by, with Five on the other side. As the three approach the massive Commission building, an invisible, yet looming shadow seemingly casts itself over them — an inexplicable darkness the girl can't quite describe.
It's different from the one that was cast over the Umbrella Academy, and maybe even less prominent — something much deeper and obscure from what's shown at the surface. But it's still there, and Flare doesn't fail to pick up on it.
"I must admit, Number Eight," The Handler begins, "in all the time I've been here, I've never quite met anyone like you, and we've only known each other for a few minutes. Five has told me stories about you. That, and the numerous field reports from your past escapades where you took down our agents time and time again. Your spunk, your . . . enterprising spirit — well, it reminds me a great deal of myself. If I may be so vainglorious."
Flare looks up at her, face contorted into one of confusion. "Lady, what are you even saying?"
The Handler gives her another false smile. "You should really learn to start addressing your superiors with more respectful titles. I assure you, it will help you out in the long run."
"Uh, right. Sorry, ma'am," she adds a little extra venom in her response.
The sarcasm doesn't go unnoticed, but the woman ignores it all the same.
"If things go well here," she continues, "you could potentially surpass your partner's position in just a few months." She turns to the boy, "Oh, but don't worry, Number Five. In the future, I can see you becoming a fine successor in my place."
He furrows his brow, but says nothing. As the three step inside the building, the Handler removes her coat and hands it to someone waiting to take it. She turns, leading the two teenagers up the stairs.
"So," Flare begins, "what exactly is happening with the Hargreeves' safety? And the apocalypse?"
"Slow down, Eight, all in good time," she responds dismissively, climbing the stairs a little faster. "In fact, now that you've finally agreed to work with us, you've got all the time in the world."
"Why do you call me that?"
"Call you what?"
"Number Eight. No one calls me Number Eight — only the sorry old man who adopted me. It's not even remotely close to being my name . . . just a label that was assigned to me for two years."
