"maybe we can head to the apocalypse again as a little vacation. you know what they say... paradise!"
"i cannot express to you how little i would like to do that."
"stingy fucker."
IN WHICH vincent leblanc, resident french asshole and externally...
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VINCENT LEBLANC held a power that surged through his veins and shot out through his whole body when he needed it most. Yet, he still felt entirely ordinary. He knew how to control his power quite well through teaching himself the 15 years he'd been alive, calculating how fast he could change into whatever he wanted. The amount of control he had over what he did had easily gotten better as time went on. He knew just how much he could do at this point, just what fucked up things he could easily do with his abilities. He supposed he was dangerous. Or could be used for that. Although, he had never purposefully hurt anyone with it. Not yet, at least.
He usually wrote in a small journal he kept hidden away underneath his pillow to shy away from his parents disapproving eyes. They had never wanted their son to be a freak. A shapeshifting snarky asshole who was depressed out of his godamn mind. It was humorous to Vincent. He didn't care much for his parents anyway. They didn't do much for him. He still had to buy his own groceries and make his own dinner, even at the mere age of 15. His parents told him it was the way the French did it, that since he grew up in Paris, France he'd have to permanently act like he grew up in Paris, France. Although, Vincent knew that was indeed not the way the French did it.
He wrote in his journal about all different types of things. Like his powers or the way the sun shines through his sheer black curtains onto the ground. But mostly his powers. He wrote down each ability he was aware he had. The ability to shapeshift into basically anything he wants, the ability to go into separate dimensions and a small tinge of telekinesis. He liked to pride himself on the fact that he had more abilities altogether than it seemed any of the infamous Umbrella Academy had.
Vincent had heard about the children, who were the exact same age as him, on the television one day whilst pouring himself a cup of orange juice. Knowing the French language came in handy, understanding everything the woman on the television had iterated. His parents hadn't been home, so he was allowed to watch the news and hear all about the others just like him. He knew from first glance his favorite was probably Number Five. He looked more sophisticated than the others, more put together.
Number Five had gone missing two years before, thought to never be seen again. Vincent was surprised to hear the news, but supposed he would eventually come back. He had to, didn't he? In those two years, France had become more and more boring for Vincent. He had lived there for 15 years and wanted a change in scenery. His parents refused to take him anywhere but where they lived, their grimy little apartment filled with cockroaches and other creepy crawlies that made Vincent flinch in disgust.
He hated the place so much.
Vincent had left his house on Sunday morning, off to the store or the "le supermarché" as they called it. He hated speaking French. He knew how to speak English perfectly fine, despite the small hint of an accent that always peeked through. He hated it, he hated it so much. He shrugged off the thought, continuing to walk to the supermarket. He had ran out of orange juice, the one thing he drank in the house. His parents had slipped him 5 euro under a magnet on the refrigerator, alongside a note underneath that read "buy yourself more of that shit you like to drink," undoubtedly written by his father. His mother, a devout Christian, had prided herself on only ever cursing once in her life. Vincent saw through the lie easily.
