──── 'FUCK IT UP, OPHIRA' ────
[CH.1]
"It is with my deepest sorrow to inform you of the passing of Sir Reginald Hargreeves. I am saddened to announce his eternal rest only half-hour ago..."
OCTOBER 1ST 1989. PARIS, FRANCE.
DELICATELY CRAFTED CLASSICAL MUSIC drifted throughout the ballroom.
The band was audible in the midst of the commotion, they barely managed to overlap the sounds of the chatter of crowds, the clink of drinks and the sound of heels that pattered against the ground. People sat by stunningly adorned tables, platters and platters of various cuisines placed upon silk-lace tablecloths. It was like an all-you-can-eat-buffet, enough to make the most moderate man gluttonous.
On the other hand, others were seen across the dance floor. Swaying in step, each motion was majestic and graceful as crowds twirled and pranced in entrancing sync. Each step was precise and neat, perfectly practised, perfectly executed. It seemed as if all were drifting into a world of their own, in this majestical wonderland of a palace. The light bounced off the gold-casted chandeliers hanging over the hall, casting illumination down to bless the guests in its presence.
Nevertheless, all had one thing in common. All guests were dressed in fabulous gowns and dresses, each layer tailored perfectly in the most precious fabric known to man. Suits sleek enough, the freshest of flowers plucked to be placed as a boutonnière. Luxury reeked of every guest that inhabited the room.
The chattering mouths of the crowds closed in an instant. The band fell silent, various instruments rested in hand. Nevertheless, everyone's attention was grasped by something- or someone. All gazes in the crowd trailed towards a long, weaving stairway, edged with sleek fencing.
Three silhouettes stand atop these steps, chandelier light caught onto each of their individual features. Their features were golden and drop-dead stunning. Captivating enough, all hold their breath, unable to tear their gazes away. The silhouettes were gowned to the most luxurious garments, from fabulous ballgowns to rich suits and sleek jackets. All individuals were preened to the last perfect detail, with no blemish in sight.
They took the stairs, grandly. The heels of their shoes tapped upon the steps, plush with a sleek carpet rolled towards the ballroom. Their steps echoed throughout the room, drowned out by the sound of light applause in the presence of the captivating individuals.
A man was positioned at the bottom of the stairway, waiting. Just like the individuals atop the stairway, he was reminiscent of beauty. His handsomeness shone throughout his sharp and intense facial features. From the whiskey-reminiscent hues of his eyes to the sharp, angular frame of his cheekbones. The man's elegance was furthermore revealed throughout his arm, swept towards the individual in the middle of the three. A youthful, beautiful girl.
The girl gently settled her delicate hand into the sleight of his gloved palm. She peered up at the man through thick, fluttering lashes, staring up at him with eyes reminiscent and doe-like.
The man's hand, gently folded around her own, raised upwards. He carried her hand with care, lifting it ever-so-delicately to his lips. He left a gentle peck, gentle enough that it merely trailed against her skin. The act alone sent a smile to bloom against the girl's lips, unable to hold back. The man watched her, eyes crinkling as he tightly smiled back.
His face suddenly faltered.
"Deasia?"
The girl remained silent, the once-blossoming glimmer in her eyes dulling into a state of terror. Her face gradually moulded into a pain-filled expression. A gasp surged throughout the crowd like an electric current as the sound of water dripped against the ground. The sound echoed throughout the room, the only thing that broke the otherwise tight silence.
The man strained, hands fumbling as they pressed against her hips- sharply as she crumbled. A sickening crunch rang throughout the room, causing the attendees to hold their breath at the very sight. Deasia's chest rose and fell at an unsteady pace, spluttering and choking with each breath. Her eyes trailed downwards towards her torso, her stomach rapidly expanding before her very eyes.
She let out a blood-curdling scream.
Deasia was wheeled onto a hospital bed, sheets cool and damp with droplets of sweat. Her figure dangled off of thin, wispy sheets, strained with every scream ringing out throughout the infirmary. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with effort, her face slick and tinged pink. She whimpered and panted, throat raw with effort and the prominent lines in between her eyebrows confirmed her anguish.
The man stood by her side, hand still laced with her own. He sufficed a wince or two as she squeezed his fingers with each whimper she made, the strength wielded in her hands crushing his own. The man merely traced her knuckles comfortingly, whispering tender words of encouragement every once in a while. His eyes trailed astray for a moment, gaze resting upon the two figures who stood from afar. Deasias's parents watched silently, faces sour in distaste.
Deasia strained with all her might, throwing her head back as a final scream escaped her, rocking her vocal cords unsteady and her throat red-raw. Her body crumpled from beneath her, falling back into the strangely comforting bedsheets that were messily tucked beneath her frail frame.
Droplets of sweat trickled down her sadly beautiful yet exhausted features, and the tinge of pink still lingered by her cheeks. Although, it seemed to gradually fade as Deasia gasped desperately for a bit of breath in her lungs.
"Madame."
A hospital nurse stood over Deasia. In her grasp was a small child, tucked in a thick, pink blanket. The child's wails filled the room, a sound oddly soothing for the young woman who lazily arose from her previous position. The nurse outstretched her arms, offering the baby to her.
Deasia strained her entire body to sit herself up, back propped against a series of pillows. The baby slipped into her hold, frail hands quivering the slightest as she tucked the child into the crook of her arms. The baby's pulled to Deasia's chest, where it lay there, wails silenced into a tranquil nothingness.
A nothingness except a mother and her child.
ON THE 12TH HOUR OF THE FIRST DAY OF OCTOBER, 1989, 43 WOMEN AROUND THE WORLD GAVE BIRTH. THIS WAS UNUSUAL ONLY IN THE FACT THAT NONE OF THESE WOMEN HAD BEEN PREGNANT WHEN THE DAY FIRST BEGAN.
SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES, ECCENTRIC BILLIONAIRE AND ADVENTURER, RESOLVED TO LOCATE AND ADOPT AS MANY OF THE CHILDREN AS POSSIBLE.
The soles of Reginald's sturdy boots thrummed and echoed as he strided down the corridor of the infirmary, lights flickering overhead. Nurses flocked left and right, scattered in groups, talking behind their hands. The news of this unexpected and wholeheartedly taboo birth had begun to spread throughout the palace much like wildfire, an unwelcome response.
Unaware of this fact, however, Deasia's frail frame collapsed in an entanglement of sheets. Her child was tucked into her arms, concealed tightly in her grasp as if letting her go would mean certain death. Deasia peered down at her baby, and a distant smile trailed her lips as she rocked her back and forth. A kind of smile that visibly reached her eyes, her tawny hues shimmered just the slightest. The gentle motion of Deasia's arms was enough to bring a toothy (or in this case, toothless) smile on the baby's face as she swayed to and fro.
A mingling sense of discomfort crawled through Deasia's skin as her gaze raised towards Reginald as if a hoard of insects nested underneath her flesh. Reginald slipped past the bustling group of nurses, guards and the extended family who crowded themselves around the room. Her parents lingered on either side, staring wordlessly at the billionaire who slipped off of his gloves, slinking closer towards the pair on the hospital bed.
"Extraordinary!"
Reginald praised as he faltered by the edge, a tinge of curiosity found in his voice. He inched closer towards the couple. Reginald outstretched his hand towards the child with a trace of slowness in his pace. His finger drifted closer, hovering over her without a visible hint of his intention that circulated in his eyes. At last, Reginald snapped his hand back, his eyes flashing as they rested upon Deasia.
"How much do you want for it?"
The once prominent twinkle in Deasia's eyes dulled into a sense of nothingness as she gazed up at Reginald, the realization of the situation became pitifully clear to her.
"Combien vendez-vous?"
Deasia faltered once more, lips slowly downturned at his words. She swung her head upwards, eyes shakily trailing her parents. Deasia's parent's eyes hardened into a mere sideways glance. Their head is lowered the slightest, lips notably pressed together as they stared into their daughter with a pronounced sigh. Their gaze alone connoted everything Deasia was warranted to know. A warning look circulated in their gaze, threatening even.
Their stare was enough for Deasia to turn back, gaze void of all emotion as she swept her baby girl closer to her chest. Her eyes flickered momentarily towards the man whom she loved, who stood off to the side from the crowd with a downturned gaze, who gave a drawn-out sigh as his long fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. Deasia's father's hand reigned down upon her shoulder, taking grasp with a threateningly piercing grip.
HE GOT EIGHT OF THEM.
TODAY.
The moon hangs high in the dark canvas night sky.
It sends its beams of moonlight below, reminiscent of a mere whisper. An ethereal sadness shimmers upon the backdrop of the city, painted in blacks and whites. The night sky has never looked so lonely, not one singular cloud in sight. Even the stars are faded as if someone reached out and plucked them out. A gentle breeze strikes a cold air throughout the atmosphere, wisping through a pair of particularly sleek and silky curtains.
A curved finger - perfectly manicured - glides along, tending to the tonearm of a vinyl player. Their hand extends mid-air momentarily as the device hums to life. The vinyl player buzzes distantly as a melody begins to fill the room's otherwise chilling atmosphere.
"...Hey, hey, hey lover, you don't have to be a star."
"Hey, hey, hey, lover, I love you just the way you are..."
A woman towers over a nearby table, which occupies a worn ashtray, the frame stained with grey ash. They tap the smoke-ridden tip of a cigarette into the device with an effortless motion, the smoke distantly curling up in the air only to be whisked away by the sudden current of the breeze from the windows.
Their slender hands trail over the fabric of a bathrobe, tucked generously against their shapely figure; reminiscent of a barbie doll, almost. The robe alone is enough to reveal each hidden curve, crevice and secrecy of their body.
The woman gives a half-hearted adjustment to this bathrobe. More specifically, the collar. Their fingers briefly flutter over the surface of their skin, tips trailing against an indent of their collarbone. A scar stretched out from the clavicle down into the fabric of the bathrobe, the rest purely left up to the imagination.
"...Because love is just the same, without fortune and fame."
"Just give me true love and understanding, true love and understanding..."
A knock thrums from the door.
It's blaring enough to both overlap the drifting melody and snap the woman out of whatever thoughtless trance they sunk under. Their eyes sharply crinkle at the sudden, billowing noise, lips tightening likewise. Nevertheless, they twirl their melodious figure around, arms drooping to their side. They cross over to the door in a matter of seconds with a mere extension of their sleek legs, bare feet descending silently against the smooth, cool flooring.
In the midst of a second, the woman finds themselves standing outside of the door, the sleight of their palm resting upon the golden door handle. A shiver is sent down their hand at the sudden coolness numbing their fingertips.
By mere instinct, their back arches promptly and they hold their head high, a significant form of dominance. They draw the door wide open.
The doorway holds a man of short stature. He's preened sufficiently well, dressed in a sleek yet strangely formal suit. The man seems somewhat aged, telling from the leathery wrinkles in his face, which has seemed to have lost once-maintained elasticity. The man lowers his head, the frame of his top hat neatly tucked in the crevice of his palm - revealing a fine, balding spot at the top of his head.
"Madame, I apologize for interrupting at this time of night."
The sun has well set, leaving a shadow of darkness to wash upon the cityscape. But alas, The City is always alive and bustling at all hours of the day. The sounds of cars driving past and the commotion of everyday people manage to seep into the manor walls. Even with this knowledge, the woman's eyes flicker behind the man's silhouette and towards the towering frame of the old grandfather clock. It sits polished at the end of the bedroom quarters, metal hands ticking receptivity.
11 PM.
"It must be urgent."
The woman's eyes flicker back towards the man. The man peers up at them, awaiting them with drawn, shaky lips and a puckered forehead. They search his eyes for some sort of weakness, some sort of vulnerability, some sort of lie. After a short, yet tight period of silence, the woman falls into a nod. A nod? More like a weak shift of the head, barely detectable to the naked eye.
"Forgiven."
The man elevates his head, tucking his top-hat back onto his head. The frame of the accessory manages to cover his sparse yet slicked-back tufts. His eyes notably soften, brows drawn together the slightest.
"It is with my deepest sorrow to inform you of the passing of Sir Reginald Hargreeves. I am saddened to announce his eternal rest only half-hour ago."
"Along with his inheritance, Sir Reginald Hargreeves also left something in your possession. A letter personally addressed to you."
The man falls into silence, outstretching his hand towards the woman. An envelope sits in the grasp of his spoon-shaped fingertips. A wax plaster is visible upon the rough, ink-stained parchment, catching the light from one of the many chandeliers placed in the corridor. But this isn't just any ordinary wax plaster. The woman's eyes strike icy cold, shapely lips curling at the mere sight.
The Umbrella Academy crest.
Nevertheless, the woman maintains a respectable smile as they take the envelope with a graceful hand. Their delicately-shaped fingertips rake across the surface of the parchment, knuckles straining the slightest.
"You will be notified of the funeral service in the next couple of days. My condolences, madame."
The woman doesn't miss a beat.
"I appreciate your time. Have a good night."
Without another word or another glance, they claw their hands further into the door handle. The woman swings it closed with a solemn thud holding it in place. Their hands fall from the frame of the handle, slipping off and returning to their side. The woman's eyes flutter once, falling to the envelope, tucked in the sleight of their palm.
"...Well, you don't have to worry, life's a problem in my hands."
"But if you really, really love me, in your heart you'll be a big man..."
The bare soles of the woman hit the ground with a thud, footsteps echoing out throughout the room as they float by a crackling fireplace. Their eyes catch upon the flames, dancing in a rhythmic pattern, and a rapid exhale escapes their parted lips.
With a singular flick of their wrist, the envelope escapes from their grasp. It flies up into the air, skyrocketing through the breeze, which carries it towards the fireplace. It settles into the firebox, and without a moment of hesitation, the parchment erupts into flames.
The mere force and momentum of the toss send the fabric of their bathrobe rolling up their inner palm. Along the sleight of skin, a familiar tattoo sits, embedded within the skin. It was a symbol, a symbol of mere memory. A memory taunted by the umbrella embedded in the woman's inner wrist.
The Umbrella Academy.
NUMBER ZERO
"OPHIRA"
➥ WORD COUNT : 2 808