𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁
On the twelfth hour of the first day of October 1989, forty-three women around the world gave birth. This was unusual 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.
He got eight of them...
Almost.
𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘
Timid footsteps echo across the barren stage as a young and diffident man approaches the stool sat under a single spotlight. He places his instrument's case on its surface to unlock it, the two metal clicks of the locks loud enough they resounded in the all too quiet atmosphere. He pulls out his violin, its glossy coat shining brilliantly in the spotlight in it's perfect condition. It was his pride and joy.
The man enters the milky white beam of light, silently relishing in the spotlight he had for so long strived for. He brings the violin to rest under his chin, feeling complete. His eyelids flutter closed, already he can see the notes in his mind but they quickly vanish when he begins to play.
Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera medley bleeds from his finger tips as he becomes one with his instrument. Its soft and lilting tune exuding from him as naturally as air.
•·················•·················•
Three sharp beeps bring a large and lumbering man from a deep sleep, his bulging arm swinging limply through the air and landing on the snooze button. The time on the digital clock read 23:28. He rises from the bed with a deep groan, the lumpy mattress never was to his liking seeing as it never properly supported his weight. He squeezes his rather large build through the doorframe and into the cramped living space he had called home for the past four years. His eyes land on the small plant that sits on the counter, his calloused hand reaches up to lightly stroke its bright stems encouragingly before watering it.
He slips into his suit once more, and as he does so he can't help but think about why he is here. How many times he had done this, and there seemed to be no end in sight. The only thing keeping him going was the one thing that had been drilled into his head as a child. The only thing he could cling to; the world needed this.
𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏
"𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑"
Luther steps out into the desolate wasteland of the moon's surface. The titanium door closing behind him as he bounces across the dusty landscape to the trash compactor, yet another week's trash in his hands.
•·················•·················•
The man's rhythm picks up as does the music, and he can feel his heartbeat pounding with every other note.
•·················•·················•
A young family cowers in terror and binding, duct tape over their mouths. They watch as their father - and husband - is dragged around by his collar.
"Show me where the safe is, or your family is dead!" Roars one of the masked men responsible for their capture.
One of his accomplices points their flashlight into the family's eyes, amplifying their screams.
"Where's the safe?!"
"Just leave us alone!" The husband cries as he is dragged past the television set that was still broadcasting the Evening News.
"...little bit of rain potentially, later in the week."
Unbeknownst to everyone in the house, a shadow lurked on the back porch before quietly slipping inside. In a matter of moments, one of the masked men is pulled out of sight with a muffled yelp. He goes silent after a sharp snap and out steps a new masked figure dressed in all black and a proud smirk. His mask differs from the rest, as does he in every way. Instead of a dark bandana tied over his nose and mouth, he dawns an inky black domino mask that circles his eyes. And secured around his torso and waist are an array of paper-thin blades; His favorite choice of weapon.
𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐
"𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐎"
He's on the next accomplice in seconds, eliciting many shocked cries around the room.
"Who is this guy?"
Diego gives them no answer, nor does he give them time to speak another word. Already he has thrown one of the men into the glass coffee table, sending shards flying everywhere. Within moments, half the threat is eliminated. Either dead or unconscious. One was even pinned to the wall thanks to a select few of his many blades.
•·················•·················•
A striking young woman dressed in a fine velvet dress glides into the sea of flashing lights and demanding pleas, the tail of her dress pooling behind her on the red carpet.
𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟑
"𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍"
A captivating smile paints her face, feeding into the wild cries of paparazzi as they fight for her attention like strays begging for scraps. Allison stops in the very center, her smile brightening for the cameras as one hand comes to rest on her hip, then the other. With each pose, she sends a new camera its own unique smile, the routine of it all as natural to her as breathing.
•·················•·················•
The man can feel his muscles relax as he so effortlessly glides the song into an accompanying score, Angel of Music.
•·················•·················•
Two lanky legs in leather pants and worn-out converse sneakers swing themselves off of the top of a bunk bed. There stands a young man dressed in a long overcoat lined with faux fur over a thin net tee shirt, and plenty of jewelry. He lets out a relieved sigh, as he throws his head back accentuating his messy head of brown hair and the dark smudges of eyeliner circling his eyes.
𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟒
"𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒"
Merrily he heads for the exit, by now he knows the place like the back of his hand. As he leaves he passes plenty more bunk beds and he turns his attention to one pale man laying sullenly on a top bunk.
"Hey, you," he gives him a reassuring pat on the arm as he passes. "Stay strong. I believe in you."
He passes another bunk bed, this one occupied by a scowling man seated on the bottom bunk. Klaus points to him with a chuckle.
"You? You not so much,"
He makes his way to the front desk where a rather glum, bored-looking man stands. Behind him plastered on the wall is a sign reading, Lakeshore Hills Rehabilitation. He places the ziplock bag full of his possessions on the desk, sliding it forward.
"See ya soon, Klaus," he sighs, flipping a token for Klaus to catch. "Stay sober!"
Klaus retreats down the hall, spinning around at the man's last comment. He plants a lingering kiss on the token and sends the man a wink.
•·················•·················•
The man shifts on the soles of his feet as the music he creates sways him. The stage being the only place he ever felt alive.
•·················•·················•
Luther scales the gray and dusty hill with little effort, the first of the sun's rays already sticking to his suit before he reaches the top of the gravelly mound. His shoulders slack in awe at the view before him, the way the blinding light touched everything on the moon's surface and lit it up like a star. But before he can appreciate it, a rhythmic beeping brings him from his thoughts.
"Incoming transmission," comes an automated voice.
Wearing an intrigued expression, Luther uncovers the small pad on his left cuff. He has to read the words a second time to fully register what he is being told, and even then he has trouble dealing with it. A flood of emotions wash over him as he gazes out onto the barren wasteland his father deserted him on; disbelief, grief of course, but there was something else. Something else buried down deep inside him that years of manipulation told him was wrong; could it be relief?
•·················•·················•
Diego plucks one of many remaining bloodied knives from the carpet, hundreds of glass shards sprinkled around it. He looks to the cowering family, giving them his most sincere look to reassure them. His eyes land on the father who is huddled with his family, duct tape over his mouth but wrists had never been tied. He had gotten to the last of the men before this could be accomplished. He watched Diego wearily while he scrambles to his family's aid.
"You're family is safe now." Diego reassures.
Before he can offer assistance, his attention is pulled to the evening news. The recognizable chime dedicated only to breaking news was not quite what caught his attention, but the all too familiar scowl plastered all over the screen.
"We're going now live to a breaking story,"
His eyes widen as the colors of the screen dance across his shock ridden face.
•·················•·················•
Her name is scattered amongst the frantic crowd of photographers, but one rises above the rest in a demanding plea.
"Allison!" He screams, pulling her head to look at him. "Have you heard the news? When was the last time you saw your father?"
Her mind draws conclusions faster than she'd like given her environment, and quickly she shifts her attention to the next photographer.
"Have you heard from your brothers?'" The woman asks.
Allison is no longer smiling, nor can she even bother to fake it. The last comment being a bit too hard to brush off. She feels lost amidst a sea of noise and she isn't even sure what is happening, though her gut seems to be telling her what she suspects is right. All doubts are cast away when her publicist pulls her along off the red carpet, wearing a sympathetic look as another voice reaches her ears confirming her suspicions.
"Allison, will you wear Valentino to the funeral?"
•·················•·················•
Klaus strolls down the dark alleyway, his body had carried him here on muscle memory alone with his mind already in the clouds. He's pulled from his daze when he spots the familiar dark hoodie waiting for him with a baggie of an undisclosed drug. A smile flitters across his face, the money already in his hands but something unseen draws out an eye roll and a dramatic sigh.
"Oh, just watch me!" He giggles under his breath, already returning to his excited self when his eyes spot the goodie bag the man hides in his palm, tucked into his sleeve.
Klaus tackles the dealer in a hug, giving him a swift pat on the back, and when they part he makes the exchange. An elated grin tugs at his lips as he backs away down the alley where he came from, planting a kiss to the baggie just as he had the token. He twirls around, running down the alleyway and into a jump, clicking his heels together midair showcasing his joy to the world.
•·················•·················•
Klaus's limp and lifeless body sways with the motion of the ambulance, its sirens wailing loudly around him. No sooner does the defibrillators touch his chest that he rises with a heavy and strenuous gasp muffled by the oxygen mask still wrapped around his face. His entire body is trembling violently, still drunk from the shock and the high of the rush. His tremoring hand rises to rip off the mask, letting loose a wild yet breathless cackle. He shakes his head with a shit-eating grin before collapsing against one of the shelves.
He extends his left palm - revealing the tattoo printed across it, reading "GOODBYE" - hoping for a high five. The EMT laughs, complying and giving the man he had resuscitated far too many times a high five. Klaus whoops yet another time, himself and the EMT sharing a nod and a smile when a sudden and scratchy chime from the portable radio TV pulled their attention. Behind a thick veil of static and muted colors, Klaus made out the words 'Breaking News'.
Another picture flashed across the cramped screen, luring Klaus in. His eyes began to flutter in a haze in hopes of confirming what he was seeing on the screen was real. The garbled voice of the broadcaster fought its way through the wall of sirens and into his foggy brain. He didn't have to be sober to know the two figures sitting beside him were just as encapsulated by the breaking story, feeling the same odd cocktail of emotions he was.
"Moments ago, police reported the death of most eccentric and reclusive billionaire..."
•·················•·················•
The lullaby that falls from his fingertips comes to a sudden halt as fast as the world comes back to him. The man does not know why he stops, but something deep within himeself has shifted. It's a feeling he can't quite place, and evidently, something he does not have time for as one of three spotlights he sits in clicks off. He is alone again on the stage, though he wonders to himself when he had ever not felt alone.
Perhaps this is all he was destined for.
𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟕
"𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑"
As he walks, Viktor watches eyes trained, as his feet disturb the several puddles that paint the sidewalk. Several rings sprout from around himself, rippling out into the world, and it is not the first he wonders what it would be like to have such influence on people. And not just any people, but his family. What would it be like to be noticed?
His walk home from the bus had been taken enough times he could run it blindfolded, though this brought no sense of pride to him. It was just another reminder his life was perfectly ordinary. Well, that he was anyway...
Within moments he finds himself planted in front of the foggy window display just doors down from his apartment building. His eyes are glued to the television set that now showed him a picture of his father. Below his cold glower was the headline in bold, that read, SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES IS DEAD.
"Dad..." he croaks.
As the news hits him fully, large beads of tears pool at his eyelids. They waste no time in falling nor does the sudden downpour of rain that blankets the street.
•·················•·················•
Viktor watched as the droplets of rain race across the foggy glass of the cab window. His journey back to the place he could hardly call home was filled with dread. And he wasn't quite sure if it was because of his father's funeral, or knowing he was to face the very place - and people - that he had tried so hard to forget.
Try as he might, his siblings were something he could never want far from his reach for long. Not even the young girl he and his siblings had come to know in their later years at the academy before... before everyone left.
He could see the cold and unforgiving walls that had surrounded him for his entire childhood in his mind's eye. The ones made of marble and the finest wood, decorated with "family portraits" that always lacked his face. The shrine of his siblings that hung like trophies, forever reminding him he was nothing but a fluke. The one his father wished to forget, the one he was so ready to replace in the academy. And in the family.
Everything comes back to him faster than the raindrops that skitter across the glass, faster than the racing of his heart as the cab turns the final corner onto the street he grew up on. Viktor could hear his lonely footsteps echoing off the granite floors, the very same that kept him company all those years alone. The smell of his father's cigars that lingered throughout the house, seemingly leaking directly from the study of which they were all forbidden. The taste of Mom's cooking that always managed to cheer him up. The dark blanket of ice that imprisoned him for the early stages of his childhood in that room...
Before he can dwell on it any longer, the cab comes to a stop. Viktor finds himself standing before the Umbrella Academy, not so much his old childhood home. It towers over him in an intimidating matter, much like his father did all his life. The inside was no different. He expected the grand entrance to seem much smaller since his youth, but this was not the case as he stepped inside. The cast-iron chandelier did little to light the two-story entrance in comparison to the mosaic windows that dripped with golden sunlight. And much to Viktor's dismay, he felt just as small standing here now as he ever had.
His gaze journeys up the marble columns that support the second floor, his head rolled farther back as he takes in the details that hadn't seemed to change. Viktor stops suddenly when his eyes land on the petite figure seated at the hearth in the adjoining living room. The only sense of warmth in this place he would recognize anywhere, not that it was hard as it looked as if she had stepped right out of time. She was staring blankly ahead, not moving a muscle.
"Hey, Mom," Viktor says.
Grace does not respond but remains fixed on the fire that roars in front of her. The light of the flames dances off her head of golden hair, and fifties-era clothing and pearls. Growing worried, Viktor inches closer.
"Mom?"
"Vanya?"
Viktor turns when the voice that responds is not his mother's, but his sister's. He's shocked to find Allison descending the stairs and with a welcoming smile no less.
"You're actually here." Allison breathes, sounding relieved.
Viktor gapes at the woman in front of him, shocked not from the changes in his sister he had caught on films and news articles from time to time, but the fact she was actually talking to him. At first, Viktor braces himself for the scolding he is sure he will receive from the woman - that or disappointment. But to his surprise, Allison's saddened smile widens a bit, just for Viktor as she approaches him.
"Hey, V."
Allison now towers over Viktor, offering a somber and understanding expression before inviting him into a hug. He reluctantly accepts, still unsure as to how or why this was happening but this does not change the spark of warmth he felt at the gesture. As they break apart, they hear a gruff scoff from Diego as he passes them for the stairs.
"What is she doing here?" He does not bother to look their way as he throws his scorn. "You don't belong here. Not after what you did."
Allison's hands find a home in her pockets as she turns to glower after their brother. Viktor suddenly finds the black and white tile beneath their feet very interesting.
"You're really gonna do this today?" Asks Allison, watching as Diego marches up the steps without another word in his usual crime-fighting attire. "Way to dress for the occasion, by the way."
Without skipping a beat - or sparing a glance in their direction - he throws back a remark as swiftly as one of his knives.
"At least I'm wearing black."
Wounded, but not surprised in the least, Viktor grimaces as he looks up at his sister.
"You know what? I--" He shakes his head, gesturing to the door. "Maybe he's right. And I shouldn't--"
"Forget about him," Allison says through a face of anger, though her eye held sympathy reserved only for Viktor. "I'm glad you're here."
Viktor manages a small smile when he searches his sister's eyes and finds no trace of sarcasm or pity. Instead, all he finds is genuine longing and remorse. This was not the sister he knew as a young boy, the one who paid her no mind. And something filled Viktor at that moment, the last thing he'd expect from being here; hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, with their father gone as horrible as the thought was, they could mend their bonds.
It was a dangerous thought and Viktor knew it, but it was just too tempting to ignore.
Maybe things would be different now?
•·················•·················•
The floorboards cry out under Luther's weight as he paces his late father's room, a frown screwed onto his face. He does not dismiss a single detail he takes in in fear he will miss something crucial. Something about all of this, the thought of death defeating even the great Sir Reginald Hargreeves, defied all logic he had been force-fed since he was a boy. There just had to be more, Luther was sure of it.
"I can save you some time,"
Luther turns from the windows to find Diego watching him in the doorway, wearing the same cocky smirk he always did.
"They're all locked," Diego confirms. "No forced entry, no sign of struggle. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Diego steps into the soft blanket of light that coats the room, his face lighting up in curiosity at the sight of his brother.
"Oh, you got big, Luther," his voice comes out in a mocking drawl. "What's the secret, huh? Protein shakes? Low carbs?"
Having none of it, Luther attempts to brush it off, desperate to move on. "What do you want?"
Satisfied with himself for having gotten to his brother, Diego digs into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of parchment that crinkles in his hand as he offers it.
"The autopsy report," Luther grabs for it, and with another smirk, Diego pulls it away for gimmicks. "Ah,"
Luther rips it from Diego's hand, furthering Diego's satisfaction.
"And you have this why?" Luther asks hotly, unfolding the report.
"Well, that's because I..." Diego bows himself into the plush upholstered chair in the corner. "broke into the coroner's office. And surprise, surprise, Dad's death was... normal."
Luther's insistent glare scours the report as Diego confirms what it reads. "Just a boring, old heart failure."
Luther winces internally at the black and white photo of his father laying lifeless in the morgue.
"Yeah, so?" Luther chokes back.
"So," Diego drones, confused. "why are you in here, checking all the windows?"
Luther looks to him suddenly, and curiously. "Were you the first one on the scene?"
"Pogo found him."
"Yeah, I talked to Pogo," Luther answered, his suspiciousness shining through. "He said he couldn't find Dad's monocle."
Sensing what is coming, Diego battles an eye-roll. There's a glint of perturbance in his eyes, and as if testing his brother he asks the question he knows he is about to face.
"And your point is?"
"Can you think of a single time you saw Dad and he wasn't wearing that monocle? No. Which means someone took it. Which means there's a chance he wasn't alone when he died."
Diego stares at the floor in impatience, waiting for his brother's speech to finish. He launches himself out of the chair and stalks towards Luther eager to put his ideas to rest.
"There is no mystery here. Nothing to avenge." Diego says. "Nothing to solve, nothing like that. It's just a sad old man who kicked it, in a big, empty house. Just like he deserved."
Luther fights the anger rising, but instead of lashing out as he so wishes to do, he manages to spit a warning at Diego. "You should leave."
"Whatever you say," Diego says, voice low and threatening, his eyes never once leaving him. "brother."
Diego retreats into the hallway, his footsteps disappearing with him leaving Luther alone with his thoughts.
•·················•·················•
Black Lives Matter links down below! Don't stop fighting, guys!
Protest Options by Good Black News
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Supporting Black People in Beauty Goes Deeper Than Buying Black
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Eight Ways to Support Black Lives Matter
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