Chapter Text
Since his promotion to the board, Carmichael had found his old position left to the dogs. Petty, tawdry, gauche dogs too vainglorious for kitten heels, scratching up the beautiful wooden floors Carmichael had installed for the office.
Swimming around his glass prison, all that stuck out to him was the gold lining the shelves, shiny as the dollar store tinsel at a church Christmas auction. He’d picked his successor based on competency, not taste, and found The Handler lacked both.
The brick that Carmichael had painstakingly sourced from the Hampton Court Palace on its opening in 1699 had been painted over and replaced with an ugly slab of marble taken from West Virginian Ikea kitchen island. His gills curled as best they could into a scowl.
Good god.... did the indignities ever end?
Carmichael did not practice the art of wallowing. So, he waited.
Until her hands, stinking of perfume that would make the Macy’s counter-girls gag, plucked him from the waters. Carmichael played the part of the sniveling traitor; pride made the mind weak, and The Handler had enough for the both of them. As creations grew to resent their gods, so too, would hers.
As Carmichael saw it, hatred was the truest sign of success as a superior; to watch what you’ve molded reach to the sky you reside in, like pointing a dagger at the heavens. And if you were a god worth their mettle, acts of rebellion were manageable, and nothing pierced through you.
His eyes swelled with fear, or they attempted it, but there was fluid leaking from her head wound. Carmichael looked more ill than scared. A half-assed mark of a half-assed superior, further proof she was not it’s creator as much as she liked top boast. A perfect assassin, like everything, Carmichael had handed it to her, positioned them both expertly, and she’d managed to fail and come out whining. Though he found the coffee stains on her teeth to be distasteful, Carmichael wagged his fins, and bulged his eyes, waiting for the slide into stomach acid that would dissolve his scales.
The Handler closed her mouth, grinning wide, and dropped the fish to the ground—in one smooth motion, she brought the heel of her shoe straight through his eye.
Immortality was fickle.
Carmichael had been chasing after it since he was a young man. In his thirties, A.J Carmichael was a magazine cutout of a dime-a-dozen talk-show host, sleek and animated, with a silver tongue and a boyish way of laughing that charmed old women into bringing him pastries he didn’t care for. His office was chic and classic, yet minimal; walking to his desk was like stepping into the interior of a vintage car.
It was the lab that bore the burden of his mess. The only space in the Commission where his perfectly coiled locks might occasionally splinter, falling down onto his knife-sharp cheekbones. A glorious task for an eager man.
Mice talked too much. Ran around at all hours of the day unless sedated. There was also their penchant for screaming as they died.
Theatrics with no merit.
Not to mention the droppings. Everywhere! No matter who swept, how small the cage was, or even when the cages became glass boxes with no perceivable way to kick droppings out— there the droppings were! Under Carmichael’s wing-tipped oxfords (made of polished calfskin, mind you), staining the very principle of decency.
So, Carmichael turned to the quiet, tranquil way of the ocean – fish. Shubunkin, to be specific. A species of goldfish with a longer lifespan. Speckled with calico-esque scales, they swan in their tank without fuss. If they screamed, it was drowned out and Carmichael was ever so content that way.
The bubbling water provided a sublimely serene background noise, and when he cut them open to dig around inside, all they did was flap about for a few seconds; it wasn’t much different was people, but again, less strain on Carmichael’s ears.
Ah, yes, immortality! That’s what he had been working on. Philosopher’s stones were too much effort to hunt for across time and space, and his superiors at the Commission didn’t recruit him for his whimsy or his poetry, but for the neurons that fired at lightspeed in his head. An intelligence so grand it was readily fast-tracked into management.
In his first year, Carmichael established the body modification department, working from the ground up—his humble beginnings. Agents had access to any disguise they could ever need, or a new limb if one was misplaced. He’d made several skin suits of himself, largely to admire, though the faces were never quite right, and an army of Dullahans (headless riders, an Irish folktale for those less traveled) piled in the lab’s corner while he rose to greater heights.
During his second year in power, Carmichael had a breakthrough. Splicing the genes of the fish, sometimes adding his own just for flavor – every author signed their work– with borderline “immortal” animals and creatures, as well as those with regenerative abilities. Furthermore, he spliced the fish with each other. Who was it he had read? Carl Jung? It lent itself to the morose, boring, unending philosophical, but sparked ideas of a collective unconscious to Carmichael. This glorious notion that some species’ knowledge lived in every head of its kind, regardless of generation or family, some memories were just stored for everyone. An immortal connection. It was nice to think about, even if philosophy was a candle unlit in Carmichael’s heart.
He didn’t understand the genius of it all until he dropped his watch (a titanium watch gifted by a dying clockmaker in the advent of some war, Carmichael went sightseeing in) down a garbage chute.
One moment there’s a French hunch to his shoulders, the next the world is rotten banana peels and darkness, and he can see the exact tip of his vertebrae as it stares down at him.
Carmichael awoke number 13 out of 13 Shubunkin goldfish. The star of the Temps Aeternalis engraved on his fin. And the rest, well, as they say, was history!
He hid the tank from prying eyes, and every time his gills stopped puffing, he would awake with a new set. Every backup henceforth was installed with a state-of-the-art tank atop a manicured suit and a tin of Gurka cigars, His Majesty’s Reserve (only 100 packaged every calendar year!) to make his mornings pop!
It was Carmichael’s best-kept secret, harder to find than the timeline of his favorite tailor. When the shoe, or rather the heel, dropped, Carmichael awoke as Shubunkin 1 of 13. His least favorite, which he had stored outside of the Commission, in a timeline as annoying as his peers.
It was now 2019, and Carmichael was in the cold storage of a building that, as he recalled, collapsed in 2006, killing thirteen workers and a middle-school educational tour. The price of knowledge, no?
A timeless relic, the crumbling building, born originally as an asylum for those plagued by tuberculosis. Crafted by fools who theorized that a view of the water, then bright and glittering and now a graying puddle of a wharf, might bring their diseased some strength to recover. Carmichael knew how drownings skyrocketed in those years, as did TB, considering the corpses polluting the water.
Eventually, the old girl was repurposed into a warehouse and expansive cold storage that worked with local hospitals and medical development corporations.
A remarkable rate was given for the remodel considering how haunted the premises were.
Now it housed Carmichael and forgotten pharmaceuticals. The frigid sanctuary held a wall of high-powered fans. Rows and rows of glass vials in air-tight boxes, vaccines, and samples, all out of date by decades. A biohazard that was easier for the city to keep running than to demolish in accordance with safety standards and regulations.
Luckily, Carmichael's attire was well-equipped for such conditions. Over his usual suit was a thick blue-leather trench coat, adorned with metal buttons made from scavenged steel ripped out of the Titanic’s hull. The third one down, if Carmichael remembered correctly (of course, he did), contained a piece that had grazed the infamous iceberg.
There were a few hours dedicated to getting the hang of having limbs again. Stretching out his fingers one by one, popping every knuckle, then he moved on. Massaging his legs back to functional status, adjusting his shirt collar, and making sure his shoes were properly laced.
In this body, he stood around six feet and half an apple. It was one of his first, the legs a little too long. However, after his time in the bowl–Carmichael had no complaints about being tall. He was weary of straining to make eye contact.
On the stainless-steel doors was a menagerie of posters. Most were peeling, yellowing lamination over clip-art tutorials detailing the proper way to secure one’s PPE. In the center was a maintenance certificate, last checked on February 22th, 2019 by a licensed JPX technician . There was a scribble of signature that could’ve said Tim, or Tom, or Jim, but the longer Carmichael looked at it the more he did not care.
Here he was a month before this timeline’s end. Supposed end.
Carmichael cracked open the refrigerator, walking down aisles of empty palettes and towering metal shelves. He’d always wanted to drive a forklift, spying a bright yellow one ripe for the taking, but that could wait. All he needed was a phone, or a radio—or an orange and black walkie-talkie drifting alone on the floor of this concrete sea.
After a few hours of tinkering, and a few droplets of blood dripped into the wiring, Carmichael had gone giddy as the static purred from the speakers. And so, Henry V called upon his men to slaughter the French at Agincourt ; he thought, relishing the thrill of strategizing.
He thumbed down the ‘talk’ button, “Loyal souls, widespread and weary, rejoice! May all the king’s horses and all the king’s men meet at these coordinates and rally together again…”
—-----
A cream-colored Lincoln Continental, the car equivalent of a gentleman’s gold cap, hurtled along the city streets. Illuminated like an ancient chariot in the sun, coupled with the chorus of screams coming from both the driver and passenger.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Allison whined, as Viktor, violently clutching the door, said “Allison, Allison, Allison ,” in perfect sync.
“Oh, I passed it!”
“Passed what?” Viktor cried, now turning slightly green, as the Academy was at least a few blocks away. He didn’t get an answer as Allison snapped the car in reverse and turned sharply into the sidewalk.
It was almost 6:30 am, and a good gaggle of human traffic had formed. Prep school overachievers, bird watchers, and shopkeepers reluctantly flipping signs to open. All of them witnessed Allison go from speed racer to snail and she turned the car around with several squeaks of the brakes.
Stop signs glowered at her. The car eked forward, backward, turn, then another forward, backward, turn a little more. A girl no more than eight flipped her off, knitted hearts in her black gloves as she stomped behind the car without a car.
“Maybe Five acts his age after all,” Viktor mumbled, hand on Allison’s to keep her from mirroring the rude gesture.
“Yeah,” Allison said, staring at the kid’s gloves. It was chunky, she thought, images of the exploding chest splicing with the road in front of her eyes, like brownie batter.
“This gearshift sucks.” Blaming the car was quicker, Allison swiveled the wheel to try to get away from the scrambling passers-by and back into the road. Both siblings ducked their heads to avoid the long stares of the slowing drivers craning for a glimpse of whatever asshole needed their glasses checked.
“You’re in neutral.”
“What?”
“The car. It’s,” the Lincoln lurched for dramatic effect, “--it’s in neutral; you need to take it out.”
TAKE IT OUT MISS ANGEL.
“Oh god, can it just,” Allison made a frustrated noise and jerked the gear, slamming her foot hard on the gas with a nauseating squeal of tires.
Viktor slid so far down into his seat; his brown hair was scarcely visible over the dashboard. “Did we hit anyone? Allison?”
She was staring straight ahead; Viktor poked her hard in the arm a few times.
“No, no, don’t be ridiculous.” She was sweating. The bump they felt was only the sidewalk. Probably not. “Now. How do you like your coffee?” She pulled along to a dinky little coffee shop. The baristas opening the store were watching with deadened eyes behind their tired smiles.
“I don’t think we need caffeine...” Viktor was still clutching the armrest. Under all the whirring of the hospital and the wave Viktor commanded, there was a rum, pum, pum that spasmed into silence. Then Allison appeared, the hallway in commotion behind her. “Do you want to talk--”
“I’ll get you a hot chocolate.” And she was gone.
—
Tick-tock , Grace and the grandfather clock, staring into each other’s faces, unblinking. She traces the second hand, round, and round, with a single gloved finger. There is no dust left to collect on the gentle fabric. It was not difficult to keep herself busy. The Academy aged like Sir Hargreeves, elegantly but without contest; there would always be a cobweb to brush off or a faucet to tighten.
Sir Hargreeves was a genius. Generous, magnanimous, a great, great, great man. Strategic. His plans never failed. The children had come together, and they saved the world, just as he had wanted. Now what was she to do?
All these plans. Strategies. And she hadn’t even a scrap of a directive to follow now that everything was settled. Grace had searched and asked Pogo as well, “Had he said anything? Left anything behind for me?”
Watch the house. Watch the children. Watch the clock, mother hen tends to her aging flock. The second hand outpaced her finger; she’d lost the rhythm—
The boy did not run, nor strut, but he walked briskly, steeped in urgency. Grace had spent the least of her time around him; however, it was a mother’s duty to know her children, to sense them by footsteps alone.
Tik-tok , Grace no longer watched the clock.
“You kids have certainly been busy,” she said, a sitcom style to her words – cheery even with the gasp at the grime Five tracked in. He was not unaware, trying to keep off the carpet as best as he could. Five did not look at the grandfather clock, gazing away from the reflecting glass until Grace stepped in front of it entirely.
A slight limp to his gait, one arm at his side, the other cradling a yet identifiable object into his blazer, but tufts of honey-gold peeked over Five’s sleeves.
A spark was visible below her long lashes as she scanned up and down. “Injuries?”
“Nothing of note.” Curt. Efficient. Statistically likely to be untrue.
Thin, waning, rivulets of blood went from his knees into his black-checkered socks. Red rivers flow through embedded bits of silvery glass, dirt, and chunks of iridescent glitter. The boy shifted his weight, right foot to left, adrenaline leaving quickly. His shoes were caked in similar materials, mud the only new addition.
Then there was the uniform. “Leave it out when you’ve changed, dear, I’ll have it dry cleaned. And the rest of you? Any injuries?”
Five made a mental note to fold everything for her. His stare, while on Grace, flattened for a few seconds, growing distant before rapidly returning to normal as Five spoke, “Nothing serious.”
Multiple contusions, boot prints on the blazer, cuts that appeared terrain-related, from falling or being shoved to the ground, and irritation along his visible hand, either from punching or scratching. His wrist, barely healed, spasmed, a potential re-fracture? The blood splatter implied an attempted incise injury on an attacker’s neck; though the amount of fluid, while drenching the boy decently, was not enough to suggest death via exsanguination from the attempt alone.
“Hm.”
“They should be filing in soon,” Five started to explain, sliding away from the bright lamp next to him. Feeble shadows doing little to erase what Grace already saw. “We will be using the basement storage to carry out the step of our mission.”
“May I be of assistance?” Tear stains on either cheek, hastily smudged, blurring with the drying blood. Unable to escape Grace’s notice. Her programming dictated a mother’s comfort had many outlets, but a mother’s loving touch was best. A ruffle of Klaus’ or Viktor’s hair, a gentle poke to Luther’s nose, a firm hand on Diego’s shoulder, or a kiss to Allison’s cheek. Hugs for all, when accepted, which was rare once the children reached physical maturity. “Tools? Snacks? Bindings?”
“Yes—probably, they’ve become grouchy, whining,” he sighed, young people , “maybe it’s just hunger-fussing.” Whatever it was, Five found it weak. Were they not the adults they relentlessly asserted to Five they were. “Don’t help them with our cargo---if they ask. It’s their responsibility.” Hostage carrying built character.
Grace’s stride was perfect by design, gliding across carpet, tile, or wood with a ballerina’s elegance. Her spine, needle-straight, so that the pearls on her neck always caught the light.
Grace did not touch Five.
Her thumb mimed wiping blood from his cheek. He did not lean into the motion, but he watched. Keeping a measured distance between them that Grace only crossed with her arm before retracting. A good mother knew her children.
Five let out a deep breath. Clearing his throat, he added, “We will carry out the questioning. Although I do have some more tests I’d like run.”
She nodded.
He moved to pull something from his pocket, and a runt came into view. It was on its back, belly to the air, limp as a doll, in a slumber so deep it couldn’t be roused from their conversation or Five’s mild movements. Content enough to ignore the danger of exposing one’s throat and internal organs.
“New friend?” Grace inquired.
A breed of retriever, considering the color and the long ears, by the size of its paws, it wouldn’t grow larger than the average mutt. No signs of malnutrition, but certainly the smallest of its litter. Grace suspected it to be around 2 to 3 months of age but physically resembling that of a 1-month-old. A fitting companion. Even in the arms of the boy, the puppy was no larger than a stuffed toy.
Five tucked the puppy closer to his chest.
One of the first lessons Reginald ever gave to them, once the children were conscious, was to memorize the house rules. Which had to be recited, in their entirety, including punishments, with no outside assistance, upon request, in any situation.
Rule 76 - No pests, no pets. All contraband creatures would be re-released, and if tantrums were thrown or a second infraction incurred, the animal was to be euthanized by the transgressor. Ben tried to keep a turtle twice. Five recalled that shortly thereafter Number Six removed anything colored green from his quarters.
“This is my charge. Not to be removed or meddled with unless I give my explicit permission,” Five said pointedly, fidgeting as he tried to find the balance between clutching the dog so it couldn’t be taken and not letting the state of his attire stain Mr. Pennycrumb any further. With one whimper from the runt, Five froze. He turned to Grace, lowered to a whisper, “He is to have all the treatments and dignities of an honored guest.”
The boy spoke with more strictness than Grace imagined. Contrasting to his tone were the shaky eyes that reminded her of a different child, one long grown, terrified of even passing by the local graveyards on their monthly family walk.
She whispered back, “Your father kept the bassinets used in your siblings' infancy; that should suffice for now. I’ll bring one up so that our guest is more comfortable. Does he have a name?”
Five’s anxiety lessened, nodding at Grace like she was the first sensible being he’d come across in several hours. With a raised chin, Five said, “Mr. Pennycrumb,” while staring at the runt with immense pride.
THUD
The pair turned to a body flopped into the foyer. Klaus was whining at supersonic levels as the weight Diego held up came crashing back down onto him.
Diego put his hands on his hips like an old fisherman showing off a catch. “It’s in!”
Mr. Pennycrumb stirred.
“Careful now,” Grace chimed before the expletives left Five’s mouth. Grace coughed over them. “You’re meant to shake the mud off your boots before entering.” Then with her candid sitcom smile, “Boys are boys, aren’t they?” she asked the air.
“Sorry Mom,” Diego said. He reached for Five’s arm and was unsurprisingly evaded. The hand that slapped him away had a strange jerky tremble to it. Diego sighed.
“Es tut mir leid,” Klaus said in German, dropping the leg he still clutched despite also being on the floor.
Grace gave them both an easy, ever-tolerant nod of her head. Five looked disgusted beside her, practically at her elbow. Nothing about his appearance had changed from the car. It was the light of the Academy, Diego supposed, that made Five look like some underfed orphan. The puppy wasn’t helping the image. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other covered in blood before. That wasn’t, Diego didn’t know, but there was a difference he didn’t care for.
Diego sighed harder.
Five smiled at them, stomping halfway up the steps, muttering, “If only we’d all come from the same womb, so I could’ve strangled you before you got free and saved us all the trouble.”
“What was that?” Diego asked.
“Basement,” Five replied, settling back into the same condescending expression, made worse by the fact he was quite literally looking down at them from the stairs.
“Hey, we are not done here--”
“Luckily for me, and the world at large,” Five muttered that part, “I do not and have not and will not take commands from you, Number Two,” Five said. He stabbed a finger in the body’s direction, spitting out “Take it down to the basement and stay there,” before marching off.
Two middle fingers greeted Five back. Five rolled his eyes, children , repeating, “Basement!”
“Yeah, yeah, we heard you,” Diego yelled back, growing quieter as he moved over to Grace within a few strides. In a similar state of smells, stains, and broken glass, he made careful not to touch his mother. “I can never win with him,” he breathed out, slouching against the wall, tossing a knife in short rhythmic time.
Grace patted Diego’s shoulder. “I’ll need to clear a space for you kids, the basement’s a bit cluttered,” she said.
From the briefest of one-overs, Diego was in better shape than either of the other children she’d seen. Klaus was making faces, vocal as ever in his complaints; a vacancy lingered behind his eyes, a wobbly lip trying to hide behind exaggerated motions.
Diego held tension in his forehead, wrestling with thoughts, and the ever-wistful stare that he’d come back to this timeline with. Grace knew it well, wore it often, an old hat she kept trying to toss out that found its way back each time.
“We’ll clear the basement Mom,” he said, gazing at the pile that was Klaus and the hostage, “and the floors,” he added with a guilty tinge.
No broken bones. Glass was embedded in his clothing, of which the fabric was sturdy and designed for a tussle. Minimal scrapes, several bruises, and impressions on the forearms suggesting he tossed several people. Debris and detritus consistent with that of the other children, but far less blood.
Grace cupped his face with her ungloved hand.
“Any injuries?”
“Several. Treatable. I’m more worried about,” Diego motioned upstairs, then made swirled his finger in the universal motion for ‘crazy.’
Klaus, who had been trapped under the weight of the hostage throughout the entire exchange, finally shoved themself free, adding, “Aren’t we all,” in a sugary-sweet voice.
“Aren’t we all what?” Allison echoed, strolling in with a fraction less than perfect hair, and a tiny cup of iced coffee, that was practically white with the cream she drenched in it, hanging from her hand. Viktor was doing his best impression of her shadow.
“Worried about our dear youngest-eldest,” Klaus supplied, kicking at one of the hostage’s legs while Viktor stared a bit mortified.
Diego looked from Allison’s scarf to her coffee, to Grace, then stomped toward Allison. A mirthless smirk when he noticed a matching cup in Viktor’s hand. “You!”
“Morning.” Allison sipped the coffee.
“You left the house?”
“We went three blocks,” Allison said, motioning to Viktor who did not look at Diego but nodded.
“And what if something happened?” Diego demanded.
“Mom,” Allison called, leaning past Diego to catch Grace’s eye from the corner of the room. “Did something happen while we were gone?”
“Your brothers arrived from their mission.”
Allison raised an eyebrow, see? She went to sit on the staircase. Heeled boots, pointy heels, were not made for gallivanting through hospitals and walking on uneven city sidewalks. She glanced at the masked body to her right, acknowledged it was there, and moved on. Unfortunately, the almost corpse was more pleasant than the incredulous face Diego made at her.
“Why are we all worried about Five this time?” Viktor asked, carefully stepping beside Allison, waiting for her to move closer to the hostage's body so Viktor could sit next to her. “Is he like, okay?”
Diego recalled the spray coming from the Blue mask’s throat, the laughter in the air that quieted as if it was ripped out. The blank stare, despair welled up inside it, before Five vanished away. Diego never really knew Five and was beginning to worry he never would.
“Is he ever...?” Allison murmured, taking another sip of her coffee.
The silent, ‘are any of us’ hung in the room for a moment.
“Well, he’s about to be worse when I tell him that you guys left the academy ,” Diego said. It was a taunt that lacked Diego’s usual vigor. Viktor looked up the stairs towards Five’s room.
Cutting back in, “He’s not injured-injured again? No one got hurt, right?”
“Ehhhh,” Klaus replied, fingers teetering like a seesaw as they shrugged.
“Ehhhh?” Viktor repeated.
Klaus nodded. “He’ll be fine, weird little beetle, he’ll be crawling on your nerves soon enough.” The room collectively stared. Klaus shivered.
“That’s not--,” Viktor paused. Cleary, Five was functional or they wouldn’t all be so casual. There wasn’t the fervor when he’d passed out from the attack at the Academy, but Klaus looked pensive , and Diego, with his quips and his brooding, kept staring up the stairs after the old-young man.
Luther strode in at that moment, several tears in his shirt from the crowd of mind-fogged partygoers who’d clawed at him as he passed. He had a bruise on the side of his jaw, a lovely shade of purple against his sun-deprived skin. Somewhere, in his trip from the car to the foyer, Luther acquired an apple which he bit into without worry, nodding to Allison and Viktor, “Five wouldn’t let you guys pet the dog either?”
“What?” Allison said.
“Ward,” Klaus corrected, crawling from the floor to lie on Allison’s lap---she shoved him—to lay on Allison’s feet.
“Five got a dog?”
“Ward,” Klaus repeated.
“That’s not important,” Diego said, instantly cut off by Allison making a buzzer noise--
“--Wrong. That’s. Wow. That’s, like to keep? For fun?” She tried to picture what kind of animal Five would like and came up blank. Maybe it was a toy that had a shotgun taped to it, and Five got confused. “Is it a hunting dog?”
“So, he’s okay, really?” Viktor reiterated.
Luther’s voice trampled over Viktor’s question. Luther shook his head at Allison instead, pantomiming the dog’s dimensions, “No, it’s like this big, not even bigger than a teddy bear. Sweet-looking, real cute, the ears looked soft,” Luther said, adding bitterly, “but he wouldn’t let me pet it.”
“Or me,” Klaus whined. Turning to Viktor, “He was fine enough to slap at me, I promise.”
Although Viktor liked being acknowledged, slapping at people was something an incapacitated and feverish Five was capable of. A dead Five would probably find ways to slap at people trying to take his pulse.
“You’re both filthy. I don’t blame him,” Allison said.
“Hey! I’ve been checked for fleas before, and I’d know if I had them again,” Klaus argued. Allison slipped one of her feet out from under him to sit on his shoulder. “Oof.”
Allison shrugged. “I take it you were successful if you had time to pick up a dog for Five?”
Diego groaned. “We didn’t, fine, yeah—yes, it was successful enough.” It was also a massacre, and Diego’s knees hurt, and none of that was important. Diego missed Lila. She’d poke his bruises, and they’d hurt even more. “We got the sample, it’s rare enough, so pinpointing our location shouldn’t be hard.”
“And you were seen,” Allison said, pointing to the hostage that Grace was scooping up.
“They already knew about us, so that doesn’t really count.”
“Every mission has setbacks,” Luther started, turning to the hostage who was halfway down the hall slung over Grace’s shoulder. Her posture hadn’t shifted an inch, humming as she went toward the basement, as all her ducklings careened to stare at her.
“Don’t mind me dears,” she chirped, “I’ll get everything set up while you kids catch up.” She giggled even when no one else did, sweeping out of sight.
“Wait Mom you don’t have to--” Diego reached for her, but Grace was remarkably quick and was gone before he even finished the sentence. “...do that.”
“A for effort,” Allison said, tossing back the rest of her coffee. She handed the cup to Klaus, who popped it open to crunch the ice cubes. She and Diego held each other’s stare for a minute, but Allison knew that she’d gotten away with it. Her smirk matched every childhood memory that reminded Diego why he buried some of her jewelry in the backyard.
Diego threw his hand up. “Fuck it, I’m changing,” he said, walking away, only to stop by Allison, “We are talking about this later,” he added. The list of things this family needed to talk about kept growing and Diego wasn't sure how the burden had fallen to him, nor how to give it to someone else.
“What? The dog?” Allison asked innocently.
“Stop being an asshole.” Diego was going to throw her through the drywall if he didn’t take a break. “The leaving thing? Not even kind of cool. And Five’s going to freak out, and we’re all going to have to deal with that. So, thanks, sis , real helpful shit. Hope the coffee was worth the headache.” He flicked her cup lid as he passed.
“You guys left?” Luther asked.
The question interrupting Allison’s attempt to trip Diego, “We went three blocks.”
Diego sighed.
“Hot chocolate?” Viktor tilted his cup to Luther.
The dots connected for Luther, a deep frown coming down his face. Missions were sacred. One's role was to be taken seriously. Fuck-ups, goofs, and overconfidence led to failures which led to Ben’s birthday being celebrated around a statue rather than a cake.
Nevertheless, Luther took the hot chocolate; he was tired and could work up to his scolding. It would take a bit of brainstorming to match the lecture Five could churn out.
It was lukewarm hot chocolate.
“Family meeting in thirty minutes?” Luther suggested.
----
Five's room was meant to be quiet as it is now. He stood by the closet, folding up the bloodied uniform from the train, already dressed in a pristine replacement. He'd half considered changing into his nightclothes, so that the long pants might hide the silhouette of the glass Five pulled from his knees.
The burn of soap was still present in his eyes. Five refused to shut them as he showered, staring straight ahead at the tile to ensure there were no tricks of light.
Solitude was a friend, an old candle that was somehow always on the mantle, and Five was unable to stand it as he had. No, he was spending his solitude in wait. Every second that passed was a threat that she might appear again.
There was a pathetic attempt at a growl, and Five turned to see Mr. Pennycrumb holding a sock. Moments ago, he had been sleeping in the sink with the rhythmic beat of the water, and now he was shaking Five’s sock around as hard as his tiny head could.
Five couldn't discern if puppies regained energy phenomenally fast, or “perhaps you take after me,” he said aloud. He could subsist on an hour of sleep if he had too. “It’s a good skill to have,” Five mused taking one end of his sock.
Mr. Pennycrumb, to Five’s pride, did not yield.
“You shouldn’t need it though,” Five added. He snapped his fingers, and the puppy turned toward the sound, grip loosening for Five to snatch the sock. The Apocalypse had forged that trait in Five, allowing him to scrape by on dregs of rest until his body was so well-trained, even with his mind in tired tatters, muscle-memory kicked in where consciousness started to slip.
Paws slapped at his shoes while he tied the laces.
“Promising.” Cute.
Tail wagging high in the air, the golden-brown dog circled Five’s feet. In the stillness of the bedroom, all that was heard was the tap, tap, tap of paws against the wood.
Five allowed himself to kneel, checking over his shoulder as he did.
Mr. Pennycrumb darted from his circle directly to Five’s hands, and Five’s attention was dragged away. The dog had a lovely yappy bark, not too shrill nor deep nor loud, light like a melody.
Really cute.
Five scratched under the puppy’s chin until it fell on its back, mouth open with a smile.
Against golden fur, his hands were still red. The blood was gone, due to Five rubbing the skin raw with soap. He couldn’t let Viktor or Allison see. The others would forget, even if they didn’t understand. His siblings’ memory was a flighty, petty thing.
The dog’s tongue licked at the air, unable to get Five’s hand from the angle it lay.
“Are all your teeth in yet?” Five examined. The canine had short teeth, baby teeth. Well, he was a baby. Five corrected the notes he had for Grace & Pogo in his head. “Soft foods,” he muttered.
----
When Five opened his bedroom door a charcoal-black stroller and bassinet were outside. A ‘5’ engraved on either side and the handlebars. Cushions had been fluffed inside, pale blue like Five’s bedroom walls. Looking down the hall, all that was left of Grace was the echo of her humming.
This will do.
Five hoisted Mr. Pennycrumb into the stroller, folding back the hood while the dog pawed at the blankets inside until it was satisfied enough to settle.
“Don’t get used to this,” Five said, as he carried the stroller downstairs and pushed Mr. Pennycrumb into the living room. The floors aren’t clean , he reminded himself. S elf-sufficiency will come in better circumstances, Five reasoned.
“I trust everything’s ready,” Five said, striding into the living room with only the lightest limp.
His siblings were spread amongst the couches, none of them sitting normally save for Allison and her perfect posture. Viktor was curled up, Diego’s legs hung off the side of a chair, Klaus was upside down, and Luther was standing to allow the rest to sit without being crushed.
“Oh,” Allison sat up even straighter, “they weren’t kidding.”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s very...cute,” Allison said. The puppy was many things, none of them were what she envisioned for Five, including the soft glances as he adjusted the pillows for it.
Viktor’s gaze was pinned to Five, scanning, and Five moved the stroller to eclipse him better. He cleared his throat. “This is my ward,” Five announced, “Mr. Pennycrumb. Do not disturb him, or pester him, or you will answer to me.”
“Can we pet him now?” Klaus chimed. Even Diego perked up, though he pretended to be far more interested in his knife.
“Not until you get all your shots,” Five said, smiling, and started to move again, and Luther cleared his throat.
Five groaned.
“Family meeting,” Luther said, patting the back of a couch.
“We already decided to interrogate.”
“Yes, but we should debrief since the mission is--”
“That comes later,” Five said.
Diego shot a knife into the bookshelves. It was several feet from Five, but considering the child present, he glared. “That comes now,” Diego said, then to Allison, “for all of us.”
Being upside down had made Klaus’ face red, nevertheless, he started, “Once upon a time in a loud old train there was a ball. At the ball, the glass slipper was crushed up to be snorted and the knights managed to convince a squire....” Klaus faltered, staring far-away as if possessed for a millisecond before snapping back and swinging upright. “...to give them a bump, only all the lords and ladies got pissy about it because the evil wizard’s bell--”
“No,” Five, Diego and Allison all shouted.
“Wenns sein muss....”
“Sure.” Diego stepped into the center.
“I can tell it,” Luther announced.
“You were dancing for half of it,” Diego countered.
Luther pointed at Klaus, “Only because I got left! I still saw the important bits.”
Motioning to his spot in the middle, Diego said, “Well, I'm already here, aren’t I?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Uh, yeah, it does.”
Allison threw a pillow at Diego’s head.
“Hey!”
“No, she’s right,” Five said, “just talk.” He was looking at the liquor cabinet.
“Alright!”
Luther was about to protest again, but closed his mouth under the weight of Allison and Five’s combined annoyance.
“We retrieved a sample of the substance, confirmed it is being distributed by the people who attacked the Academy, presumed to be ex-commission, which the guy we brought back can confirm.”
“The former agents are working together,” Five interrupted, tilting in Allison’s direction. Burn them out, live our lives, repeated in the air between them. “All of them, hired goons and the rest, as far as I can tell, and I can . As for the substance, it’s some kind of mind alteration; the heart rupture is merely a condition, but the larger purpose is to control. To induce a crowd into attacking on a whim.”
When Five paused, Diego stepped back in, “I was getting there.”
“Were you? You de-brief like you drive.”
“My version was better,” Klaus pouted.
“Whatever,” Diego said.
“It had whimsy!”
“It had nonsense,” Five said, rolling his eyes.
“So. I was talking,” Diego said—Allison cut in, “still am,” and was promptly met with a middle finger. “Allison took Viktor to get coffee while we were on our mission!”
“You what ?” Five snapped, peeling off the wall towards the center. Looking around the gathered siblings, no one looked shocked. Five seethed. “You all knew?”
“Seriously, Diego...” Allison grumbled.
Diego looked incredibly proud of himself, opening his mouth to continue his debrief as Five snatched all the warmth from the room with his frigid tone.
“Do you have any idea the danger you put everything in? And I mean everything , us, the world, the 500-year-old-porecelain-teacup fragile timeline I have managed to scrape back together for you ungrateful--,” Five cut himself off, falling into silence. “I don’t have time for insubordination.”
“You’re not our leader, Five,” Allison replied, trying to remain factual. To Five, she added, “It was a calculated move; the Academy isn’t defenseless.”
“ Calculated ? You got coffee!?” Diego said.
“Info, and info. Look, I talked to someone who got away from these people and took that drug.”
“So, you didn’t just get coffee,” Five was scowling, looking at Viktor’s guilty lack of eye contact for confirmation. Allison did not budge under his stare. Five was continuing his rant, and to Diego’s chagrin, Allison knew he was going to listen.
“Most of what he said was useless, but he said the masked men were offering people work, new lives. They’d try the drug, and those who could take it, were taken to the back. The rest, if they were alive, got something else that made them ‘happy’ and made them insane.”
“They’re recruiting, I could’ve told you that,” Diego scoffed.
Unnerved, Five pulled up the bassinet around Mr. Pennycrumb. “The Commission doesn’t recruit by audition, not for this position. They monitor good candidates and put together a new-hire package tailored to---you were hired as a favor, Diego, that’s not natural.”
Allison’s hands were a tad jittery, like Five’s pulse.
“And your informant”
DON’T GO MISS ANGEL . “His heart exploded, I saw it. He asked me to take ‘it’ out of him.”
Five started heading towards the basement. “If you jeopardize this mission--no, this timeline, any further, Number Three, I will take care of all of this myself.” He clutched the handles of the bassinet.
“You’re taking him with you?” Allison called out.
Five nodded. “Of course. He should observe a proper interrogation while he’s young.” It rolled off his tongue as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He shot Allison a look, one that seemed to suggest she should understand if anyone.
Boxes had been stacked neatly to the brick sides of the storage room. Bright yellow spotlight lamps hung in the arches of the ceiling, illuminating the crease-free blue tarp spread out in a neat square. In the center, bound to a metal chair, was the agent in the purple mask.
Grace had assembled a wide scope of tools, from pointy surgical tools to a dental scraper to a pair of blunt garden shears, along a metal cart poised by the hostage’s shoulder. It took most of the children aback that their mother had a practiced knowledge of assembling torture devices like a Bond villain. Which was odd, since they all knew good and well any autopsies or vivisections from their time as children, if needed, were conducted by Grace.
As the Umbrella Academy, a few punches from Luther, or a rumor, or threatening to get Ben, sufficed. The few times they were unsuccessful in intel gathering, their father would make them do wall sits as they reflected on their failures, and he would take over. Reginald had never failed to get what he wanted.
Allison easily brushed past her discomfort with a single thought of Claire’s dimpled smile, and strode past Luther to Five, who was sifting through all the options.
“If you’re not planning to rumor him, I’d ask you to step back,” Five said, a wrench in hand, polished to a shining silver.
“What?”
“Diego, hold him steady,” Five ordered.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping,” Five answered. In a flash, he spun, cracking the back of the wrench across the agent’s jaw with only half force.
Diego caught the agent by the hair, stepping in front to smack the man’s face lightly. “Right here, right here, you hear me?”
“Good morning!” Klaus called. Number Four had scaled a tower of boxes, affixed at the top, staring down at Mr.Pennycrumb who was more invested in chewing a sock that was longer than he was. Klaus was at Luther’s shoulders, peeling tape from a box labeled ‘cursed antiques,’ and dangerously close to kicking Viktor in the head.
“Luther, if he opens his mouth again, drag him upstairs,” Five said.
The eye had been broken out of the mask, and from the haze, Diego waited until the agent was finally staring back. He ripped the mask off, dried blood and scabs making it less than clean. The agent grunted through the ordeal.
Below the mask was an unremarkable, dull-looking man. Sandy brown hair, muddy blue eyes hidden under puffy, swollen skin nearly as purple as the mask.
“Who are you?” Five asked over Diego’s shoulder. Five was the best, as he was incessantly reminded. Part of being the best was cleaning up after your lesser, or scolding them, and Five had done so for every agent. He didn’t care about their names, but he always knew how to spot them.
“Nobody,” the agent spat.
“Funny. Be funnier if one of us was missing an eye, care to test it?” Five walked into Diego’s hand.
Cool it . Diego cleared his throat. “I don’t care what your name is.”
The agent was peering past, widening at the number of people, namely at the sheer size of Luther, before landing back at Five. Not with the look of a peer, but of confusion.
“You lost?” Diego smacked the agent again. “Eyes here.”
“...really have a kid...” the agent mumbled.
“Speak up.”
“Thought it was a trick of light; you really did bring the kid.” Hours of dehydration had made Purple’s voice was rough and cracked like a desert floor. Five nearly laughed, trying to shove past Diego, who wasn’t planning to budge.
“Who are you working for? Who hired you?”
“That’s a little cliché,” Allison whispered.
“I agree,” Purple replied.
Diego threw a scalpel to his right, letting it curve back like a boomerang into the agent’s shoulder. “Allison,” he warned, “if you’re not going to help , can you be quiet.”
“I am helping.”
Diego flipped her off.
Behind him, Viktor tensed. Klaus tried to smooth his hair with their feet, to comfort, and Viktor let it happen; visions of a man in a dining room floating amongst a whirlwind of knives, pins, glass, anything sharp--
“You can leave if you need to,” Luther whispered. Viktor shook his head harshly; he was a part of the team.
Diego flicked the end of the scalpel. “Who hired you?”
“I wasn’t hired; I was saved.”
“By?”
“A fish.”
Five undid his tie, blinking behind the chair he wrapped it around the agent’s throat like a garroting wire, pulling the agent backwards and to the ground with a smack. Staring down, clutching the fabric hard enough to give himself a burn, he seethed.
“I don’t have all day,” Five said, pulling the agent’s head to rest against his show. Allowing Purple just enough air to talk, but not so much that he wasn’t gasping. The brain, Five found, was more cooperative when it was deprived of oxygen, annoying personality traits like humor, or stubbornness vanished just like that. “Why solicit drugs, why not just nab some nuclear codes and call it a day. New blood, same mission, no? End the world.”
“Rule. It,” Purple corrected.
Five pulled the tie tighter. “Don’t fuck with me.” The end of everything , the thought ricocheted around his head.
“Made. Better. The rest, tear each other...like dogs...new age, usurp the powers...rule.”
“Idiot,” Five spat.
The man was really turning purple, and Diego’s hand was on Five’s shoulder.
Whoosh . Five was back by the tool table, by Allison, fixing his tie. They were all looking at him again. “He’s useless, someone from this timeline.”
Diego hoisted the chair back up as Purple coughed. “Made better how?”
“Dunno, it’s in my blood now.”
A shiver ran down Five’s spine, before he could turn, Mr. Pennycrumb whimpered, and Five went to assist. The blurring around his vision snapped back into place to collect the sock from the puppy’s mouth.
“So, you were recruited,” Allison interjected, “and the rest tear each other apart, right? The drug. That’s your grand plan? Not everyone is into casual drug use.”
Purple was silent. He looked amused. Don’t you have all the facts? Why talk to me if you know it all?
“Your factory on the wharf collapsed. Where did you move your operations?”
“It never fell,” Purple said with a smile that quickly faded.
Allison patted the agent’s head. “Good job, now, who hired you? If they want to ‘rule’ the world, how?”
“We’ll kill you all.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Allison,” Luther stepped away from Klaus’ box tower.
“Each and every one of you. We can be made better, stronger, you’ll just be shit beneath my foot. We'll take the kid and let the rest of you rot.”
“He’s lost it,” Diego said with a sigh. “You couldn’t even beat that ‘kid,’ you’re not doing jack-shit.”
Purple started to laugh. “What’s meant to be is meant to be.”
Five clutched the edge of the bassinet. He needed to go, this was bigger than them all, and there wasn’t enough time.
“I’m done with this.” Allison took a deep breath, holding up a finger; she was only going to do this once. “ I heard a rumor; you told us everything you know about your plan. ”
The agent’s eyes rolled back into his head and then out, a cloud resting over his pupils. Flatly, he said, “The boss gave us the power to be better, and the rest will live in a dream, then we’ll let them cull the weak. Whoever’s left can be a witness to our rule. An army that usurps time--”
The man started to choke, seizing in his seat. His neck snapped down with a shout.
“Well--”
The agent spat the tip of his tongue at Allison’s feet.
“No,” she said, stepping back and pushing Diego forward.
“Is he possessed? Klaus?” Diego sked, actively slapping away Allison’s hand as the agent displayed moves usually found in the kind of movies Diego refused to watch.
“Hm?”
“Possessed?”
“Not by a ghost.”
"That's comforting."
The agent jolted up, nearly toppling himself, and the room yelped. Luther's shriek was higher than the rest, and he coughed as Purple’s mouth opened, like a puppet, his own voice came out of him. Oddly, it didn’t sync with his lips, like a lagging videotape.
“Greetings, taking another’s property is widely frowned upon. Please act with better decorum next time, Mr. Five. I presume, and if not, then congratulations for not having been killed. Now, I treat my things well, they even get dental! Unfortunately, if we must spill things, I’d prefer it not be my secrets.” There was a blinking light shining from inside the piece of tongue on the floor.
Foam boiled in the agent’s gut, rising to pour out of his mouth like a rabid dog, and when he slumped over again, it was final.
Diego picked up the blinking device. “I think it’s recording. Five?”
Both the bassinet and the boy had gone.