Chapter Text
It feels like he’s floating.
His eyelids feel too heavy to lift, fluttering uselessly and refusing to open despite his best efforts. He’s only half aware of his own body, his senses blurry and strangely disconnected, like everything is too much and too little all at once.
He’s trapped in that awkward stage somewhere between consciousness and nightmares, his senses a tangled mess of inaudible sounds and thoughts that he can’t understand or even begin to untangle. He opens his mouth, maybe to say something, and instantly becomes painfully aware of the aching in his throat, as if someone has forced a boiling liquid past his lips, and what was supposed to be a call for help turns into an unintelligible moan.
His skin is burning, his veins inflamed and invisible flames licking at his limbs. A small, strained whimper escapes him. He’s disoriented, unable to tell where he is and or what happened before. There’s something cold and heavy weighing on his wrists, forcing them down, something that he vaguely recognizes as handcuffs, but doesn’t know who put them there, when or what for purpose.
“Shush,” a soft voice says, breaking through the fog that coats his brain. He can feel a pleasantly cold hand pressing against his burning, clammy cheek, caressing it in a gesture that feels strangely maternal. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to pry his eyes open, but the voice shushes him again, pushing him back against the surface that he’s lying on.
“N-No,” he protests weakly, growing frantic as more consciousness comes back to him and the sinking, horrifying realization that something is wrong, horribly wrong , starts to settle in in his bones. “No, I h-have to…”
He has to do something , he knows, but he can’t seem to remember what or why, just a nagging feeling under his skin, the kind of thrumming sensation that he can’t ignore. It grows in intensity, making him agitated and desperate, pulling at the restraints and straining to move his unresponsive, useless body.
The voice from before laughs somewhere near, hot breath ghosting over his face. He tries to move away, jerk his head back, but he can’t, his limbs limp and disappointingly unresponsive.
“There’s no point in fighting it, Number Five.”
Number Five.
It’s his name, he realizes vaguely.
“It’s almost over,” the voice informs him and even though it sounds somewhat comforting, it has the exact opposite effect. It sounds more like a threat than reassurance, but he can’t put his finger on it, just knows that he can’t trust her, even if his buddled brain can’t figure out why.
“I have a visit to pay to your family. No need to worry, though. I’ll be back soon,” she whispers and Five opens his mouth to protest, to intervene, but all that comes out is another whimper, a pitiful small sound at the back of his throat.
The woman laughs.
-
Diego is searching for Klaus when something catches his eye.
His reflexes kick in immediately, fingers wrapping around one of his knives faster than he manages to even question or fully comprehend what he’s doing, his instincts as alert as ever.
The door to Five’s room is slightly ajar, the light from the inside streaming into the hallway. Normally, it wouldn’t be that unusual for Five to get lost in his equations, scribbling over the walls until he ran out of chalk, forgetting about the whole world. What is unusual, however, is the sound of heels on the old wooden floors, the rhythmic, steady clack-clack of stilettos. Normally, Diego would simply assume that it must be Grace, replacing the old sheets and dusting the books.
But Grace is gone now, buried in the timeline that almost happened and no matter how much Diego wishes she was still there, she’s not.
Which leaves only two options, both rather unlikely.
Diego knows for a fact that Allison is known for her wonderful sense of fashion, a sort of side effect of being an actress and a public figure. Even back when they were still kids, she would use any chance she got to try on different outfits, playing dress up with Klaus and finding any way she could to get that little bit of normalcy none of them ever had. She was never allowed to wear anything other than their Umbrella Academy uniforms outside, a frequent topic of arguments between her and their father. Diego remembers her huffing and puffing, storming out of the rooms and stomping angrily, unable to get her way.
She’s the most obvious suspect, except… She is not at the Academy.
And never in his thirty years of life, not even once, has he had a chance to see Vanya in heels.
That means only one thing.
Diego presses his back against the nearest wall, willing his breathing to slow down and tightening his grip on the knife. He moves slowly, quietly, careful not to give himself away by stepping in one of the spots where the floor cracks.
He closes his eyes, briefly, and braces himself, brows furrowing in concentration.
Diego exhales slowly… And throws the knife.
It enters Five’s room and then turns sharply in the direction where he knows the intruder must be, missing their nose only by an inch, close enough to give them a scare but not quite able to hurt. It gives Diego just enough time to get into the room, already reaching for more knives and preparing for battle, angling his body into the well-practiced defensive position.
Despite his sudden appearance, the intruder doesn’t look startled in the slightest.
The woman is facing away from him, looking curiously at the knife Diego threw earlier, now lodged deeply in one of the walls of Five’s room. A long, blood-red coat is draped over her shoulders, falling down the length of her back like a cape.
She’s wearing a black dress that reminds Diego too much of spider webs and black gloves that reach to her elbows. The stiletto heels on her feet are the same striking shade of red as the coat and there's a hat with a short black veil resting on top of her head.
She looks like she doesn’t belong here, her appearance resembling more that of a comic character than an actual person, especially in Five’s old room, among all his childhood toys and books.
“You know, I heard a lot about your ability, but I have to say, seeing it up close is quite impressive,” she says conversationally, as if they were acquaintances and she was merely remarking how nice the weather has been lately. She raises her hand, dragging her long, gloved finger over the length of Diego’s knife, admiring its sharp, deadly elegance. “Astounding accuracy, I must admit.”
Diego grits his teeth. “Who the hell are you?”
The woman turns to him, cold blue eyes boring into his skin. Instinctively, he calculates how many knives he has left and the distance between them.
There’s something unsettling about this woman, something that leaves him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, all of his instincts screaming at him that she means nothing but danger.
“Ah, yes,” she says slowly, looking him up and down with a calculative stare. “I believe we haven’t been introduced yet, isn’t that right?”
Diego nods hesitantly, not letting his guard down.
From a very young age, their father did their best to poison their minds with a sense of paranoia and distrust, the assumption that everyone out there is a threat, a potential criminal that might need eliminating. It was yet another of his various ways to keep them separated from society, to ensure they would remain loyal to the Academy until their very last breaths.
Diego never believed it, though.
Most people cannot be trusted, he knows that better than anyone, but it doesn’t make them evil, doesn’t make them incapable of kindness or heroism. It took him too long to understand that, years upon years of Reginald’s conditioning not so easy to escape from, his cold stare and sharp voice still very much alive in his memories.
If there’s one thing Diego knows he doesn’t want it’s accepting that the old man was right. He’s dedicated years of his life to proving his father wrong, refusing to play of the rules of his little game and become the hero he intended him to be.
This woman, however…
He can’t explain it, can’t adequately put it into words, but everything about her, from the eccentric hat that rests at the top of her head to the crimson tip of her heels, screams danger .
And if there’s one good thing that came out of Reginald’s paranoid teachings and continous training sessions that bordered on torture... it’s to trust his instincts.
“Name’s the Handler,” the woman introduces herself, blood red lips stretching in a sharp smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Pleasure’s all yours.”
She reaches out her hand, holding it out as if expecting him to kiss it. Diego just glares at her outstretched hand, brows furrowing as he tries to figure out what kind of game she’s playing. Vaguely, he wonders whether he should alert the others.
"What are you doing here?" Diego demands, fingers curling around one of his knives more firmly.
"Aw," she tuts, visibly amused. She withdraws her hand. "I take it that Number Five never told you how he got a hold of the briefcase that took you home, didn't he?"
Diego sucks in a breath. There’s a horrible sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, his pulse picking up at the mention of Five. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The Handler chuckles, ignoring him entirely.
“I like that about him, you know?” she asks almost conversationally, bloody red lips twitching in a wolfish smile. “Good old Five, adorably predictable. He would do anything for you, no matter how much I offered. And I’ll have you know that I’m known for my really generous offers.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Diego says, voice dangerously low.
The Handler rolls her eyes. “Of course you would. You might not be biologically related but deep down all you Hargreeves are exactly the same. It’s a shame, really. I should have recruited you all when I had the chance. Number Five turned out to be such a useful asset, I think the Commission would benefit from having more agents like him. A whole team, maybe.” She bares her teeth in a smile that looks downright predatory, looking him up and down in the same way wild animals look at their prey. There’s hunger in her eyes, some kind of insatiable desire that makes him uneasy.
"Where is Five?" Diego asks, heart pounding in his chest, all of his instincts urging him to lodge one of his knives in her neck now that he still can.
She sighs, leaning against one of the walls and reaching to one of the deep pockets of her coat. After a moment of rustling and searching, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes, some kind of old brand he’s pretty sure has been discontinued about a decade ago. Unceremoniously, she plucks one of the cigarettes out of the packet and puts it in her mouth. After a little bit of searching, she finds a small box of matches and lights up the cigarette.
She couldn’t look more grotesque, so out of place in Number Five’s childhood room, surrounded by the memories of a boy who ran out the main gate of the Academy and couldn’t find his way back.
This place, this room, it’s almost like a sanctuary, a shrine dedicated to the memory of someone long gone.
Their father never bothered getting this place cleared up and Diego wondered more than once if it’s for the same reason he put that ugly painting of Five on the wall, a way to keep them in line and remind them what happens to those who disobey.
He doesn’t have that many memories of the time pre-Five’s disappearance, he’s been a distant memory for so long it almost feels like a different lifetime, a different reality. They were never allowed to mourn him, Reginald made sure of that, so… They didn’t.
Diego remembers himself from that time, the resentment he felt at the thought that Five abandoned them, left them in this madness of a home and set out to find a better life. He remembers the rage and jealousy, bitter and biting and burning like a flame.
Back then, he didn’t question how a kid like Five would manage living on the streets and evading the press and their father, he didn’t question what could have happened to him, simply assuming that he escaped the hell they all lived in. And he hated him for it and let that hatred consume him. It wasn’t until he was in his early 20s that he realized that maybe Five’s life wasn’t as good as his thirteen years old self envisioned it to be but by then it was too late. So he pushed any thoughts of Five aside, at the very dark corner of his mind where they couldn’t be easily reached, shameful and abandoned. One of the many regrets in his life.
“You Hargreeves are always so distrustful,” the Handler tsks, exhaling slowly. The silver tendrils of smoke float above her head, coiling and shifting until they fade into the thin air. “I swear, if only Number Five wasn’t so stubborn, we wouldn’t be here today and this whole mess would be long ove--
“Hey, lady,” Diego interrupts her rudely. “You came to my house. So if you know where my brother is you can either tell me or get the fuck out of here before I put a knife in between your eyes.”
The Handler purses her lips, a gesture that awfully reminds him of Five when something doesn’t go according to plan.
“So impatient,” she complains, rolling her eyes. “Fine, if you insist. I’m here on business, you see. Me and Number Five have a history of long and, dare I say, mostly successful professional relationship. As his former employer, I must admit that he was the best of the best. Delightfully effective in the field, you should have seen that. Our results haven’t been this good in decades until I brought your brother to the Commission.”
Diego frowns at that.
Five didn’t tell them much about the Commission, what little information he managed to gather came in bits and pieces, like elements of a puzzle without a picture he could use as reference.
Whatever Five’s history with the Commission is, he knows it can’t be pretty.
He points at her face with one of his knives and keeps his voice steady when he says: “Get to the point. Why are you here? Where is Five?”
The Handler smirks, visibly enjoying his irritation, a fact that only angers him more. “You see, despite Number Five’s atrocious behaviour, I was willing to give him another chance. But, in the light of recent events, I have realized that his devotion to his family makes him a liability.”
Diego blinks.
Devotion to his family…
Diego’s eyes harden. “What does that mean?”
The Handler chuckles. “Let’s just say that your brother was promised the safety of you and your brothers and sisters for a rather fair price. Like I told you, Diego, I am known for my generous offers. And I’ll have you know that it wasn’t easy, I promised that in exchange I would call off the apocalypse. Do you have any idea how long we have been working on this project? How many people just lost their jobs?”
She’s irritated now, eyes stormy as she crushes the cigarette butt between her fingers and drops it on Five’s bed carelessly. “It’s a shame all that hard work had to end up in the trash, but oh well,” she shrugs slightly, although she still looks annoyed, “life works like that sometimes, I suppose. And in the end it all worked out.”
Diego takes all of this new information in, mind swirling with thoughts as he tries to make sense out of it. Whatever it is that Five promised her in exchange for stopping the apocalypse, it must have been big.
If there’s one thing Five has always made painfully clear, it’s that the apocalypse is inevitable.
It followed them back into the 60s, clinging to them as some kind of deadly disease, following their every step and refusing to let go. Diego isn’t familiar with the mechanics of it all, doesn’t even pretend to understand why anyone would be so hell bent on ensuring that the apocalypse will take place. It’s a strange concept. A scary one.
Whatever Five did to prevent it, whatever he offered in return… It can’t be good.
Diego draws a shaky breath, adjusting his grip on his knives. He finds her eyes with his, resenting the smug look reflected in her steal-blue irises.
“What did Five do?” He asks, voice strong and loud despite the anxiety throbbing in his veins.
The Handler smiles simply, cocking her head to the side.
She’s amused, looking at him with eyes crinkling in that smug satisfaction that does nothing to calm his nerves.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
No, Diego thinks.
“Yes,” he says.
Her smile widens and she claps her hands. “Splendid! I’m afraid I cannot bring Number Five home, that would violate the conditions of our deal, but I see no problem in bringing you to see him.”
Diego doesn’t like the way it sounds, his suspicion growing like an itch under his skin.
He doesn’t like it at all.
“I’ll make arrangements to issue a briefcase to the Commission’s headquarters where Number Five is currently residing,” she informs him. “I’ll send someone trusted to deliver it to you and your family by tomorrow morning. In fact,” she pauses, looking at him. “I think you are already familiar with her. From what I’ve heard my daughter made quite an impression.”
Diego frowns.
“Your daughter?” he asks warily.
“Oh, you know,” she responds cheerfully and he can’t help but feel like she’s mocking him. “Dark hair, black eyes. Won’t take no for an answer and always thinks she knows everything best.”
Diego inhales sharply, eyes widening as the realization slowly dawns on him.
“Lila…”