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When you are a child and your parental figure tells you you are useless, nothing but ordinary and will not be good at doing anything to stop the apocalypse from happening, it is quite hard for that feeling, those words to get out of your head. It cycle in repeat, sometimes extremely loud behind your eyelids or quiet, so quiet as you try to do basic daily gestures. Take a shower, brush your hair, you’re useless, eat breakfast, just ordinary, read a book, watch your siblings get closer together, see them brush past you and all you have is the other one of you who is powerless.
But when you are a child you try really hard to be close to your siblings and you could always twist it anyways, N°8 loved her siblings. She was wary of N°3, of course because she often ended up in the receiving end of her powers and of N°2 because knives were very sharp thank you very much. She was fond of N°1 because he had agreed to teach her some moves so she could protect herself, even though they both knew their father didn't agreed to it. But it was hard to say no to her puppy eyes.
There was a chasm between them but she still was stubbornly trying to jump across it.
A bit after their ninth birthday, 8 was sitting in her room with her lap full of fabric, a model book in her hands. She had asked Pogo for it, liking the array of diversity shown into it, so strikingly different from the harsh lines of their uniforms. She was becoming good at mending tears and holes, sewing something was the next logical step.
She was bend down over the fabric, chalk in hand where she was putting lines when a sharp knock on the door made her jump and mess up a bit. Frowning at it - she would have to learn how to stay steady no matter what, she got up to open her door, surprised to see N°9 here.
“Can I help you?” She asked, unsure of how to act with him. 5 and him were similar in intelligence and smugness so for her who had difficulties multiplying, she often felt left aside in conversations. She loved him. Loved all if them anyway.
“What are you doing?” He asked, pâle eyes looking above her shoulder. (It wasn't hard to do, she was still as small as Ben but more useless. If you didn't count the knowledge she was hiding deep inside her.)
“Trying to sew myself a fluffy skirt.” She answered truthfully because she had nothing to hide and 9 was genuinely curious. “Pogo gave me magazines and I saw it in one of the model and I liked this one.”
“You could ask mom to make it for you.”
She was sure 9 didn't say that meanly but she still threw him a disappointed glance. Stepping out of the doorway so he could enter her room which he did with a grateful nod.
“I could. But there's no fun in that.” She said with a smile, jumping over the fabric and eyeing her brother who walked carefully around it. “What can I do for you?” She asked.
She liked N°9 even with his anti lie powers. It helped she wasn't really one to lie, except for maybe that one little thing that happened last year. Not knowing how to be around him was a little setback but nothing she couldn't handle.
“I tore my vest and mom was busy with 2, so she redirected me towards you.”
He handed her the item and she turned it around to see the tear in the fabric. It wasn't that big but their father would be angry for not keeping up with their appearance. Being presentable and kept together was something he drilled into their head but mostly into 1 to 6 and 9. The ones who will be going outside and save the world.
“So I'm your second chance? I'm hurt.” She quipped, draping herself with the vest and dramatically bending herself.
“If I had known earlier you could sew, I would have come to you first.” He answered, tutting her.
“Come on, sit down it will not take too long.” She smiled at him, picking a sewing needle and dark thread. She worked fast and efficiently, humming to herself as she avoided prickling her fingers. 9 was patiently watching her, leaning against her.
There was something aesthetically pleasing being near him with his pale skin and hair, contrasting with her own black hair and brown skin. She wagered he was born from some East European mother while hers must have been South Asian. She never asked about their father because such spontaneous birth wouldn't have been involving one.
And the only father they had was Reginald Hargreeves.
8 hummed while mending the vest, appreciating the calm atmosphere in her room. The repetitive gesture was something that allowed her mind to wander a bit and she also appreciated that 9 allowed her to lean on him.
She decided that, from now on, he’ll be her favorite brother.