Chapter Text
It’s the summer before Diego turns twenty-one, and he’s getting by, living in an acquaintance’s spare room, and surviving on the minimum wage he makes cleaning the local mall after dark. It’s taken him weeks to save up for a television, and now he’s making the most of it, watching whatever happens to be on while he sharpens his knives and drinks his weight in ginger beer.
He sits on his bed because he doesn’t have a sofa. There’s no room for one, because his room is practically a closet. Amongst other things, the list of essentials Diego lacks includes a computer, an oven and a window.
He finds that he’s content, though. It’s been almost four years since he left the Academy, and now he’s making something for himself, however small it may be. Sure, there’s mould on the walls and the boiler doesn’t work at the best of times but he’s independent, and that’s all he’s ever wanted.
When Luther makes his speeches on the news, Diego still turns the channel, but it’s out of pity. He’s started helping out in the community, coaching baseball to disadvantaged kids who are in awe of his aim because Diego always, always hits the ball.
He’s learning to cook, even if he can only afford the most basic of ingredients. He likes throwing everything from his fridge onto a pizza, even though it disgusts his friends. The highlight (or low point, depending on your point of view) had been beans.
He’s doing things for himself, crafting a Diego whose personality isn’t based on his relationship with his siblings. Now, he’s the guy who hates wine and sleeps in late, and who mildly starves himself so he can watch the terrible reality television his friends spend all their time discussing.
That one might not have been worth it, actually.
Diego’s been reading about his options, and he likes the idea of being a detective the most. It crosses his mind again when he spots a procedural on Channel One, and he puts the knife he’s sharpening down, reaching into his pocket to find the crumpled flyer.
He wants to help people. A few years of training doesn’t faze him if that’s the end result. He flicks through to the second page, and the text is unchanged. Applications open in September.
Diego sighs and falls back, his head hitting the pillow.
Fine. Maybe he’s a little bored, and maybe he has been for a while. If that’s the case, what can he do?
At first, he thought the cure was meeting people, and that was great for a while. He went on a few dates and eventually expanded his network. Despite his initial fears, nobody recognised him from their childhood comic strips and lunch boxes, and before he knew it, he had hundreds of numbers saved in his phone.
One of them is messaging him, now. The ping startles him and he picks the phone up in the wrong place, bringing the messages up before he can do anything. There are four there, all unread.
11/06 7:43pm
Chris: hey, diego, man, feel like meeting us at quadrant tonight? it’s the pool cup, and you’re great at that stuff
11/06 9:45pm
Chris: oh we are so losing this. there’s still time for you to get down here and watch our defeat if you’re free
12/06 1:02pm
Chris: missed you last night. you okay?
19/06 10:22pm
Chris: holy shit are you watching the news right now
Diego frowns, dismayed. How important could whatever they’re showing be that this guy has messaged him for the first time in a week? Horrible things cross his mind, ranging from his own non-consensual unmasking to a third world war, and he scrambles for the remote control, navigating to the news channel.
“Just in, mass paranoia is spreading in Cologne, Germany, where a stadium of fifty thousand reportedly witnessed an anonymous man cross the pitch during a soccer game. Casey Myers is at the scene, with the full report.”
A short clip plays, and Diego squints to see anything out of the ordinary. Cologne is playing Berlin in a league match and looks to be winning by a long shot. Diego isn’t all that into soccer, but by his estimation it’s your average game.
That is, until both team stops in their tracks, yelling at a spot in centre field.
“Huh,” he says.
“There was a man, but I couldn’t see his face too clearly,” says one of the players adamantly, Casey Myers holding a microphone to his face and nodding along. He has a thick German accent. “He was wearing a hood. Ask anybody. He walked from there,” he says, pointing to the edge of the seating area, where a fence holds back the crowd, “to here, where I’m standing now.”
“Then what?” asks Casey Myers, in that quintessential journalist voice.
“He just disappeared. There was no, uh, fade out. He was there one moment and gone the next. Every single person here has seen what I’ve seen. It’s real. Teleportation is real, and the government is hiding it from us. Do you really think they don’t kn-”
Diego doesn’t need to wait until the guy says it for his mind to connect the dots. Teleportation. Five, he thinks, replaying for the infinite time his final glimpse of his brother, their last interaction.
For years, he’s asked himself why he didn’t stop him, why he didn’t speak up and tell him not to time travel. He knows the answer, of course. Five was a complete asshole, and at the time it has seemed what he deserved. That, and the fact that Dad was there. You never, ever, spoke out in front of Reginald Hargreeves unless you wanted extra training, and extra training never involved any actual training.
That doesn’t change the fact that Five was his brother, and now, here is something, finally. A chance to redeem himself.
Diego realises a little too late that this still doesn’t explain things. Does Chris know who he is?
He checks his phone.
19/06 10:23pm
Chris: confirms our conspiracy theories. invisible alien people are out there, and they’ve made first contact
19/06 10:23pm
Chris: least it’s in germany
Diego isn’t sure what Chris means until the clip is played again, after the break for the advertisements. Before, he was watching the soccer players, but now he walks toward the screen and pauses the clip to see what they’re looking at.
(And he almost jumps up and down because there now exist televisions you can stop with the click of a button? Technology has almost gone too far.)
When he sees it, he can’t stop looking at it. Where every set of eyes is focused, in the middle of the pitch, is a grand total of nothing.
-*-
The next day, as soon as stores open, Diego sells his television and takes the subway to the airport.
He tells his housemate it’s family problems. He tells work he has appendicitis. Diego doesn’t really care to make it believable. Everything else he has in life has reduced in value in proportion to this.
Even if this isn’t Five, it’s some crazy shit. He has a responsibility, no, a moral obligation, to investigate this. He might be the only person who can stop it.
By the time he makes it to the airport, though, he’s going backwards and forwards on that one.
At security, he tries Allison’s number.
Then, he tries it again.
“Pick up, pick up. Come on, already.”
“Sir, you have to place your phone in the tray.”
Diego wants to glare at him but has more sense than that. He complies.
On the other side of the body scanner, he reaches straight for it. Sixteen missed calls, and she still hasn’t rung back. Diego blocks her number in a moment of rage, and then kicks himself for being so pathetic.
He’s not trying Luther. Luther wouldn’t believe him, and if there was a universe where he did, he’d take over the whole mission and jeopardise them with his Number One bullshit.
That leaves Klaus, who isn’t even an option. For one thing, Diego isn’t sure he owns a phone. Then, there’s the fact that he’s Klaus.
No, Diego is doing this alone, which suits him just fine. He’s been by himself for years, now. He’s a lone wolf. What’s one trip to Germany?
When the plane lands, he’s jolted awake. The flight didn’t feel long at all. Diego takes his head from where it rests in his hand, certain there’ll be a mark left on his face, and yawns sluggishly. The lady sat in the aisle seat gives him a knowing smile, but he’s not sure how to respond.
It’s five in the afternoon, here, which is always an odd time to wake up. Diego has no luggage to collect, and is quick through customs, hailing a taxi. Only after ten miles does he wake up enough to remember he’s never left the United States before, and then he’s gazing out the window, disappointed to see the McDonalds arches at every intersection.
“You are here as a tourist?” asks the driver, and Diego nods, watching a distorted version of himself repeat the action in the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah. I really love soccer.”
“Did you see the match last night?”
Diego is far too slow to respond. It’s an obvious lie.
“I was already travelling by then.”
The driver doesn’t try to speak to him again, and five minutes later Diego is stood in front of the stadium. It’s green and feels a million miles from the city and that throws him off. He was picturing the Yankee Stadium, in his head.
Diego feels far from home, then asks himself what that means.
Where is home? Not the house of Reginald Hargreeves, who despised him and his siblings the moment they unhooked themselves from his iron grasp. Not the streets, where he spent half a year, and certainly not the spare room he lives in, which holds no sentimental value to him. Not without that television, the only thing he’s ever achieved in life.
This gives him a new resolve, and a spark of excitement. Diego is really doing this.
He walks in, and is disproportionately shocked to see Casey Myers, on her phone between takes and leafing mindlessly through the visitor’s book.
“I know,” she says, her voice devoid of the usual melodic tones she uses in her reports, “it’s a load of crap, Lisa, you should hear the things they’re saying. Well, you’ve seen the reports. I know, I know. They’ve flown me out here, though, so I can’t complain.” She laughs. “I know,” she says again. “Fucking Germany. I always thought I’d be one of those crisis journalists, reporting on the front lines in Syria. At least I like pretzels.”
Diego doesn’t want her to see him, for reasons he can’t quite justify, so he’s quick on his feet and deadly quiet as he passes behind her and into the museum.
It’s busy, and everybody is talking about what happened. They’ve named the apparition on the field, but not very well, as Diego discovers when he walks past a group of English tourists.
“The temporary man. I wonder where he’ll show up next? If he’s a football fan, it better be Chelsea.”
“Ha! Keep dreaming, mate. Unless he likes watching amateur games.”
The other guy hits him at that.
Diego keeps walking, trying to find somewhere he can view the field, but the building is deceptively big, and when it’s finally in sight there’s a queue for the viewing platform.
“Maybe he’s a superhero,” says the short lady in front of him, in Spanish.
“What, like those umbrella kids?” responds the man next to her, presumably her husband.
Diego doesn’t dare listen, after that. He doesn’t even risk a glance in their direction, keeping his eyes on the ground until they’re out of the room, and then angrily he’s reminded to look where he’s going by the people behind him. Diego finds he’s at the front of the queue, and he takes a deep breath before making his next move.
It turns out to be entirely unnecessary.
Out on the platform, he doesn’t know what he expected. People are taking photos, but there’s nothing to see. The field is empty.
“Five?” he asks and feels foolish.
A young girl stood beside him gives him a funny look, and he turns away from her.
“Five?” he whispers, knuckles white as he leans over the railing. “Come on, Five. I know it’s you. Don’t leave me again.”
He wants to keep moving. This was stupid, and he should get out of the way so that the people who really care can see what they’ve come to see. However much he tries, though, he can’t stop scanning every inch of the grass, every seat in the stadium. If Five were here, surely he’d leave him a message. If he left now, and missed it, he could never forgive himself.
Diego doesn’t notice the man next to him until he’s spoken to him.
“Kid? Kid. Hey, are you okay?”
He’s not okay. His legs are shaking, and this whole trip was ridiculous, and he hasn’t even bought a return ticket he’d been so sure this was the lead he’d been waiting for. It feels like if he squeezes hard enough, he could break the railing and fall through.
Maybe then this would feel real.
The thought jolts him back like a bolt of lightning. He can’t think like that, not again.
“Do you need me to get you some help?” says the man, and Diego finally turns to face him.
“Fuck off,” he grits out, and then he storms away from the balcony, back into the museum and then past the gift shop to the front entrance where Casey Myers is still stood, talking about some club she stayed at until early this morning until he speeds past to the bathroom, and she glances at him and laughs.
“Some kid didn’t see the temporary man. Could have spoilt that one for him before the museum.”
Blissfully alone, Diego closes the bathroom stall door and pulls down the toilet seat, breathing heavily. He wipes his eyes with the tips of his fingers and feels a pang of inadequacy that he hasn’t felt in years.
Number One wouldn’t cry, says the voice of his father. Why are you?
“Argh!” he cries out and kicks the door, which rattles on its hinges. “Why weren’t you here? Why are you never where I look?!”
Because there have been incidents like this before, of course there have. A man in line at the homeless shelter, face covered entirely apart from piercing green eyes. Something in the corner of Diego’s eye at Target before he turned around and was met with an empty aisle. Every man around his age with dark hair draws Diego’s eye, and he knows that at some point he’ll either forget about it or it will drive him crazy.
He isn’t sure which outcome is worse. On his off days, he thinks he’s pretty damn close to the second one. Who takes a plane to another continent on the off chance that someone who’s been presumed dead for almost half a decade will be there?
The door to the bathroom opens, and then somebody is using the urinal. Diego pulls his legs up onto the toilet seat, still reluctant to be seen.
The guy is muttering to himself, and Diego finds himself listening. He has a very recognisable pattern of speech.
“Yes, I shouldn’t have taken those pills, I know. But I told you not to go walking on the pitch, and you didn’t listen! You’re not built to be a quarterback, brother dearest.” There’s a pause, and Diego hears his fly being rezipped. “I know. That’s football. What’s the difference again?”
It’s as though he’s talking to somebody who isn’t there. After a few seconds, he groans.
“No, it’s not interesting! Not interesting in the slightest. You know I don’t give a fuck about my potential, unless we happen to be talking about my potential to bag the richest guy in the club tonight. What would you give it, on a scale of one to ten?”
This is familiar, Diego is realising. The exact babbling he grew up with. With dawning horror, he stands up and unlocks the stall, opening it slowly to see what he already knows.
“That’s just rude, Ben. Of course they want me. I’m hot as shit.”
“Klaus?” says Diego.
-*-
Later, they’re outside a Starbucks, crashing on the outdoor seating area although it’s cold for June. Diego can’t stop thinking about how tall Klaus looks. How skinny he is.
“What I don’t get,” he says, “is how you ended up in Germany, of all places?”
“I was always up for travelling the world, Di. Unlike some people, who’ve never left the state before?”
Diego can’t contest that, but he knows Klaus is deflecting.
“Tell me the truth, Klaus. You’re here for the same reason as I am, right? You saw the news about Five.”
Klaus looks at him blankly.
“Five? Five what?”
“Our brother! Number Five Hargreeves. There was a guy who was on that field, and then he was gone. Who else does that describe? That’s Five’s exact thing.”
“Oh.” Klaus giggles and looks off to the right. “Shh, you. I’m not telling him. No way.”
Diego frowns.
“Klaus? Are you taking something again?”
“Me? What about you? Five was never camera shy. He’d be one of the first in line at every interview, eager to say his bit, unlike certain others. In all those broadcasts on Fox news, all those advertisements, was he ever invisible, Diego?”
Diego knows Klaus doesn’t mean to say the cutting things he does, that he lives in a world where nothing touches him, but several parts of that response hurt him because he’s never been as thick skinned as his brother.
“You’re a dick, you know that? I’m going to prove it. It has to be him.”
For a little, they’re quiet, and Diego starts shivering. He wishes he could pay for something and sit inside.
Klaus looks at him funny.
“Weird,” he says. “Why haven’t you stormed off already?”
Diego shrugs.
“I’ve changed, I guess.”
Klaus is looking to the right again, nodding, and then his eyes snap back to Diego.
“Where did your stutter go? I didn’t even notice. Did you get surgery or something? Wait. Can they replace your voice box with a robot one? That’s not stupid to ask. Shut up.”
Diego laughs. Klaus is just as he remembers him. That doesn’t make it any easier to discuss.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he says slowly. “I don’t know how it works. All I know is that as soon as I got away from that asshole and his crock of shit, things started to get a lot better.”
“Huh. You say so many words now. I didn’t know you knew so many.”
He hits Klaus on the arm for that, lightly, but he’s amused. Klaus plays hurt, pretending he’s been shot and falling to the wooden deck below.
“Go on without me,” he says, “but remember to help my family with the shrimp farm, okay? It’s really, really important. They only eat shrimp, Diego. They’ll starve if you don’t help them.”
Diego can’t stop laughing, however much he tries.
“That is not the plot of that movie, Klaus!”
“Yes, it is. Take my eternal wisdom and buy shares in Amazon.”
“Get up, you idiot,” he says, but he’s still smiling.
Klaus sits up, as though nothing had happened, and Diego notices for the first time how little he’s wearing. A thin, pink jacket unbuttoned over a tank top, and flowing, see through trousers. On his feet, there are only flip flops.
He’s about to ask him whether he’d like to borrow his jacket, but Klaus speaks up first, always the chatterbox.
“And the scars?” he asks, innocently. “Wait, let me guess. You got drunk and tried using your power. Daddy dearest never told us that they went away with the simple addition of drugs, so you left home and blam. Knives are suddenly dangerous.”
Diego feels weird, sat up at the table while Klaus is on the ground, so he moves next to him.
“Pretty much. The night I used my fake ID for the first time was amazing. I got to pretend to be somebody else, for one thing. You know. Someone who isn’t a freak.” Diego sighs, remembering the outcome. “I got mugged walking home. Tried to fight them and ended up in the hospital.”
Klaus looks at him like he used to when they were kids, and Diego had slammed his hand in a door, or been too slow sparring Luther.
“You hate hospitals,” he says.
“Yeah. I haven’t been drunk since.”
His brother considers that, then shrugs.
“I think you should. Listen. The scars suit you! Brings out your edgy side and hides the whole inadequacy complex thing you’ve got going on. The drinking age is sixteen here, Di. Sixteen! The worst that could happen is that you end up looking more badass, so I say we party. Tonight!”
Diego only stares at him.
“We can’t even afford a Starbucks.”
“I can call in some favours. There’s a guy who owns me eight chi-”
“I need to be at the top of my game, Klaus. Five is here, somewhere, and I’m going to find him. Wont you come with me, instead of poisoning yourself with whatever you’re planning to put in your body?”
“Hey! Do whatever you want, but don’t question my lifestyle. I like it, okay?” Klaus sighs. “It was a good try. It would be fun drinking with you, Diego. I haven’t seen you in a while, and we deserve a proper reunion.”
“I don’t have time for drinking.”
Klaus is ignoring him and counting on his fingers.
“What has it been, now? Two years since we huffed that glue?”
“Four,” says Diego begrudgingly, and hates how he feels about it. “Fine, okay? One drink, and we ask around. You said you have connections here, right?”
“Oh yeah. I know half the bundesland.”
“…I don’t want to know what that means,” says Diego, picturing the kind of sex club he can only imagine existing in Germany.
Klaus laughs.
“It means I can get you anywhere. If you really think Five is here, I support you, bro.” Suddenly, Klaus slaps the air in front of him, and Diego looks at the empty space in confusion. “Shh. Now, Diego, I know a hack so we can take the subway here for free! You’ll love it, let’s go. Oh, and you meant one drink per establishment, right?”
Diego has a feeling this is going to go downhill, but he sucks it in.
“After you, Klaus,” he says, but when his brother moves, he stays still, thinking. “Hey,” he calls. “This is nice. It’s really good to see you.”
“Likewise,” pips Klaus.
“If all else goes wrong, I’m glad to have had the chance to see you, man.”
-*-
Not even a day later, Diego watches Klaus kill a man and reflects on those words.
Maybe, one day, he’ll finally learn to trust his instincts.