Chapter Text
On the twelfth hour of the first day of October 1989, forty-three women around the world gave birth. This was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began. Elias Bouchard, eccentric billionaire and adventurer, resolved to locate and adopt as many of the children as possible.
He got seven of them.
Number One looked around his little garden. Dad had sent him to stay here for the past four years. His mission (this long, lonely adventure that he would never say a word against to his father’s face—he should be grateful after all, that Dad had been able to find a purpose for him even after all that had happened) was on the moon, looking out for a threat Dad was sure would come. If Jared played around with his plants more than he was allowed to—well, the only person there to see it was himself. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was slacking off on his mission.
He watered the flowers towards the front and clipped a few dead leaves off his tomato plant.
“Shit!” he muttered. He’d have to send a message to Pogo, ask him for a new set of clippers. The beep of a transmission coming in on his watch had startled him into crushing them.
This was odd, though. He didn’t often get messages. Pogo had already sent out his monthly message, and he’d just gotten more supplies a few days ago. He looked at the transmission.
“Your father passed away last night. It is time to return home. -Pogo”
Dad– Dad was–
He looked at the transmission.
Number Two dragged the limp body through the woods. There was a spot, a deep hole she’d dug last night in preparation for this. She could still hear his screams. Loud, weeping screams. It’d just made her job better, knowing he’d be feeling the same pain those kids had felt when he took them away. Because he’d hurt them, he’d hurt children and she couldn’t let that slide. It didn’t matter that someone had messed up paperwork somewhere. He’d still killed them, dropped them into the woods like they were garbage.
He was the garbage.
Daisy– Daisy didn’t take pleasure in hurting people. That wasn’t to say she didn’t take pleasure in what she did—oh, she loved the thrill of the hunt. The satisfaction of having taken yet another awful person out of this world? It always brightened up her mood. The actual killing, though… not quite her thing.
Daisy was careful not to get much blood on her as she shoved the man into the pit. Her shovel was right where she’d left it, and she began the, quite frankly, calming task of covering up the body. She’d need to be quick, though. Basira was waiting for her at home.
Some time later, Daisy was finally home. She made her way to the shower—Basira would be apoplectic if she got dirt or, worse than that, blood on the couch. Or the carpet. Or anywhere, really.
She didn’t hear the news until later, lying on the couch with Basira’s head against her shoulder.
“Moments ago, police reported the death of the world’s most eccentric and reclusive billionaire…”
Number Three basked in the attention of the cameras, lights flashing on her as she walked down the hall.
“Annabelle–”
“Annabelle! How do you–”
“–next movie–”
She waved a bit at the cameras, showing off the dress she was wearing, before she heard one journalist say something that caught her ears.
“Is Claire–”
She didn’t need to hear more, and her smile froze in place as she made a small hand movement. A small, thin thread, invisible to the crowd, extended from her hand to the mouth of the reporter. Another to the head. She couldn’t have that, of course. She’d always been very careful about what the media said on the subject of Claire. They would not get past her now.
“Annabelle–”
“–your father–”
“–wear Valentino to the funeral–”
“–your siblings–”
Annabelle allowed Kate to usher her away from the crowd, showing her the latest headline.
“Moments ago, police reported the death of the world’s most eccentric and reclusive billionaire…”
For a moment, Annabelle smiled.
Number Four looked at his client with a sad smile, as he always did. “I’m sorry for your loss, Edna.”
“Oh, it ain’t your fault,” said Edna Topaz. She was an older lady, in her late seventies, Oliver recalled, and was becoming an increasingly common client as the people around her started succumbing to death. “Clint’s time was comin’, I’m afraid. Thank you, though, for lettin’ me see him one more time.” She smiled at him with a sad look on her face.
“Of course, Edna. It’s nice to see you.” He took the cash from the table and walked her out. It would be the last time he saw her—alive, at least. Her time was approaching quickly now. He gave her a small wave and stepped back inside.
“It’s a shame, you know. She’s always so nice,” Number Six said, perched on the counter.
“Everyone has their time, Agnes.”
“Hm.”
Oliver went back to his room, closing up the store for the night. At Agnes’ insistence, the television went on.
“Moments ago, police reported the death of the world’s most eccentric and reclusive billionaire…”
Number Seven sighed as he walked home. It had been quite a long day, what with work, and then more work, and then…
Jon glanced at his phone with a soft sigh. Kylie, one of his students, had messaged him to say she wouldn’t be able to come to their usual session today. Not a big deal, of course—convenient, even. It would give him some time to himself.
He looked at the storefronts as he walked by.
“Moments ago, police reported the death of the world’s most eccentric and reclusive billionaire…”
“Dad…”