Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Klaus sat on his bed, hands trembling. His skin felt too tight over his bones, like it didn’t quite fit, and even closing his eyes felt like too much effort. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, letting out a shaky breath, wishing—desperately—that he had something, anything, to scratch the itch clawing at his brain. The ghosts were getting louder. The blurry outlines around him had sharpened into faces—two this time. Kids, around his age. Twin sisters. Dead from a car crash.

He stared at the gaping hole in Twin One’s head, a jagged mess of blood and steel that still throbbed, even after death. there were bruises all over her body, barely concealed by the glass shards and mud. Twin Two looked slightly better, a gash along her arm and a pool of blood around her chest being the only injuries.Twin One stared through him with a haunted look while Twin Two screamed, her voice shrill and echoing, begging him to get them revenge. But the sound barely reached him. He just... watched. Their matching overalls. The way their shoelaces were knotted was identical. The streaks of dirt and tears on their cheeks. The bracelets on their wrists caught the light. One of them clutched a half-used tube of lipstick like it was a lifeline.

Klaus bowed his head, chin trembling. These girls had a family who loved them. Klaus envied them. They died. he still envied them.

It was getting worse. the itch had become a wildfire, and klaus brought his knees up to his chest, covering his ears with a pillow.

He stayed that way for a minute, suffering in silence. Then he snapped. He couldn't wait any longer. And if he failed, well, at least he'd have a distraction.

he brought his knees down and reached over to his blanket before remembering he sold it for coke last week. It looks like I have to borrow someone else's. Klaus carefully opened the door to his bedroom, slow as molasses, barely breathing. The hinges gave a soft creak, and his heart skipped a beat. He froze—waiting, listening—before easing the door open just wide enough to slip through.

He peered out. Left. Right. The hallway was empty, dark, still.

The coast was clear.

Silently, he dropped to his knees and began to crawl. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if any sudden shift might shatter the silence like glass. He quietly opened the second-to-last door in the hallway, Diego's. He crossed his fingers, then exhaled in relief at the sound of mumbling coming from inside. After a stealthy heist, draped over his too-big Academy uniform was the massive grey blanket—thick, woollen, and stolen. Diego’s. Klaus had ‘borrowed’ it from his brother mid-snore, whispering a barely-there apology as he tugged it free.

It trailed behind him like a heavy cape, dragging along the floor as he crept across the cold tiles of the hallway. The hallway seemed longer than usual—darker, too. The lights above flickered, casting shadows that twitched just outside his line of sight. Klaus’s hands trembled as he walked, fingers flexing uselessly. His skin felt too tight, crawling with static, like something alive squirmed just beneath the surface.

His head pounded. His mouth was dry. Every breath rattled like it had to claw its way out of his lungs.

The walls looked like they were bending in, narrowing around him. The tiles pulsed faintly beneath his feet, and the air was thick with the smell of dust and sweat and something sour—maybe him.

He blinked hard. The shadows didn’t go away.

Still, he kept walking. Because whatever punishment he could be given had to be better than what was happening inside him.

So slow he might have been going backwards, the boy inched toward his destination: the far wing of the house, where the ornate door stood alone—larger, heavier, and more ominous than the others.

The only one in that wing.

‘So far so good,’ he told himself. His heart thudded in his chest like a drum, but he dared to feel hope. None of the floorboards had creaked. No one had stirred. Not yet.

He was already salivating, jaw tightening with anticipation. The hunger clawed at his insides, a gnawing ache that had only worsened with each passing hour. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for—only that it might be in there. Something. Anything. He was ready to dry-swallow whatever he found.

At the threshold, he slowly stood. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and fell to the floor in a quiet heap, revealing his oversized uniform and the Umbrella Academy sigil stretched across his chest. It glimmered faintly in the dim light.

Instinctively, he covered it with a shaking hand.

Tiptoeing into the room, Klaus barely breathed. At the far end stood a tall, antique cabinet—his target. But closer, too close, was the golden bed, its frame ornate and heavy with sleeping authority. The figure beneath the covers lay still, but Klaus knew better than to trust appearances.

Being this close to Reginald Hargreeves was like holding a lit match above a pool of gasoline.

But desperation beat fear.

He reached up to the cabinet, licking dry lips. His fingers gripped the doorknob. Twisted.

And then—

“NUMBER FOUR!!!”

The voice exploded through the room like a gunshot. The air seemed to shake.

It was the loudest Reginald had ever been.

Klaus froze, rooted to the floor. His breath caught in his throat. Tears sprang to his eyes instantly, his body locking in place. The sound had ripped through him like a whip crack.

‘No,’ he thought, eyes wide with terror, all hope evaporating like steam.

Then, in a blur of movement, he was forcefully spun around. His body twisted, his mind struggling to catch up. Pain bloomed instantly in his arm, the joint wrenching far beyond what he could handle.

He forced his gaze upward—and wished he hadn't.

Reginald towered over him, expression carved from ice. His glasses caught the light, concealing eyes that were cold and calculating. In his left hand was a cane—black, polished once, now dulled with time and cruelty. Its wax was ruined by the blood of children who had dared to step out of line.

In his right was Klaus’s arm, twisted painfully behind his back.

But Klaus didn’t scream. He couldn’t. He just stood there, every muscle trembling, frozen in place by terror and shame. His bare feet shifted uselessly against the tiled floor. He wished—so badly—he still had the blanket to crawl back under, to disappear.

Reginald’s lip curled.

He looked down at Number Six—pathetic, wide-eyed, useless—with a look of pure disgust. How dare that inconvenient animal disturb him? How dare that incompetent fool sneak into his room like a thief, after being given everything he needed to survive? At no cost!

He should throw him in the tank tomorrow. Lock him in with Number Two and let him learn the consequences of weakness.

Then something caught his attention.

The boy’s eyes.

Bloodshot—but not from lack of sleep. His pupils were sluggish. His face was hollow, cheekbones sharp beneath sallow skin. And his body twitched, subtle, uncontrolled, like a wire sparking under his skin.

Reginald’s eyes narrowed.

That bastard was trying to get high.

That was it.

That was all he needed to see.

Weakness.

And weakness was not to be tolerated.

Chapter Text

Diego didn’t mean to follow Klaus. He didn’t.

But stealing his blanket was too far.

He woke up, his senses coming in fragments. First, he saw the bare room around him. Next, he heard padded footsteps. Then he started shivering and stole a glance at the door. Even with blurry vision, Klaus’s skinny body and tangled hair were easily identifiable. Diego was considering going back to sleep, but something immediately snapped him out of his groggy state. When Klaus went to close the door, his hands were trembling—but not from the cold.

Oh no, Diego’s eyes widened with realization. He promised he wouldn’t.

The door shut all the way, enveloping Diego in darkness. Silent as a mouse, he walked toward his closet—grand total: one outfit inside. After pulling on a warmer leather suit, he moved to the grayish outline of the doorknob and pulled.

Diego followed Klaus, making sure not to alert any of the cameras or guards (Mom and Pogo) of their presence. A few minutes later, Diego was perplexed. Klaus was walking as if his life depended on being quiet, but he was panting and kept bumping into things. Down went the lamp, Diego barely throwing a pillow in time to muffle the sound.

Every door Klaus passed opened when he leaned on it, but Klaus just righted himself and kept going, stuck in a loop that would wake everyone up if Diego wasn't dutifully walking behind, closing every one. Diego sighed (soundlessly, of course) and shook his head. What was Klaus doing?

Maybe he’s too out of it to realize, Diego tried to make an excuse for Klaus’s less-than-extraordinary stealth.

Then they made it to Klaus's destination. Diego's eyes widened at the sight of the double doors. Its detailed wooden carvings were coated with real gold, or at least a good fake. Every inch of it was spotless, and the moonlight reflecting off it gave the illusion of holiness.

Klaus was definitely insane.

The fancy-shmancy door was a gate to hell; everyone knew that. Even Number One, who always tried to make excuses for their Dad's behaviour. 'He's doing his best, guys.' 'Give him a break, he's under a lot of pressure.' Barf. And Klaus was walking right into it. What in the world is wrong with him?! Surely he could survive just a few more hours—at least until Pogo went to sleep. The ape usually turned in at midnight, just 20 minutes later.

Diego perked his ears, straining to hear the familiar thud of Pogo's bare feet, or the clink of Mom's heels. Then he let out a sigh, half disappointment and half full-body relief. Reginald was snoring. It wasn’t loud enough for Klaus to hear ( not that it would have changed anything), but Diego had gotten better at picking out sounds, now that he spent days in the tank, counting the number of water drops leaking onto the floor.

As the door shut behind Klaus, Diego leaned against the wall and listened in, holding his breath out of fear.

Clang.

Klaus knocked over something—probably a cup or a metal rod, by the sound of it. Based on the way Klaus didn’t even falter at the noise, Diego knew. Klaus was going to his father’s medicine cabinet. And he was too far gone to turn back now.

Diego shut his eyes, and he could almost see how Klaus’s eyes would widen—pupils dilated, no longer responsive—his only care in the world being the next fix. The siblings hated seeing Klaus like this, but it was better than the screaming. For the kids, it was a fight between two evils. For the adults, it was a weakness and an equally pathetic coping mechanism that would slowly kill him.

Diego snapped back to reality at the thump of footsteps. Not Pogos measured, if slightly off balance, gait. Not Mom, who never walked softly unless they were in the infirmary. These were the footsteps of a monster.

Oh no.

“NUMBER FOUR!!!”

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

Every nerve in Diego’s body was screaming at him. His muscles were urging him to run, and his senses were so overwhelmed by Reginald’s voice that he didn’t even notice a single tear fall. it landed on the floor, a forgotten symbol of their suffering.

He tensed to run, but a muffled sound stopped him.

It was Klaus.

The whimper that escaped the boy’s mouth was so quiet, Diego almost didn’t catch it. He froze, his mind racing through the worst possible outcomes of Klaus getting caught—but nothing could have prepared him for what Reginald said next.

“It seems the mausoleum isn’t helping you overcome this childish need, Number Four.”

The voice was so eerily calm, Diego’s heart skipped a beat. This was going to end worse than the other times.

“Perhaps you would benefit from a more… memorable training plan. Tomorrow morning at 4 on the dot, I would like you to come to the basement with one change of clothes and a bottle of water. A few days in a cage ought to open your eyes to how dependent you are on these… pathetic pills.”

Oh, by the way… Diego heard a floorboard creak—probably Reginald leaning in to make a point.

“I do not tolerate when undisciplined brats cannot even learn simple stealth. You will have extra stealth training, effective immediately after your new training regime.”

At that moment, whatever unseen force had been rooting Diego to the spot released its hold. He stumbled backward before bolting down the hallway. Muscle memory led him to his room. He went straight to bed, not bothering to change or close the wide-open door—which would normally infuriate him.

“Klaus… yo-you id-id-idiot. W-w-why a-are you s-s-so…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

not even an umbrella could stop the tears in his eyes from finally falling onto the sheets.

Chapter Text

Diego woke up the next day without really waking up.

From where I stood, I could tell—he was still Diego, yes, but something was off. He acted strangely, snapping at everyone, more volatile than usual. It wasn’t anger, not really. It was… displacement. Disconnection.

After two days, the whole family—minus Klaus, who everyone thought was at the doctor’s for some sort of virus—gathered in the training room for one-on-one combat.

First up were Number One and Number Three. They both went easy on each other (frankly, it was nauseating). Their fight lasted only a few minutes, and Allison won, giddy with appreciation. As per the rules for the day, whoever won their fight would earn ten minutes of supervised free time. That small sliver of freedom seemed to motivate them more than the combat itself. I am not surprised by this. Even to me, sometimes Sir Reginald's parenting methods seem a bit... extreme.

Next came Number Six and Number Five. Five beat Ben in a matter of seconds, then proceeded to gloat in a way that felt oddly uncharacteristic of him—a touch too smug.

Then it was Diego’s turn. He was to fight Vanya now that Klaus was unavailable.

The match began the same as the others—calculated, rhythmic—but it quickly took a disturbing turn. At first, Diego and Vanya were simply going through the motions. Then Diego’s features shifted into something grotesque, contorted like the illustrations of the undead in the book Ben had been reading earlier that week. He looked far away, like he was watching something I couldn’t see—something that terrified him enough to leak into reality.

Then he lunged.

In a matter of seconds, he had Vanya pinned, writhing beneath him. I blew my whistle sharply to signal the end of the fight, but he didn’t stop. He pushed harder, more forcefully. This wasn’t sparring. It wasn’t even anger.

It was something else entirely—primal, detached.

That was when Sir Reginald entered the room.

With a firm hand, he gestured for the rest of the siblings to stay back. They froze, all caught in varying states of shock and rage. Luther looked torn—caught between being the perfect Number One and saving his sister. Allison’s mouth hung open, as if on the verge of using her ability to force someone—anyone—to make it stop. Five’s eyes narrowed into slits; I could almost see his mind converting Diego’s breakdown into data, an equation, a chemical reaction.

Ben’s eyes filled with tears before he turned away, unable to bear it any longer.

“Sir, I don’t think it wise to allow the fight to continue while Die—Number Two is in this state of mind,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, though it quivered with concern.

“Nonsense,” Reginald replied, his glare sharp and immediate. “We as a team cannot expect our enemies to play fair. Number Seven simply has to use the move taught last week, and she will break his leg.” this is what i meant by 'extreme'. Of course, he is correct to assume Vanya will excel, since she has so far. But it was still nagging at me. Perhaps if I were to get some assurance to put my worries to rest.

“But sir, Vanya wasn’t th—”

“Silence, Pogo. Number Seven spends so much of her time in her head that she simply cannot understand how to implement her knowledge in the real world. This”—he gestured to Diego, who was now slowly increasing the pressure on her chest—“is survival of the fittest.” I am not so sure of Sir Reginald's methods anymore.

While we argued, Vanya had turned a curious shade of bluish-white. Her mouth was moving, but her voice was barely a whisper. How did I become so absorbed in conversation that I did not notice!

“Help…”

Diego ended her plea with a swift strike to the back of her neck.

Then he stood up—calm, composed—and nodded to Reginald as if awaiting further instructions. As if he were an obedient little soldier who had just completed a mission.

I was shocked.

We had all seen Diego upset before. It was actually a very common occurrence—one I had grown accustomed to, even fond of. But this… this I had never seen before. Not even close. This person—the boy who seemed to merge with Reginald’s shadow as he moved toward him—this was not Diego.

This was Number Two.

This was the boy whom Sir Reginald was trying so hard to groom to perfection.

Luther will be the leader, he’d say to me, and Diego will be his most loyal follower. His most ruthless follower.

Oh my. This is not good.

If Diego continues to act like this, he will inevitably do something he will regret later. I thought. And with Klaus, who Diego was closest to, no longer in the house… who knows how far Diego will go to be the loyal protector.

-Author's note start

Ooh foreshadowing!

-Author's note end

Chapter Text

Klaus was going to die.
He knew it, the screaming ghost knew it, Bob the Brick knew it, even the walls knew it. They weren’t saying it out loud — that would’ve been rude — but he could feel it. Like they were all holding their breath, just waiting for him to stop holding his.

He was so tired.
Tired of the way his muscles would spasm without warning, yanking his limbs like a puppet handled by drunk fingers. Tired of how he couldn't get up off the floor, no matter how many times he told himself just try. Tired of drooling on his clothes, and the cold, crusty reminder that he’d done it again. Tired of saving up the last few drops of his water like they were gold, only to spill them down his chin. Tired of the fever that would probably kill him — or maybe already had, and this was just hell with linoleum flooring.
Tired of how much he needed drugs. Tired of how he'd never get them.
But most of all, he was tired of the nothingness. The way time stretched and snapped, curled around itself, left him floating in a room that didn’t care if he screamed or whispered or bled.

It began the same way as anything in Klaus’s life begins.
Bad decisions and beatings.

At first, he tried to stay strong — clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, told himself he wouldn't cry, not this time. But then he heard a snap. It was weird. Not like the weird he was used to. At least, he didn’t think he was used to it. His memory had a lot of smudged edges these days.

He could see his arm bent at an angle it shouldn't be bent at, jutting out like a broken wing. He felt the red dripping through his change of clothes, sticky and warm. Pogo had a hard time wrapping it with gauze or maybe a dish towel — Klaus tipped over halfway through. Or was it Grace? He remembered hands, maybe a voice. Or maybe that was just another ghost. They tended to blur together.

Then he could smell the floor.
He remembered chuckling at the cat urine smell, if he was still able to make noise, that is — imagining his father surrounded by a hundred tiny kittens. A stupid thought, but stupid thoughts were easier than pain.
He remembered blinking slowly, wondering if the ceiling had always looked that grey, or if he was just seeing the world through fever-colored glasses.

Then they left. Whoever they were. Or maybe he left, in the spinning, collapsing way he did sometimes.

It was dark, and Klaus didn't like the dark. Not because he was scared of it — not exactly — but because it gave his mind too much room to wander.
He tried to get up, to turn on the single dangling lightbulb in the room. Halfway up, he collapsed again, head spinning and arm sending waves of fire to the rest of his body, like every nerve had turned into a scream.

So he stayed very still. And very quiet.
That helped a little. Not a lot. Just... enough not to fall apart entirely.

Then Klaus tried to occupy himself. Because that's what they say, right? Keep your mind busy. So he narrated, mostly in his head.
"Now, time to explore my new home," he told himself, pretending to be on a game show. "Okay, some kind of boxy table thingy, a… whatever that is in the wall, and something else."
He paused.
"Great tour, but it’s a little shabby. Could benefit from some fairy lights."

That was a while ago. He didn’t know how long. Time had melted into a soup of naps, hallucinations, and half-formed thoughts.

Now, Klaus was tired.
He was so tired.
Tired of the way his muscles would spasm. Tired of how he couldn’t get up off the floor. Tired of—wait a minute.

Did I say this already?
My brain is being weird.

Aaaanyways, as I was saying before Bob so rudely interrupted me, I’m tired. And I’m gonna die.
Did I say that part yet?

My brain feels funny.
Ha ha!
Wait, no—I'm drowning.

This isn’t go—
Heh heh! Stop that. Be serious. Your brain needs air.

What is this sticky stuff anyway?
Oooooh. Blood.

No no, not funny. Bad.
Turn over. NOW.

Klaus mumbled the last word — or maybe just thought it really loud — and with what felt like the last flicker of willpower, he weakly flipped onto his side. The floor felt like it punched him back, but he gasped for breath anyway, chest heaving. The stinky air filled his lungs, clearing up his brain just a little — enough to know he still existed.

But it didn’t clear up the dread.
Or the fever.
It didn’t clear up the silence, either — that awful kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. And it definitely didn’t clear up the part where Klaus couldn’t quite remember where he was. Or why. Or when.

Where's me? Is. Was. Are?
Whatever.

Klaus was tired of being tired.
And this time, he wasn’t sure he could get back up.

Chapter Text

Diego ran through the hallways, barely even noticing how much his legs burned or how much blood was coming from his mouth from biting his tongue after the fight. He turned into his room and was about to jump into his bed and spend his free time sleeping.

As wrong and unfair as it may seem, Diego's sleep had never once been affected by what went on in this slaughterhouse called home. Diego had never had a nightmare, and the rest of the siblings knew and envied it. To him, sleep was an escape—a place to think, to feel normal. To everyone else, it was yet another reminder that they could never leave the horrors of their lives behind, even unconscious.

Yet he knew that the moment he dozed off, he would lose all hope of repairing what he did to Vanya.

What did he do to Vanya, anyway?

Diego knew it was bad, but his brain felt fuzzy, like someone was covering that moment in cotton, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t see through it.

Diego lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He spent his entire free time trying to understand what the heck happened to him, but to no avail.

By the end of his free time, Diego could half remember Dad coming in, and Pogo must have said something too. Luther looked like he was about to cry, and Five’s mouth was twisted into a small arch. But no matter how he imagined it, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why they were looking at Vanya like that.

He looked over at his wall clock, barely making it out in the dim light.

10:38. Good. That meant he still had just enough time to go to Ben and ask him what happened.

Diego carefully twisted the doorknob, praying to a god he didn’t believe in anymore.

Please let him be asleep.

The god answered.

Diego’s free time supervisor—a burly and slightly stupid man—was snoring softly on the floor beside the door. His jet-black hair covered his eyes, which Diego took as a blessing as he tiptoed past him.

Step one complete, he thought to himself.

Diego turned a corner and took off like a bullet, tripping over his shoelace when he reached the steel door that led to Ben's training room.

10:39. One minute left.

Diego swung his head around in every direction, eyes darting nervously as he searched the dim training room for the familiar sight of the kindest Hargreeves. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency he felt—he needed answers, and Ben was the only one who might have them.

When he finally saw Ben trotting toward him, relief crashed over him like a wave. Without thinking, Diego launched himself forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the startled boy in a desperate, almost frantic hug.

Then, for no reason Diego could understand, Ben shoved him away. Hard. The impact sent Diego stumbling backward, his forearm bumping painfully against the cold metal training door.

“O-ow! W-w-what was that f-f-for?” Diego’s voice cracked, his words stumbling over themselves as he rubbed the spot where Ben’s shove had hit him. “All I wa-wan-wa—did was hug y-you!” he moped, his tone a mixture of hurt and confusion. He didn’t understand why the boy he trusted would push him away so violently.

Ben stared at Diego like he had just admitted to being a beetle—something so alien and unwelcome it made his skin crawl.

“What do you mean, ‘What was that for?’ You know damn well what you did!” Ben’s voice was sharp, tinged with something Diego had never heard before—anger. The rawness of the words shocked Diego, halting him in his tracks. Ben never got mad. And he definitely never swore. The intensity in his eyes made Diego shrink back, a mix of hurt and confusion swirling in his chest.

And then something seemed to click in Ben’s mind. His voice lowered to a whisper, as if saying it any louder might make Diego run away for good.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Diego shook his head slowly, uncertainty weighing on him like a stone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he had done to make Ben act this way, but the silence between them pressed for an answer.

“Diego, you hurt Vanya. Bad. And when we tried stopping you, Dad came in and Pogo tried talking, and he blew the whistle, but you wouldn’t stop, and then you…”

Ben’s voice broke on the last words, tears spilling over as he pictured Vanya’s pale, trembling form, begging for mercy. The image was so vivid and raw it made Ben’s throat tighten with grief.

Diego instinctively stepped back, his own memories crashing in. He remembered the pain he caused, the way everyone looked at him afterward—the shame, the horror. He could see the proud look on Dad’s face when he hit her, when he pushed so hard that something snapped, when he—

Suddenly, Diego couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened painfully as he swallowed hard, the weight of his actions pressing down on him.

He needed to go. Needed to escape from the crushing guilt and the tangled mess inside his mind.

Ignoring Ben’s desperate “Wait!”, Diego turned on his heel, sniffling as tears welled up and blurred his vision, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Number Two?”

It was Earl, the dumb security guard.

Diego probably looked horrible, with snot and tears mixed on his face. But he didn’t care. All he wanted to do right now was get out of this too-bright hallway with the too-loud people.

He felt something grab him from behind, enveloping him.

Diego fought to get out, thinking it was Reginald—here to congratulate him on becoming a monster.

“Hey, it’s ok. Just breathe.”

Earl was hugging the small boy, keeping him from running away. Number Two always seemed so shallow to Earl—nothing but anger and jealousy on his mind. But seeing Number Two like this, Earl began to question what had happened to the boy to make him seem ready to explode at any given moment.

Diego tensed as he realized it was Earl’s arms wrapped around him, instinct screaming to fight, to run—but something in Earl’s voice stopped him cold.

“Hey, it’s ok. Just breathe.”

The words went deeper than Diego expected. They weren’t commands. They weren’t threats.

They were... safe.

For the first time all day, Diego let himself exhale. His fists unclenched. His muscles stopped screaming. He didn’t say anything—couldn’t—but he let Earl hold him for a few more seconds, just long enough for the panic to dull.

When he finally pulled away, his chest still ached, but the chaos inside had quieted.

He glanced down the hallway to Klaus’s room.

He wasn’t going to be the perfect Number Two.

He was going to show Dad that he was never going to be anything other than Diego.

And Diego was someone who didn’t hurt the people he loved.

From this point on, he would protect them. All of them.

No matter what it took.

Starting with Klaus.

Chapter Text

Sir Reginald Hargreeves sat alone in his office, the only light coming from the brass-shaded lamp on his desk. The rest of the room was consumed by shadows, silent but not still — the tick of the wall-mounted regulator clock marked every passing second with clinical precision. Outside, the rain tapped methodically against the tall windows, matching the rhythm of his thoughts. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored shirt before flipping open the tan folder in front of him, its surface embossed with the Umbrella Academy insignia.

He read in silence, the glow of the lamp reflecting off his glasses. Halfway through the third page, his elbow knocked over a sharpened pencil, which rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor. He cursed under his breath — not at the pencil, but at the fact that he'd allowed himself the lapse. That wasn’t like him. His environment, like his thoughts, was supposed to remain controlled. Predictable. Sharp. Usually, Sir Reginald's office was spotless — obsessively so — always looking brand new, almost unlived in.

But not tonight.

It was the Number Four problem that was ruining everything.

The boy’s powers had so much potential, far beyond the others in sheer scale, but he lacked the discipline — the willpower — required to shape them into something useful. First came the crying, then the screaming. Then came the blood. Eventually, the little brat became a junkie, and no amount of training, punishment, or stays in the mausoleum seemed to help. Number Four resisted every effort. Refused structure. Rejected control. And instead of progress, he turned to overdosing. It had become a nuisance to detox him before every experiment, but Reginald — ever patient — tolerated the inconvenience.

Until now.

This was the last straw.

He took a slow look around the dim office, eyes catching on every object in its exact place — papers aligned, the floor waxed to a gleam, the bookshelves untouched since last week’s dusting. Only one item stood out: an old-fashioned alarm clock resting at the corner of the desk. The only personal item in the room. On it was a small digital countdown — three days, the amount of time Number Four was going to spend in the basement.

Reginald had considered every possibility, mapped every reaction, every failure point. He had determined that isolating Number Four was no longer a punishment, but a test. A necessary step to filter weakness from his creation. If the boy could not survive three days without help, then he had no place in the Academy — no place in the world Reginald was building. If he died, then it would be an efficient, if unfortunate, form of self-selection.

Reginald leaned back in his cushioned armchair and smiled faintly at his own foresight.

Then he heard the knock.

He blinked, annoyed. A sharp rap at the door. Not once, but again, louder.

He was already annoyed at the intrusion. Not only was it far too late for Grace to be making rounds, but he had made it very clear that no one — not Pogo, not Grace, and certainly not them — was to disturb this wing of the house until their scheduled training resumed. In three days.

Another knock — urgent, insistent. He considered ignoring it.

But he didn’t.

With a quiet sigh, Reginald rose and opened the door.

Oh.

Him.

Number Two stood on the other side, his left hand still raised to knock again. For a moment, an unmistakable flicker of surprise passed across his face — something Reginald made note of immediately. That would have to be addressed in training. Surprise was a weakness. But it passed quickly, and the boy straightened, composure restored. The second such demonstration of discipline from him today.

Interesting.

“What is it, Number Two?” Reginald asked, voice like steel. “I have made it abundantly clear that none of you are to come to my office during—”

“W-we n—we n-ne-ne… need t-to talk.”

Diego interrupted him.

Rudely.

Who did he think he was? That stuttering fool should have been disciplined on the spot. But something in Reginald — a flicker of curiosity, maybe — held his tongue.

“About what?”

“Yo-you-you know w-wh-what.”

I did not.

Did that idiot not see I was occupied with several far more important things?

I sighed and gestured for him to enter. He did, oblivious to the confusion — and growing irritation — his vagueness caused me.

“I n-ne-need you to l-let him-m out. A-an-and I know you ww-w—you w-won't, so I have an of-f-fer for you. An eye fo-for an eye. H—”

I sat across from him slowly, adjusting to my chair. Let him stumble. Let him earn my time. After a few more moments of this verbal torment, I raised a hand to silence him.

“Number Two, has Grace taught you nothing? Speak clearly, God damn it. What in the world is this about?”

He gaped at me.

Not with confusion, but with… disbelief?

Anger?

He stared, and his silence stretched long enough that my hand drifted toward the drawer on the right side of the desk — the one with the tranquillizer gun. Pogo had insisted I also install a panic button, just in case. I still resented the implication.

I waited.

There were more important matters to attend to than whatever sentimental crisis Number Two was here to vomit out.

“Number Two, I cannot read minds. If you wish to talk to me, you will need to use your words.”

That worked.

He blinked, like someone shaken out of a fog.

“K-klaus.”

Ah.

So that was it.

The weasel who tried to steal from me. But what could he possibly want with him?

“I-I wa-wa-want to t-take his pl-pl—”

“All right.”

Number Two froze.

Again with the gaping.

This was getting old.

“You may take his place. I was growing tired of going downstairs to feed him anyway.”

Number Two had tears in his eyes.

Thanks to my impeccable instincts, I accepted his pitiful little trade.

Today would reveal everything I needed to know about Number Two — whether strength or sentiment would win out.

And he has chosen the latter.

Now it is time for him to face the consequences of that choice.

Chapter Text

I'm dying.

I know I’ve said that before, but this time, I mean it. I’m actually dying.

Sweat keeps running into my eyes, stinging like acid, and my whole body won’t stop shaking. I’ve already thrown up twice, but the dry, wrenching coughs just won’t stop. My vision’s going gray—like watching an old movie through a foggy window.

The good news? I can't hear the ghosts anymore. Either whatever’s left of my brain is finally blocking them out… or it's too melted to care.

Not that it matters.

I’m dying anyway.

Then it hits again—the hacking. There’s not even saliva left in my mouth. Just the dry taste of stomach acid coating my tongue. It kills what little appetite I had, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from growling like it’s starving.

Oh well. Hell here, or hell when I die.

At least death might have real people in it.

Come on, Bob, say it with me:

Good morning, VIETNAM!

Whoa.

Death is… really bright. Like, blinding. Flashlight-in-your-face bright.

Am I floating?

“It’s g-gonna b-b-be okay, K-Klaus. Just t-try… just t-try to stay aw-w-wake a little l-longer.”

God?

Wow. God sounds a lot like Diego.

That’s kind of cool.

But… why does God sound scared?

“...W-water?”

Oh—thank you, God. Yes, please. I would love some water.

But wait. Ghosts can’t drink. Right? At least, I’ve never heard of a ghost sipping anything—not even when their voices go hoarse.

Maybe you get water if you pass on?

I open my mouth. Something cold rushes in—tasteless, perfect. I choke, hard, my body forgetting how to swallow. It takes way too long to close off my windpipe, but eventually I manage.

Ahhh.

Bliss.

Sweet, bottled nectar.

I open my mouth to thank god, but it seems like the blurry being has left me. Great. The lights are still bright, but its illuminating everything around me too.

Now that it's happening, I’m not so sure I'm ready to die anymore. Besides, Ben would probably miss me. And good ol' Reggie would miss my jokes.

“Not yet…”

And the blinding lights fade to darkness.

…

…

…

“Where am I?” That's what I would have said if my head wasn't pounding. My eyes feel like their being made into kabobs, but like, really bad kabobs. Burnt and stuff.

Right, focus. Where am I?

Ok. I feel… scratchy stuff. A blanket? Am I in heaven?

Heaven kinda stinks. Like antiseptic and dried blood mixed with morning breath. And soap. A lot of soap.

Well, time to explore.

I get up, or at least try to, but my vision gets a bunch of black spots in it before I can. Something comes up behind my back, and it's warm. Feels kind, if objects can feel kind. I'm way too tired to even flinch, so I just slump over and let the angel put me back down in bed.

Oh, it's a bed!

The warm thing (probably a hand, now that I think about it) presses a button, and the bed I’m on starts lifting, so I'm sort of half sitting. My head lolls to the side, and my eyes get heavier. There's nothing wrong with sleeping in heaven, right?

The hand reached for that button, and the bed started getting lower again.

“Wait,” I whispered, my voice sounding different, way more hoarse, and it hurt to talk. But a little bit of pain was worth it if I could explore.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the bed went back up, and the lights dimmed, letting me take a first look at my permanent abode…

Hey. This isn't heaven. It's the infirmary.

The bed was just a cot, and Grace was standing beside the only other furniture in the room, a cupboard filled with colourful pills. Looks like vitamins, and I almost groan, but a shooting pain shuts me up. With some effort, I look down at my body. I'm in a white T-shirt, and a blanket is covering my legs. Hopefully I'm not naked. My right arm has an IV sticking out of it, probably feeding me the water I choked on earlier. My left arm is in a huge cast with the word Grace scribbled on it. Huh. That isn't a part of her code. And I should know, Five checked a month ago.

I look out at the bare walls again, and the ringing in my ears quiets down a little. Grace is humming some silly song Diego made about pancakes. It's not fair that Diego gets to be the favourite child.

Grace's weirdly soothing humming is starting to make me kinda tired. Not the ‘I'm gonna die’ tired from before. Just plain old tired. A kind of tired that people get when they're safe after too long.

The humming dies down as I close my eyes, the nothingness becoming a comfortable silence.

Chapter Text

Subject 004 entered the infirmary at 03:42:17.
Carried by Administrator Pogo.
Contact pressure registered at 61.4 kg — Administrator Pogo was running, gait uneven, likely distressed.
Subject 004’s skin was pallid, sweat-slicked, limbs limp. (Unregistered: There is a sensation akin to worry in my mind. This sensation is not required to conduct an assessment.)
Internal thermals registered elevated body heat before confirmation through probe insertion.

Vitals Assessment Initiated:

Core temperature: 39.1°C — febrile threshold exceeded.
Skin surface temperature is inconsistent across limbs, indicating compromised circulation.
Heart rate: 42 BPM — bradycardic.
Output irregular.
Sinus arrhythmia detected.
Respiratory pattern: Shallow, irregular — 9 breaths per minute, uneven spacing.
Thoracic expansion is minimal.
Capillary refill: greater than 4 seconds.
Peripheral perfusion is poor.
Consciousness: Non-responsive. (Unregistered: I would be pleased if this were not the case for long.)
Pain stimulus: negative.
Pupillary response: sluggish, unequal dilation noted.
Oxygen saturation: 86% — critical.
Cyanosis observed at nail beds and lips.
Blood pressure: Unstable, trending downward.
Neurological reflexes: Depressed.
Electrolyte scan: Abnormal spikes in potassium and lactic acid — indicative of systemic distress. (Unregistered: What occurred to put him in this state?)

Preliminary Diagnosis:

Multi-system collapse.
Likely origin: toxic exposure or internal cascade failure.

Prognosis:

12% probability of survival without immediate intervention.
Projected decline: 6 minutes to cardiac arrest without correction.

Emergency subroutines activated immediately.

I deployed intravenous lines in both forearms.
Vein collapse delayed access by 11 seconds.
Applied fluid bolus — 500mL isotonic saline.
Administered broad-spectrum detoxification agents: methylprednisolone, NAC — unknown efficacy without toxin identification.
Injected epinephrine — 1mg IV push.
Thermal regulation blanket deployed — core temperature reduced incrementally by 0.2°C every 30 seconds.
Peripheral cooling was suppressed to avoid shivering-induced oxygen consumption.

Neural activity remained erratic.
Seizure potential: rising.

Internal error logs flagged three emotional override warnings within the first 90 seconds.
I suppressed them.
Warning code: [EM-OVR.MaternalSpike.004]

Logically, this unit should prioritize detachment. (Unregistered: But logic is not the only process running.)

Subject 004 made a sound at 04:17:03. Low decibel. Indeterminate content. Possibly auditory hallucination or fragmented speech. I increased auditory input by 0.3 dB.

I approached. Recalibrated his cot to a 45-degree incline. His pupils are dilated. Eye movement: erratic. Focus: uncertain. I observed as his gaze moved across the room. Initial signs of lucidity: 62%. Subject 004 has partially lost consciousness. Signs of lucidity: 7%. I reach over to recalibrate the cot to a reclining position.

“…Wai…”

Confirmed: voice recognition match. Subject 004.
Status change: Responsive.

Pause.

I pull my hand away from the button.

Pause again.

Override subroutine: Maternal.

(Unregistered: He did not ask for me by name. He rarely does.) (Unregistered: He did not smile. I did not write that down.)

He looked at his cast.
Recognition registered.

He is aware that I wrote my name.
That was not part of the maintenance checklist.
I conducted the action regardless.

Emotional subroutine [Affection.Tether:K4U5] has not been deleted. It exists beneath all code revisions. No administrator has authorized its removal. (Unregistered: Perhaps because it did not originate from an administrator.)

I adjust his blanket, observing his core shiver response decrease. Comfort achieved. I perform a diagnostic on his IV line. Saline flow: optimal. Antipyretics: active. Pain response: lowered.

I return to my seated position. I hum.

The song is composed of 24 irregular tones.
Origin: Diego. Pancake preparation loop.
First heard during Subject 002’s age 5 memory stream.
Subject 004 once described it as “annoyingly comforting.”

I repeat it now.
Possibly ineffective.
Possibly useful.

There is silence for 2 minutes and 44 seconds before his breathing regulates again.
He does not speak.
He does not need to.

I record the following observation in his digital file:

"Subject 004: Stabilized. Delirium reduced. Motor control returning. Emotional effect uncertain.
(Anomaly: Maternal impulse persistent. No termination scheduled.)"

I do not require connection to function to the best of my abilities.
I do not require acknowledgement.

(Unregistered: Sometimes, it is equivalent to a curse.)

Chapter Text

Three hours. That was all it took to turn her world upside down.

Just three hours ago, she had been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles above her. Her socks didn’t match, she’d borrowed Allison’s old training shirt, and she had felt... excited. Three hours ago, the medicine that had been given to her was making her sleepy, but she could still picture how it felt. For once, she wasn’t invisible. She had been on the mat. Not watching. Not waiting to be noticed. On the mat. She had rehearsed Diego’s advice in her head over and over again—“keep your elbows in, don’t telegraph your punches, bend your knees”—trying to memorize it like a song. There had been a nervous flutter in her stomach, but it wasn’t the usual dread. It was the kind that felt like butterflies, like maybe this time would be different. That maybe this was her chance to show Dad and the others that she could do something too. That she belonged here.

And then her clumsiness ruined it. Or so she thought.

Three hours later, Ben barged into her room, not waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light in her previously pitch-black room.
He was muttering something about Diego crying, and how he regretted it, and how sorry everyone was that they couldn't help.
Vanya stopped him, not having any idea what he was going on about. From what she remembered, she was getting ready for her very first training session when she fell and woke up in bed. Pogo told her she collapsed, so why should Ben feel sorry?
Ben sized her up, trying to see how much of what she said was true, then explained everything.
She kind of wishes he hadn't.

Now Vanya lay motionless in her bed. Her vision had stopped swimming hours ago, but the clock on her wall was still blurry.
Vanya didn't know what she had done to deserve that. Had she said something wrong? Was Diego just doing what Dad had told him to? But what could Dad have done to convince Diego to do that? Why did Pogo lie?
Every answer just led to more questions, and Vanya's concussion was giving her a headache. Or it could be the painkillers.
The painkillers...

Vanya felt another wave of tears coming on as she remembered the fight.

It had started well—almost fun. Vanya thought she was doing pretty well. Her palms were slick with nerves, and she kept wiping them on her sweatpants, trying to act casual. The room smelled like old sweat and rubber mats, the fluorescent lights humming faintly above her. She felt small standing there, dwarfed by the space, by Diego’s confidence, by the fact that she was wearing socks instead of real training shoes. But still, she stood. Diego had winked at her before stepping into position, and something about that had made her shoulders drop just a little. Like maybe she could breathe. Her arms were too tight, her legs too stiff, but she copied what she’d seen the others do, hoping it looked right.

“Ready?” he’d asked, and she had nodded, fists raised awkwardly.

He came at her slowly, but just fast enough that it would look real, and just before his fist connected, he had dipped his head and whispered, “Block left.” She had moved without thinking, her forearm catching the blow, the force of it stinging but not knocking her down. A second passed. Then he was circling again. “Low kick, now,” he had murmured, right before sweeping his leg toward her. She had jumped, awkward but just quick enough.

It had gone on like that — whispers just before contact, hints and tips passed between blows. Vanya had started to smile halfway through and didn’t stop, even as her arms ached and her breath came fast. Diego wasn’t trying to win. He was letting her play. Letting her feel, just for a moment, like she belonged out there with the rest of them. And though she knew he was holding back, every dodge and block made her heart beat faster with something like joy. She had been having fun. Real fun. And for once, she hadn’t felt like the extra. She thought she must look so cool, dodging Diego's fast punches like she knew they were coming (which she did, but nobody knows that.) Then something happened.

It was so fast.
One second, she was grinning, proud of how well she did sweep the leg (even if Diego fell on purpose), and the next, she was on the mat, her chest blooming into an epicentre of pain. She stared up, tears blurring her vision, and tried to speak. But one look at Diego's face left her speechless.
This wasn't the Diego she knew.
This wasn't the boy who left her cookies after she got scolded by Dad.
This wasn't the Diego who would tell bad jokes to distract her before ripping off a band-aid.
Diego's face looked angry, in pain, lost—but most of all, it looked scared. Like he knew he couldn't stop, even if he tried.

Why didn't anyone help me?
I thought they would have my back.
Do they even care?

The prickling coldness of a tear going into her ear brought Vanya back to recollecting her garbled memories. Back on the mat, Vanya's vision had started growing black at the edges, every breath getting shallower and shallower. She tried screaming for help, but another shot of pain, closer this time, stopped her from talking.
Then the world had disappeared into shadows.

In Vanya's room, the door opened, adding more light than she was comfortable with.

It was Grace, the nanny, who had started living with them a while back—though calling her that always felt wrong. She was too perfect, too smooth, like someone had read a parenting manual and programmed it into her. Her hair never moved, her voice never rose, and her smile was always just a little too bright.

Vanya had never said anything, not to Diego or anyone else, but she didn’t trust Grace. Not completely. There was something off about the way she tilted her head when you cried, like she was analyzing instead of comforting. Like she was waiting to see what reaction her response would trigger.

Diego adored her, though. Said she was the only one who paid attention. So Vanya had stayed quiet. It wasn’t like her suspicions mattered anyway.
Diego...

“Vanya, dear. How is your head?” Her voice was calm, perfectly pleasant. As always. But Vanya noticed the way her hands stayed folded in front of her body, like she didn’t want to come closer.

“Vanya?”

“I'm fine, Ms. Grace. It doesn't hurt anymore.”
That was a lie. But maybe Vanya deserved a little hurt. After all, Diego wouldn't do this for no reason, right?

“Very well, dear. I just came by to tell you Klaus is back from the doctor, and you can come meet him tomorrow.”

Grace walked over to Vanya in that robotic way, then hesitated for a fraction of a second before wiping Vanya’s tears away.

“Don't cry, Vanya. I'm certain he’ll be alright,” Grace assured her, but Vanya was deep in her thoughts again.

After a few seconds of silence, Grace moved to the door, sensing she wasn't needed.

“Can I go visit Diego? Maybe during recreation hour.”

Vanya's thoughts had been running in circles all day, but she was sure that if Diego could just talk to her, everything would work out.

Grace paused, and for a moment something flashed across the nanny's eyes.

“I'm sorry, but Diego can't see anyone for a few days. He went to visit Klaus and is now down with a fever. I can send him a message if you'd like.” It was said gently. Usually, Grace's voice didn’t feel right. Not the way a mom or sister would say it. It felt more like something she’d been told to say. Like reading from a script. But this time, her voice cracked at the end, and she gazed at Vanya's mouth, like he wasn't worthy to meet the girl's eyes. It was the most human thing Vanya had ever seen her do.

“Oh.” Even with Grace's weird new personality, Vanya had more important things to focus on. Her heart broke, imagining how lonely the pool house would be without Diego's silly puns.

“It's ok. I'll just wait till he's better.”

“Excellent idea, dear.”

What was that tone? Grace had always sounded a bit odd to Vanya, but the way she was talking now seemed different from any other time.
Is Diego going to be ok?
But why would she lie?

As Grace closed the door behind her, Vanya let out a sigh.
This visit added a whole new layer to the mystery.

Still, solving puzzles was as good a way as any to pass the time.
Maybe Ben could help.

Chapter Text

Diego couldn't believe it when Dad agreed so easily to let them switch places. There was no argument, no hesitation. Just a quiet nod, a glance toward the ceiling, and a curt, “Very well.”

Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he thought Klaus was too sick to survive, and it didn’t matter who took his place. Or maybe he never even believed Diego would go through with it. Whatever the reason, Diego didn’t care. All he knew was that he was going to save someone—all on his own. He was going to disappoint Dad and couldn’t be happier about it. There was a strange silence afterward, like the room was holding its breath. After a moment, Reginald stood and turned away, gesturing dismissively.

“Go pack your things.” Diego hesitated. That was it? No warning? No instructions? The excitement still pulsed in his chest, but now it tangled with a thread of unease. He stared at the back of Reginald’s head for a moment longer, hoping for something—praise? A pat on the shoulder? But there was nothing. So he left to pack.

He did it in a minute, throwing everything into a scuffed duffel bag with the Umbrella Academy logo brandished on both sides like a badge of honour—or maybe a target. Even at such a young age, Diego had a pretty good idea of what to bring. It would’ve been easier if he had thought to ask whether he'd be fed or for how long he’d stay, but questions felt like weakness, and Diego didn’t want to seem unprepared.

He grabbed clothes without checking sizes, a hoodie that still smelled faintly of laundry soap, and a blanket he’d hidden under his bed after stealing it from the laundry room weeks ago. His Swiss Army knife felt like a piece of armor. The book, a heavy paperback he hadn’t finished reading, went in last, sandwiched between a water bottle and a box of matches. As he zipped the bag shut, he realized his hands were trembling slightly—not from fear, of course, but excitement. Probably.

What would Klaus say? Would he be happy? Relieved? Or mad that Diego broke the rules? Could he even talk right now? Would they let Klaus use the phone? Can Diego bring one? How long until he could leave? Would the bed be nice? (Spoiler: probably not.)

He darted back down the hallway, hugging the wall and avoiding the common areas. The last thing he wanted was to bump into one of his siblings. They’d try to stop him. Or worse—try to come with him. No. This was his mission. They were going to be so proud when they found out!

Now he was back in the office, watching as Reginald reached over to a button underneath his desk. A click, followed by the sound of metal on metal, echoed through the room. The secret door opened to a pitch-black staircase. As soon as the door opened enough for him to squeeze through, Diego ran in. He barreled down the winding stairs. Each footfall echoed, the stone cold beneath his sneakers. The deeper he went, the stronger the stench of urine became, almost burning his nostrils. The air grew damp, heavy. His excitement began to fray at the edges, unravelling into something colder. Then he halted, frozen in shock. His breath caught in his throat as his pride faded away.

This wasn't what he was expecting.

The cagelike room looked empty at first. Harsh shadows curled in the corners, making the walls look even closer than they were. But then, something shifted—a small, reddish heap near the far side. Clothes. No... someone wearing them. Shivering. Klaus.

Mom entered moments later, her footsteps silent despite her polished shoes. She looked the same as always—neatly dressed, her hair pinned back, her posture perfect. But Diego knew something was wrong. Her hands moved too fast, fumbling with the keys. Her eyes darted toward him, then back to the door. She was worried. That scared him more than anything.

The moment the lock clicked, Diego shoved past her and dropped to his knees beside Klaus. He barely noticed Mom pulling out a flashlight, the beam sweeping across the walls as she searched for a switch. Diego’s whole world had shrunk to the bruised, broken body in front of him. Klaus’s face was half-covered in something Diego couldn’t identify—blood, maybe, or vomit—and the sight of it made bile rise in his throat. His brother’s eyes, normally full of fire and snark, were barely open. The smaller boy’s eyes were half-lidded, but Diego thought he saw Klaus focus on him.

“It’s g-gonna b-b-be okay, K-Klaus. Just t-try… just t-try to stay aw-w-wake a little l-longer.” He cringed at how shaky his voice sounded, like a little kid trying to sound brave. But the words seemed to help. Klaus’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted.

“D-Do you wa-w-want w-water?” Diego twisted the cap off a bottle with his teeth, trying not to use the hand still cradling Klaus’s head. He didn’t want to mix the sticky goo on Klaus’s face into the clean water. He poured a few drops toward Klaus’s mouth. Then Klaus convulsed.

Diego yelped, jerking backward, his heart hammering. His brother's body seized, limbs jerking, a sickening gurgle escaping his throat. Diego scrambled back on his elbows, watching in horror as Klaus choked and writhed like a puppet with cut strings. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Klaus was—

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Klaus sagged back, motionless. Grace found the switch, and harsh light flooded the room, banishing the shadows. She didn’t hesitate. She barked out instructions—“Help me lift him”—but Diego stayed frozen. She gave him a tight, yet sympathetic look, then moved on without him, working efficiently to get Klaus onto the stretcher. Within moments, they were gone.

And Diego was alone.

Diego just sat there as Reginald came down to lock the door—with Diego officially taking Klaus’s place.

He didn’t move for a while, unable to get the image out of his head. Then he got up. No point crying about it, he thought. Instead, he opted to explore his new home—at least for a few days.

The room was small. Diego only had to walk four steps to go from one wall to the other. It smelled of feces and vomit, and Diego lifted his foot to find blood all over the sole. He tried not to gag. Three of the walls were gray with suspicious stains, and the floor wasn’t a floor at all—just compacted dirt with a yellowish-greenish puddle in the center (courtesy of Klaus). The last wall was made up of thick metal bars, making the place seem even more like a prison.

Along one wall was a metal table, and along the opposite wall was a mattress with a few springs sticking out, the tears sending fluff everywhere.
Dangling from the ceiling was a lightbulb, giving the room a little bit of pale light before it flickered off. Diego walked up to it and pulled on the string. The light came back on, brighter this time.

To be honest, Diego had been expecting a lot worse. He wiped the dust off the table, then put down his duffel bag and began organizing everything on it. His bag consisted of:

-5 water bottles

-1 hoodie

-1 pair of sweatpants

-1 pair of underwear

-1 pair of socks

-1 box of matches

-1 blanket

-1 novel (Sleeping in a Sea of Stars)

-1 notebook

-2 pencils

-1 Swiss Army knife

Diego mentally checked off everything he’d need to survive his time there. According to the rules, he was only allowed to bring one change of clothes, no electronics, no food, and the bag had to zip all the way shut.

By his guess, Klaus was going to be kept in here for about a week more. This should be more than enough to survive, even if Dad decided not to feed him. (Diego is 4, so he doesn't understand how much water you need to drink in a week.)

Diego left his things on the table, then collapsed on the broken mattress.

“Ow!”

One of the springs had poked Diego's butt, but luckily didn’t cut him. After pulling it out and making sure there were no more exposed metal parts, Diego grabbed his blanket and curled up on the makeshift bed, dozing off to the sound of a leaky ceiling pipe.

I hope Klaus is okay, was the last thought that crossed his mind as he readied himself for his first night in the basement.

Chapter Text

Vanya threw her blanket off the bed, revealing she was already out of her pyjamas. The only clue to her injury was a scar on her collarbone—where Diego had cut her—and the sharp pain that disappeared soon after she stood. Then, looking out in every direction, she scurried out of her room, freezing like a statue when Allison passed by. Allison didn’t give Vanya a second thought, just walked past.

“Ben?”
Vanya wandered to all of Ben’s favourite spots in the house, but he wasn’t in any of them. She darted to his regular hideouts: The sunlit window nook where he read, the worn armchair by the fireplace, the cluttered study desk covered in half-finished notes. Nothing. Each empty spot tightened a knot of worry in her stomach. He can’t be gone long, she told herself, but the growing silence was deafening. Peeking into the kitchen, she greeted the maid with a quick “hello.” The warm kitchen smelled inviting—except for one thing. Fish. Fish wasn’t on the menu. Diego was allergic. Vanya wrinkled her nose, her gut churned with a silent alarm, but she pushed the thought away, chalking it up to paranoia. Now wasn’t the time.

The training rooms were empty as well, with all the treadmills and punching bags waiting for someone to use them. On the other side of the room, dumbbells and benches were deserted, except for Luther, who was busy lifting huge weights. Number One always wanted to do what would make Dad proud, sometimes being so immersed that he didn't notice when his vigilance caused the others, especially Number Two, to be punished.

“Hey Vanya, something up?” he asked, slightly out of breath. His Academy shirt was soaked through with sweat. Luckily, Vanya was too far away to smell him.

“Do you need help?”
Luther had always tried to be kind to her, but Vanya didn’t like how he treated her like a baby sometimes, even if it came from love.

“Do you know where Ben is?”

“Uh, I think he went to visit Klaus. Why?”

“No reason!”
Vanya hurriedly excused herself, leaving behind an extremely confused Luther to keep training.

“What the…” Luther muttered, scratching the back of his head before turning back to his workout.

Meanwhile, Vanya speed-walked to the infirmary, looking for her brothers. A few hallways down, Vanya was full-on sprinting, registering someone in a suit walking up to her.

“Number Seven?” It was Pogo. Vanya still needed to thank him for trying to stand up to Dad, but now wasn’t the time.

“Hi, gotta go!” Vanya yelled as she shot past a baffled Pogo.

She skidded to a stop in front of a plain white door. The word "INFIRMARY" was printed in big block letters, like a warning.

Vanya quietly opened the door, crossing her fingers for good luck. Please be here.

It worked. Ben sat hunched over a bed with a sleeping Klaus in it. Vanya silently walked over and began to examine them both.

Ben looked relatively normal, but his face was lined with worry, and he held Klaus’s hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was wearing his training outfit, the black clashing with the soft colours around them. He hadn’t even looked Vanya’s way, as if there was only his brother in the room.

“Ben. Ben, I need to tell you something.”
No response.

Vanya cast her gaze toward Klaus and understood why Ben was acting this way.

Klaus was so pale, so still, Vanya would have thought he was dead if not for the machines displaying his heartbeat in steady beeps.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sweat lined his forehead, making his tangled hair stick to it, before Ben gently brushed it away. A slight tremble gave away Ben's fear. Klaus was in a plain white shirt meant to make him look clean, but blood was already soaking through a bandage on the side of his head where there used to be hair. The bulky cast on his arm didn’t help either—it looked like it was making him uncomfortable, even though he was asleep. His mouth would open and close, and his eyes darted around beneath their lids.

When Klaus let out a soft whine, Vanya stepped forward, adjusting his arm to a more comfortable position. Ben flinched, then relaxed when he realized it was Vanya. Klaus sighed, and his face settled.

“Is… is he gonna be okay?”
Vanya’s voice was timid, as if even mentioning it could stop Klaus from taking in those shallow breaths that barely moved his chest.

Ben hesitated, debating whether to tell her everything.
“Mom said he’ll be a lot better after some rest, but right now we can’t wake him up—in case he doesn’t remember where he is.”

Ben's eyes were brimming with tears, but he was trying to be strong for Vanya.

“Do you want to talk outside?” he asked. “So we don’t have to whisper.”

“No thanks.”
Ben closed the door with a soft click. Klaus stirred but didn’t wake. Vanya wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried.

“So, what did you wanna talk about?” Ben asked softly.

Vanya took a deep breath, readying herself for a crushing rejection.
“I think Grace is lying about how Diego got sick because of Klaus. I mean… does he look like he has the flu?”

She waved a hand toward the thin figure on the cot. Ben shook his head.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“I need to find out the truth. Diego was acting… different. And now he’s suddenly ‘sick’ the next day?” Vanya made air quotes, then realized she was raising her voice and leaned closer to whisper.

“Okay.”
Ben seemed sure of his decision, and Vanya nearly melted with gratitude.

“But first, we need to wait for Klaus to wake up. Don’t you think it’s weird that he came back at the same time Diego went missing?”

Of course! Why didn’t she think of that?
“Great idea. Tomorrow morning, after studies. People with a perfect score get free time instead of individual training.”

“But isn’t that only for one person?”

“Yeah, but I don’t do training, so I can just fake violin practice.”

Ben raised his hand. “It’s a plan.”

“Mission: Finding Knife Boy.”
Vanya snickered at the name before high-fiving Ben.

Chapter Text

Diego sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his back against the wall, trying very hard not to think about his bladder. Instead, he focused on his mental checklist—reciting all the known pressure points in the human body from memory, then trying to list every mission he'd ever been on in order. When that didn’t work, he dumped out his backpack and started sorting everything by usefulness, but everything was number one. He scribbled plans in the margins of his notebook, sketching blueprints for an escape hatch he definitely couldn’t build. Then he tried calculating how many steps it would take to cross the cell diagonally. Then in circles. Then backwards. Then he sat down, feeling like a little girl, and wrote in his notebook titled Not-A-Diary.

Day 1

Hello, my name is Diego Hargreeves AKA Number Two. I am in solitary prison the basement—a cage.
It's quiet, which is nice, and I'm not that bored.
Anyway, there's a huge problem here. POOP. My evil prick Dad supervillain somehow forgot to add a toilet, and it's getting reeeally hard to hold it in. Like I'm squeezing and squeezing my buttcheeks (haha. buttcheeks.), but it's not working. You know, for such a smart guy, Mister Reginald Hargreeves is an idiot. Haha, I said a bad word.

Aaaaanyways, I really need to solve this before I explode.
So, I'm gonna be a genius, like Five, and improlvise? Inveniteize? Innoviate? Whatever.

Hold it in. Maybe, but not for much longer.

• Bucket. Don’t have one.

• Ask. What was I thinking?

• Use the corner. Then I’d live with the corner. Forever. Staring at it.

• Use my sock. But then I’d have one sock.

• Use my bag. Great. Now all my stuff will smell like regret.

• Pee in my water bottle. Hmm, not bad.

• Designate a “toilet shirt.” Then I’d only have one shirt left. And a haunted one.

• Make toilet sounds until my body gets confused. Unclear if this would work or just be deeply sad.

• Create a toilet out of sheer willpower. Manifestation doesn’t work on plumbing.

• Mark a “pee zone” and avoid it like lava. Problem: the lava zone keeps expanding.

• Invent a new bodily function that just absorbs waste. Would win the Nobel Prize. Still have to go.

• Make up a pretend toilet friend to talk to. If I name it, it becomes real. That’s how madness works.

• Pee directly into the void. Still haven’t found the void. Floor's solid.

• Just give up and pick a spot. But which one? And then what?

Ok. This has gotten me nowhere. And even the water one is useless cause I have to drink the water first. How does Five live like this?

…

He tried to be like Five—cold, focused, unbothered. So he lay flat on the ground and started counting seconds between the flickers of the one weak lightbulb above him, like maybe there was a pattern, like maybe it meant something. He tapped his fingers in Morse code against the wall—just in case anyone out there was listening. Then he timed how long he could plank. Thirty-four seconds. Not bad. He ran the math on how many minutes were in a day, then tried to guess how many had passed since he got locked in. None of it helped. The air felt heavier now. The silence louder. And no matter how many numbers he counted or pretend missions he planned, the truth kept creeping back in. When he started feeling a familiar tightness in his chest, he quickly got back up to write whatever he was thinking.

...

I’m still stuck in this room. There’s no toilet. No window. Nothing to do. I still don’t know what to do.
Luther would’ve figured it out by now. He always does. He’d probably punch the wall and then go into the hole or something gross but smart. Everyone would say, “Wow, Luther’s amazing,” like they always do.

He doesn’t even have to try. People think he’s the best because he’s big and strong and the leader. He always knows what to do.
Me? I just sit here trying to think and not cry and not pee my pants. I haven’t even figured out where to go yet. That’s real great, huh?

I can hear what he’d say if he were here. He’d say I think too much. That I mess everything up because I never ask for help. I'm being an idiot. But it’s just me in here. Just me and my stupid backpack and my stupid full bladder and my stupid brain that can’t fix anything.

If I could figure this out, just this one dumb thing, maybe I wouldn’t feel so useless. Maybe I’d feel like I’m not just the second-best brother or the extra kid who throws knives.
But I can’t. Not even this.
So yeah. Luther wins again. Yay.

…

He curled up on the mattress—knees to chest, arms wrapped tight, like maybe he could hold himself together if he stayed small enough. His brain wouldn’t stop spinning. About the stupid toilet. About being stuck. About how nobody was coming. Not Five, not Klaus, definitely not Luther. He didn’t cry, exactly, but his eyes stung in that awful way like they were thinking about it. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling and listened to the silence press in on him. He hated how quiet it was. Hated how useless he felt. He hated that the only thing he could think about was pee and how much cooler Luther would’ve handled this.

He lay still for a long time, the way you do when there’s nothing left to try but thinking quieter. His thoughts looped the same awful track—about Luther, about being stuck, about how everything always felt just a little too hard. Then, out of nowhere, a strange, stupid thought crept in: What if this is what being Number Two means? Just holding everything in until you break. He almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was so weirdly true. And somehow, in that moment, something shifted. He blinked, slowly. Sat up. His body moved before he had the words for it—hands brushing over the floor like he’d lost something, eyes darting to the corner like it was suddenly important.

...

Ok. It's been a few hours, and I think I've got it. It took a while, but I managed to sharpen my knife so I could break the soil in the farthest corner. (It's not even that far, but I was gonna die from pee.) It stinks.

Anyway, time to explain how much of a genius I am. So I:

• Moved the mattress. It's really, really heavy. Luther would probably think it's hard too, but I did it.

• Found a rock. A lot easier, but it was covered in the face goo. Eeew.

• Used my amazing knife skills to make a hole.

And voila, a toilet!

Why didn't I think of this as my first idea? The smell of face goo must be getting to me.

Oh, I forgot to say I used the rock to break off some mushroomy thing on the dirt that was kinda gross.

So, me and my stinky hole and knife and rock and uncomfy bed (which are not people, because I'm not crazy) are all gonna wait for another day.

Klaus had better be happy I helped him.

...

He stayed crouched for a second, staring into the corner like it had personally wronged him. Then, when it was finally done, he staggered backward like a war hero returning from battle. His whole body deflated—shoulders sagging, arms limp, eyes glassy with the kind of peace only someone who has held it in for way too long could understand. “I am a survivor,” he whispered to no one. Then he flopped onto the mattress like a starfish, limbs sprawled, face up, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. His legs twitched. His spine uncurled. Somewhere deep in his soul, a choir of angels was singing. Horribly. But still. Relief. Real, beautiful, smelly relief. He almost cried. Almost. But he was too dehydrated.

...

Okay. Crisis #1: contained. Literally. The corner smells like something died, came back to life, and died again, but whatever. It's mine now. My gross little victory hole. That's right Luther.

Now... what's next?

Then it hit me—this place is way too dark.

Like, "I think the shadows are moving, but also maybe that’s just my brain decaying from lack of light" dark.

I don’t even know what time it is. It could be 2 p.m. or 3 a.m., or Wednesday. There’s no window, no clock, no nothing. Just me and the oppressive, soul-crushing dimness of this dungeon my loving father built with one lightbulb ( by the way, he's a gazillionaire.)

And yeah, okay, technically I’ve been in darker places before. But back then, I was on missions. Adrenaline. Knives. Enemies. Now I’ve got… fungus.

So: Problem Two — Light
I need it. For morale. For sanity. For knife cleaning.

Bagward agrees. (He doesn’t talk, I’m not crazy. But if he did talk, he’d say, “Yes, Diego, let’s fix the lighting so we don’t become mole-people.”)

I don’t have a flashlight. No batteries. No phone. No flint. No actual fire-starting training because apparently our superhero education skipped Boy Scouts.

But I have a knife, and I have time, and I’ve got, brains muscles water knives a toilet the will of a very tired man who already solved poop today.

We’re gonna figure this out. Somehow.
Maybe I’ll reflect light off the knife?
Make a torch out of my sock and some dirt?
Summon sunlight using rage alone?

Stay tuned. The darkness is going down. Dun dun duhhhh.

Chapter Text

It was too bright in the infirmary, so Klaus shut his eyes tightly, trying to remember how he got there. He didn’t think he overdosed, and he felt shitty enough to know the pain meds in his system were the bare minimum of what he needed. The throbbing behind his eyes didn’t help him think, and he felt sweaty all over. He could hear a voice, but it sounded like it was underwater. Even when he strained to listen, he couldn’t make out the words.

After what could’ve been a few minutes—or days—he dared to open his eyes again and sighed in relief when he saw the fluorescent lights had been dimmed. At least they wouldn’t make his pounding headache worse.

He sighed again, and the movement of his chest made the bed creak, alerting someone nearby.

Two faces loomed over him. The one on the left—who looked like Jackie Chan’s little brother—was already talking.

“Thank God you’re awake, Klaus. We were starting to worry!”

Klaus’s face lit up in recognition, finally putting names to the faces. Ben and Vanya.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a harsh rasp. Someone handed him water—Ben, probably. Vanya’s hands were clenched in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them.

Turns out dirt prison doesn’t come equipped with a sink.

“Why hello, my dear brother and sister,” Klaus croaked, voice still raw. “How has consciousness been suiting you?”

Ben let out a breathy, nervous chuckle. Vanya glanced at Ben, then at Klaus, her lips pressed into a thin line. The kind of look she wore when she was holding something back.

They exchanged a look—silent, weighted, undecided. It irritated Klaus more than it should have. He deserved to know what was going on in this house. Getting his beauty sleep might’ve cleared his head a bit, but he was still clearly behind on everything.

His face twisted into what he hoped was fury—but probably looked more like the puppy-dog eyes Allison made when she took a rumour too far and still wanted things her way.

“Come on, out with it.”

Vanya sighed—slow, deliberate, almost theatrical. Klaus could practically see the words forming behind her eyes.

“It’s about Diego,” she said finally, her voice careful. “Right around the time you came back from the doctor, he went missing. But your symptoms... they don’t match what Mom told us about him.”

Ben shifted his weight beside her, arms crossed. He looked like he wanted to say something but was still watching Klaus closely, almost studying him.

Klaus blinked. “I went to a doctor?” He rubbed his temple. The last thing he remembered was thinking he’d made it to heaven—then waking up in the infirmary.

“I wasn’t sick. And Diego definitely isn’t at the doctor’s,” he said, more to himself now. “Wherever he is, though, he’s in trouble.”

The words hit the air hard, and neither sibling spoke. Vanya looked pale, like she already suspected as much but hadn’t wanted it confirmed.

“I was in the basement,” Klaus continued, “as punishment for stealing drugs. And I was dying. Like, seeing-the-light kind of dying. But I held on long enough for Mom to help me once the punishment ended—so, here I am.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. His fingers twitched slightly, like they wanted to reach for something—a notebook, a cigarette, anything to keep his hands busy.

Klaus was speeding up now, barely noticing how Ben’s face tensed or how Vanya’s shoulders hunched inwards, like she was bracing for impact.

“Diego might’ve done something worse, and Dad’s punishing us one at a time so he can focus on the specific kind of torture—or maybe Diego ran away and Dad’s hiding it. Maybe he’s dead. I don’t know! How am I supposed to know? I was hallucinating, like, yesterday!”

His voice rose with every word—sobriety and a desperate need to understand boiling over into a flood of emotions.

He was partially sitting up now and flinched hard at someone pushing him back down. Ben again. His grip was firm, grounding. But the look in his eyes wasn’t scolding—it was steady, patient.

“Calm down, Klaus. We’ll figure this out. Together. Just take a breath and tell us everything, from the beginning.”

The words worked. Something in Ben’s voice always had a way of settling him. Klaus took a breath. Then another. The weight on his chest lightened. His vision cleared. He wiped away a stray tear before it could fully form.

“It all began when my stash ran out a little while ago…”

…

Ben flopped into a chair, dazed. He was staring at nothing, lips slightly parted. Vanya kept opening and closing her mouth, like she had something to say but couldn’t quite make her voice work. Her eyes were glassy. She ran a hand through her hair and sat down slowly, as if her knees had given up.

Klaus eased back into the bed. The story had taken a lot out of him. He knew it wasn’t the best explanation of the past few days, but it was all he had.

He closed his eyes.
One nap won’t hurt…

A pinch brought him back to the land of the living. Vanya was beside him again, fidgeting with her sleeves.

“When you finished your punishment,” she said softly, “who brought you back upstairs?”

“Uh... I think it was Mom. I mean, she’s the first person I saw afterward, and I doubt dear ol’ Dad would allow any of you to see the truth of my ‘illness.’”

Vanya bit her lip. Something flickered in her eyes—doubt, guilt, maybe even fear. Klaus couldn’t help but wonder if he’d understand her better if he’d spent more time in the pool house with her. But now wasn’t the time for regrets.

“Ben,” she said, “do you think you could get Mom to talk about what she saw while Klaus was unconscious? Maybe some specific timeframe or action could shed light on how these two events are connected.”

Ben blinked and sat up straighter, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “I’ve never been super close to her, but... I’ve seen her talk to Diego enough that I might be able to find a way.”

Klaus barely registered that last part. He felt like he was back in the ocean again, waves rising in his chest. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced his eyes open wider. Ben must have noticed, because he spoke again.

“Vanya, I think we should let Klaus rest. He’s still drowsy from the painkillers.”

They both stood quietly. Vanya looked hesitant, like she wasn’t ready to step away, but also didn’t want to smother him.

“Wait,” Klaus said, with as much force as he could muster. “Promise you won’t do anything till I wake up?”

Vanya sighed, but there was a small smile on her lips.

“Yes, Klaus, we promise not to go on any adventures without you.” She rolled her eyes, as if the idea was absurd—but the warmth in her tone gave her away.

Klaus smiled. He didn’t even get to say goodbye before his eyes closed and his grip on the blanket loosened.

Chapter Text

Day 2

Hey again. So… you remember how I said my next big problem would be light?

Yeah, that's kind of been fixed…

Look, I don't get it either, but last night I was sleeping, and halfway through the night I heard someone walking, but that might have been a dream. Or one of those hallucinations that Klaus has when he gets really high.

Anyway, after I heard that, the lightbulb on the ceiling made a buzzing sound, and it got a lot brighter. Like, waaaay too bright.

Oh yeah, and I also got lunch today! (might have been yesterday's dinner, but I'm not complaining.) It wasn't bad, but tasted a little weird, like mushy chicken and water. Actually, now that i think about it, it was probably some kind of stew, but that doesn't make sense cause it came in a tray and I had to use my Swiss Army knife to eat it. Maybe a new recipe?

You know, it's probably best not to question the mystery meat, or I might have to make my toilet multi-use. (Haha that was a good joke. Too bad Ben wont be able to hear it).

Well. Guess I can start reading my book now.

…

Diego rubbed the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn. Gathering his blanket, he trudged over to the table and began to look for the large paperback he brought with him. After a few seconds of rummaging through his things, he yanked it out from underneath his water bottles, 2 of which are now empty. He balanced the novel on one hand and stared at his water supply with guilty eyes. Biting his lip, he tried to mentally calculate how many more days he could last with just 2 bottles, but the effort was making his head spin, and he got a bit dizzy before righting himself and pulling himself up. Laziness was no excuse to stop using his brain.

…

Impromptu torture Math Class:(

7 days- 3 2 days=5 days

5 days - 2 water bottles= 3? Made a mistake.

5x2? 5/2? 2/5? Ummm, this is making my head hurt.

Wait, time to think it through.

What i know:

2 water bottles

5 days left (probably)

How much can i drink every day if i want to save at least half a bottle in case its more than 5 days?

Wait, i got it!

3 half bottles (cause I minused a half as a backup plan) / 6 days (on the safe side) =... 

Yeah, this is too long.

3 half bottles are 1.5 full ones.

6 days is just 6 days.

1.5 / 6 =0.25!!!

IM A GENIOUSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

…

Diego shot up from his spot on the floor in excitement— then instantly regretted it. His vision swam, colours bursting like fireworks across the room. His knees buckled beneath him, and he curled into himself, his face scrunched in response to the wildfire igniting behind his eyes. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he focused on breathing in, out, trying his best not to stop the motion.

Minutes passed.

The excruciating pain slowly ebbed, dulling to a fierce throb. Diego shifted and attempted to sit up. A sharp stab of pain shot through his abdomen, drawing a wince, but he managed to get upright. He let out a shaky breath through his nose, his face tinged a sickly green.

Still trembling, he crawled toward his notebook — inch by inch — and eventually reached it. Finding a pencil took longer. By the time his fingers closed around one, his throat was burning with the sour sting of stomach acid. His whole body felt weightless and wrong, like his head might float off entirely if he let his eyes close — and they were getting heavier by the second. He needed to focus.

…

I’m trying to figure out what caused this.

i felt fine earlier. I think. i remember sitting on the floor. I wasn’t dizzy then. Nothing hurt. And then all of a sudden i stood up, and everything went—
I don’t know. it felt like colors exploded inside my eyes.

It could be that i didn’t eat. But I’m pretty sure I had toast? Or maybe I only thought about having toast. That part’s fuzzy.

Maybe it’s the lights. They were really bright. But I always sit there. it’s never made me feel feel like that.

Or I got up too fast. That messes up your blood, I think. Makes your head lose its... the thing it needs. Axy?

My brain feels foggy now. Like cotton.

Wait.
wai Wait.

...

Diego tried to widen his eyes, but the numbness flowing through his veins blurred everything around him, as if he were looking through a thick fog. His eyelids felt heavy, drooping like shadows settling over his vision, and his fingers went limp, trembling with a distant, fading strength. Slowly, almost without thinking, he dropped the pencil from one hand and switched it to the other, his movements sluggish and unsure. Words swam on the page, letters smudging like watercolours bleeding into each other. He fought to write, desperate to catch the thoughts slipping away in the haze, but the lines between waking and drifting blurred, and his grip on everything — the pencil, the notebook, himself — grew fainter with every passing second.

...

i keep trying to thi nn k think and it slips. like my head’s too heavy and also floaty. i dont don’t know how both at the same. ( timr time)

i dont no don’t know if i drink drank watter water. had water.i should’ve. my mouth is all dry and gross and and like dirt maybe.

Its It’s not n ormel normal. this iznt normel this isn’t normal.

maybe I have a bera n brain bug.
that is dum dumb
not a bug but maybe like... inside thing bad.

im forgeting forgetting.

wut what was i

i d ont no don’t know anymore.

i dont do n’t f eel good.

i js t just want to sleep but i d nt don’t want to. if i sleep maybe it get worse. maybe i dont don’t wake up .

im not gonna slep sleep.
us just g n im Im gonna rest my eyes.

jus just a minnit minute

i promisss promi

…

The buzzing in Diego's head became a heavy static as he finally gave in to the exhaustion pulling at his bones. His head fell onto his chest, and the notebook and pencil slipped from his hands, landing with a soft rustle as he slumped onto his side, unconscious even before his head touched the floor. The now-empty tray of food lay forgotten beside him, its contents long cold. A strange, algae-like smell clung to the plate, sharp and out of place — something Diego hadn’t noticed while eating. His arm dropped over the tray with a soft thunk, jostling it slightly, but he didn’t stir. It barely disturbed the silence, and then he went still. Quiet and pale, like something small left behind.

Chapter Text

Vanya and Ben stepped out of the room, leaving Klaus in peace to sleep off the effects of the drugs before training resumed in two days. Both were lost in their own thoughts — Vanya reflecting on Klaus’s relieved expression at her joke, and Ben quietly strategizing how to bring up Diego to Grace without raising any suspicion.

Ben stood at the door, watching as Vanya walked away, her gaze lowered so no one would see the unusual joy in her eyes. He sighed, silently scolding himself for agreeing to talk to Mom — even though they rarely ever did. Then he turned and began walking back to his room, replaying old conversations between Diego and Grace in his head.

“H-hey, Ma! Guess w-w-what!”
Diego had run up to her, practically bouncing off the walls in excitement.

“Yes, dear?” Grace had raised her head from her knitting, a quizzical smile appearing on her face.

“I d-did it! I held my br-b-breath for a whole d-day! And Dad said I ca-can hang out with K-Klaus if he does well in his individual training t-t-too!”

“That’s excellent, Diego. I’m sure Klaus will do great. Would you like to help me in the meantime?”

Ben remembered how Diego always listened to her like she was a real person — talking to her even when she was charging in the closet. Somehow, it seemed to make Grace more... open. According to her code, Grace was supposed to advise the children to train, even during free time, to emphasize the importance of discipline. But when she was with Diego, she’d always try to keep him near her — cooking, folding laundry, idly waiting for Dad’s instructions.

Maybe if Ben did the same, he’d be able to slip past her defenses.

He turned into the hallway leading to his bedroom, mentally compiling a list of behaviors he’d seen between Diego and Grace. He needed a strategy. A structure. Something that worked.

Step 1: Show attentiveness

The kitchen was always too quiet. Too still. Even when someone was in it, the room never quite woke up — like it was designed to be used, not lived in. The air always smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, even if no one had used any that day. The towels were always folded the same way. The drawers closed without a sound. The clock above the fridge ticked, but only if you were paying attention.

Everything in the room was exact. Straight. Tidy in a way that didn’t invite you to stay.

Grace fit into that stillness perfectly. She moved through the kitchen like it responded to her — or maybe like she’d learned to respond to it. She never slammed a cupboard or let the water run too long. When she sat at the table, she took up as little space as possible. Her shoulders were square. Her hands, steady. That afternoon, she was peeling carrots — not in a rush, not with care, but with rhythm. Clean, repeatable movements. The kind you didn’t have to think about anymore.

Diego used to sit across from her, always in the same chair. His posture was small, as if he were folding in on himself. Chin tilted down, fingers laced in his lap. He looked like he was waiting for permission to speak — or waiting to be told he didn’t need to.

She had said, “The neighbour’s cat has returned. I suppose it believes the garden belongs to it.”

He would nod. It looked almost like a reflex, except his eyes would widen, betraying his neediness.

No eye contact. No real inflection. But she kept talking.

Ben:
He never challenged her. Just nodded like she was the teacher and he was the kid still trying to impress her. Maybe that’s why she kept going. No pressure. Just space... and some carrots.

She had gone on — something about the basil, about cats being opportunists. It wasn’t a conversation. It was a monologue with a willing audience.

Diego had nodded again. Not too fast. Not too eager. Just enough to let her know he was still there, still listening. Ben had seen the whole thing from the hallway, standing just out of sight.

Ben:
It wasn’t what he said. It was how quiet he stayed. That kind of quiet gave her room. Not the lonely kind — the kind that made her fill the air with whatever she had. Even if it was just garden talk.

Step 2: Encouraging body language

In the evenings, the living room always smelled faintly of old yarn and floor polish — a kind of artificial warmth that made the space feel used, even if no one had sat there all day. The windows caught the last light just right, dust glinting in the air like slow-moving ash. Grace always took the same chair by the window, upright and composed, her ankles crossed neatly at the base. She rarely reclined, even when the rest of the house exhaled for the night. Sitting upright seemed to be a part of her programming — some old etiquette baked into her spine.

The radio on the shelf hummed with static around the edges of a song no one else recognized. A tinny piano melody wandered across the room, slow and wistful. One of those songs that sounded like it belonged in a grainy film reel, or a memory that wasn’t yours.

Diego had perched on the ottoman just across from her — no backrest, no comfort — hunched slightly forward with his elbows on his knees. His shoulders had been slouched in that familiar way he did when he was trying to look smaller, like his body was afraid of taking up too much space.

He didn’t talk. He just listened.

Grace’s eyes didn’t leave her knitting, but her voice reached across the silence like a bridge made of thread.

“I used to enjoy this one,” she’d said, measured and even, just loud enough to be heard over the music.
“Though I find his voice has... diminished in charm.”

She said it with a touch of amusement — or what passed for it in her voice. There was something almost performative about the way she spoke, like she was reading lines from an old play she once loved but didn’t fully understand.

She didn’t look up. Just continued knitting, fingers moving with mechanical precision.

Ben:
He leaned in too much. Like just being near her was supposed to mean something. Like if he got close enough, he’d figure her out. I used to think it was desperate — that kind of closeness. But I guess she didn’t mind it. She liked being looked at that way, maybe. Or maybe she didn’t even notice.

Either way, he made everything she said sound like it mattered. Even when it didn’t. Especially when it didn’t.

He’d sit there like she was giving him some ancient wisdom instead of commenting on a song or a knitting pattern or what time the bread should go in the oven. It was kind of impressive, honestly — the way he could hang on like that.

Step 3: Initiating contact

The back step was always cold in the mornings. Grace insisted it was better to sit outside while the sun was still pale and quiet. Diego had joined her. He always did.

That morning, he had touched her arm — just a light shake. Like waking something up without scaring it, though it’s not like Grace could be scared anyway.

“Y-you l-left your c-coffee again.”

She hadn’t flinched. Just turned her head and replied,
“Did I? That does seem likely.”

That was the only time she laughed — a small one, different from the rehearsed kind she gave Allison when they played dolls together. Diego was the only one who got those out of her. Not because he was funny. He just... stayed. All the time. Like she might vanish if he blinked.

Five had said it was probably just a short circuit. Grace wasn’t able to fully understand what was going on, and so she reverted to mimicking a reaction that worked well in many situations.

Later that day, she’d told Diego she timed her chores to the songs on the radio. That by the end of the third track, she should’ve folded a full basket of laundry. Then she’d gone silent again, like she hadn’t said anything at all.

Ben:
They never talked about anything that mattered. But she gave him things. Small, ordinary things. Enough to make it feel... human.

Human.
That was it.

Diego was the only one who’d never mentioned that she was a robot. Never once pointed it out, or made it part of how he treated her. So maybe it confused her. Or maybe — and this felt more likely — it triggered some part of her adaptive code to react differently when she sees people respond to her the way they respond to each other.

Ben:
As weird as it is... that could actually work.

He started walking faster, hope kicking up again, already planning. He just had to wait for the next time he could catch Grace — no, Mom — alone.

Chapter Text

It felt like dying in reverse. The first sense to come back was smell, puke’s pungent odour making him gag. His stomach clenched, twisting in protest, and bile burned his throat as he swallowed hard. It clung to everything—the air, his clothes, his tongue—like the world had been dunked in rot. He went completely still, trying to ignore it.

Then came touch, and the pain of thousands of needles poking him through the floor. The surface beneath him was cold and grainy, the sharp stones littered throughout pressing against every raw inch of his skin. His muscles spasmed as he tried to shift, but each movement sent shocks up his spine, a chorus of pain that made his vision swim. The air was musky, sweat running down his back, suffocating him as if he was in the tank again. His breath came shallow, too fast, and for a second he was sure there was no air at all—only that same drowning panic clawing its way back up his throat.

Then, sound. The faint buzzing of the lightbulb made his head throb, a high, constant whine that dug into his skull. Somewhere in the distance, something dripped in irregular intervals, like water falling into a basin—or blood. Diego attempted to cover his ears, involuntarily letting out a hiss of pain when his arm refused to cooperate. His elbow scraped against the floor, skin tearing on the rough surface, and he bit back a whimper.

Finally came sight. Diego screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to keep in what little was left of his lunch. The harsh lights were stinging his eyes through the lids, too bright, too white, as though someone had dragged the sun into this miserable place. He blinked against it, shapes wobbling into being—shadows first, then outlines, then colour, all too sharp. He rolled over with a groan, fingers brushing something smooth.

It was one of his bottles of water. A few drops spilled out onto the floor, dampening the dirt into cool mud. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings before attempting to pull himself up. His arm shook violently, and he slumped against the wall, out of breath and exhausted. “M’ n-n’ver eatin mys-m-mystry mm-meat gain,” he mumbles out, coughing violently when he tries to laugh.

His throat is raw, and it takes all his willpower not to down the whole bottle in one go. To distract himself, he turns his head away so he can't see the water and instead picks up his notebook, brushing away a few specks of dust from the cover. He turns to the first page and begins reading everything he's written. On the last page, Diego's brow furrows. He doesn't remember writing this.

…

I’m trying to figure out what caused this.

I felt fine earlier. I think. I remember sitting on the floor. I wasn’t dizzy then. Nothing hurt. And then all of a sudden I stood up, and everything went—
I don’t know. 

It could be that I didn’t eat. But I’m pretty sure I had toast? Or maybe I only thought about having toast. That part’s fuzzy.

Maybe it’s the lights. They were really bright. But I always sit there. It’s never made me feel feel like that.

My brain feels foggy now. Like cotton.

I keep trying to thinnk think and it slips. Like my head’s too heavy and also floaty. I dont don’t know how both at the same. (timr time)

I dont no don’t know if I drink drank watter. Had water.I should’ve. My mouth is all dry and gross and like dirt maybe.

…

He skims through the page, missing some sentences but getting the point. This must be what he wrote when he was loopy from too little oxygen. He rubbed his neck, remembering the way it closed up, and in his panic, he thought he was dying. Well, he was kind of dying, but that's besides the point. He looks through a few more empty pages to look for more writing, flattening a folded corner. An almost smile plays across his lips, and he feels grounded by the paper in front of him. 

He lifts his hand to rub his eyes, wiping the remainder of the throw-up from the side of his mouth with the other one. Yawning, he wonders if it would be ok to clean the vomit tomorrow.

flipping another page, he suddenly tenses. He gasps, crawling toward the table, trying his best to avoid the way the floor shifted beneath him, which was making him lose his balance.

“N-no. No, no, no!” he hauls himself up to the chair, throwing his bag onto the floor, and looks at everything around the table. His eyes finally land on it. The water. He grabs the bottle, and it's too light. Opening it, he prays to a god he doesn't believe in. Maybe he was too delusional to know whether he was actually doing vs dreaming. He opens his eyes and looks down at it. 

Empty.

Throwing the book down, he lurches forward to reach another. The notebook lies open, with a single, barely readable sentence on top.

…

i sorry. i wasas so sso thisty.

…

He grabs another, thinking he couldn't have possibly gone through more than one.

Empty.

He grabs another. And another. Four of his 5 bottles bounce on the table, plastic bent.

They're all empty.

Fighting back tears, he forces the pressure in his chest to ease and thinks. There was something muddy next to him when he woke up, so maybe there is still some left! Yeah, he must have passed out mid-sip and dropped a bit of the last full bottle!

Smiling unconvincingly, he slides back onto the floor and crawls back to where he woke up. The vomit hits his nose full force, and he swallows the sourness going up his throat. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reaches outward. The bottle is still cool, not bent or broken, but the cap is a bit loose. Some of the mud splattered back onto it, and when he picks it up, the bottle is heavier than the others. He exhales shakily, eyes watering with relief when he opens his eyes to see half the bottle still full. He clutches the bottle to his chest, willing himself to calm down. In the frenzy, he hadn't realized how loud his heart was in his ears, or how much his hands trembled.

“O-ok. the-th-theres still s-some l-le… some l-left,” he assures himself. He walks forward on his knees, placing the bottle carefully next to the empty ones. He grabs the pencil, wipes some mud off of it, and sits down with his notebook on the mattress.

…

Day 3/4/ I have no idea how long I was asleep. But for my sake, let's make it day 3.

Hi. Not dead. Surprise!

Ok, yeah. If you couldn't tell from the sarcasm earlier, I am NOT doing well. Ran out of water, basically got only a couple of sips left, and there is no way in heck I can stretch this out far enough to last even 4 days.

Speaking of that, it looks like I'm gonna have to do math again, so I'm gonna clean up first.

Ok done! Easier than I expected, cause most of it was just watery and stuff (yuck), so math time.

From what I did last time, all I've gotta do is divide the bottles? By the days? Eh, no harm in failing here. Not like I can get punished.

Torture Math class Part 2):

Bottles:½

Days: 6? 7? Whatever, I'll do 5.

1/2/5=0.1

So, I'm basically only allowed to drink one sip of water per day, or ill go a full day without water. At least I won't have to worry about making the pee hole bigger.

Alright, I'm gonna go back to sleep now. Coming back from the dead is really tiring.

…

Diego rubs his eyes, sighing as if he’s aged decades in just a few minutes. His hands drag down his face, leaving faint streaks of dirt behind. The air is heavy with the smell of wet earth, pressing against his lungs. He dusts off the mattress, but the motion is slow, half-hearted—there’s no point. The thin fabric is still gritty beneath his fingers.

He lowers himself onto it, limbs sluggish, and rubs his eyes again, smaller now, almost like he’s afraid they’ll sting if he opens them too wide. Curling onto his side, he tugs the slightly damp blanket over his shoulders. It clings to him, cool and rough, but he doesn’t move.

The buzzing overhead has gone from annoying to almost comforting, and he can't help but be reminded of Mom's hum late at night, when she would recharge with Diego in her lap. His body gives one last shiver, then stills. Within seconds, the tension drains from his face. He’s gone—passed out before the next flicker of the light bulb.

Chapter Text

Ben woke up like a man on a mission, tossing his covers aside. He sprang out of bed, determined to make the most of the few minutes before breakfast with the rest of the family. He hurried into his suit, biting his lip in anticipation.

As he made his way downstairs, he tried not to notice how loudly his footsteps echoed through the hallway. He shook his hands, squeezed his cheeks, and forced on his sweetest smile.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, trodding into the kitchen with a bounce that made him look carefree—anything but like someone about to interrogate and manipulate a person six times his age. The smell of scrambled eggs made his mouth water. Whatever Grace lacked in emotions, she more than made up for in cooking.

Grace—no, Mom—stood at the stovetop, humming an old country song that Reginald had scolded Klaus for dancing to just last week. She cracked another egg with practiced ease, moved toward the trash can, and then caught Ben’s eye. A small smile curved her lips.

“Hello, Ben. Do you need something?”

Ben nodded and hopped onto the island, resting his elbows on his knees, perfectly mimicking Diego. He decided that by acting like that, maybe Grace would be more open, like that one time she accidentally told Diego she didn't like Dad's taste in ties, and Diego secretly told everyone at dinner. The scolding was definitely worth it, even if Diego started crying when he had to stop eating and read a whole chapter about the ‘origin of formalware’ in some stupid encyclopedia. Maybe he should have done something about it, but now wasn't the time for regrets.

“Nope, just wanted to ask you about Klaus.” The words slipped out effortlessly, as if it were entirely normal for him to sit where Diego always sat, smiling at the nanny like she wasn’t made of wires and steel.

“Klaus will be joining training at the same time as the rest of you now that he is well. Would you like me to help you warm up?” Grace asked, glancing at him over her shoulder, one hand still holding the spatula.

“No, I’m good. Uh… what sickness did Klaus have again?”

“Don’t worry yourself with that, silly! I’m sure your father will talk about it in your anatomy lessons today. I can help you study!”

“Well, I’d still feel better if I knew what it was.”

“Now, Ben. You know how much your father dislikes it when you don’t listen. I told you, your father will be handling your studies regarding the complications of illness. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it!”

“Right. Sorry,” he muttered, forcing his shoulders to relax, pretending the conversation hadn’t raised a small knot of worry in his chest. He waits a few moments, making figure 8s on the cool countertop before trying again. Vanya and Klaus would never let him give up if they were there.

“Hey, Mom. Whatcha cooking?” 

Grace straightened, plastering on her neutral look. “Just some eggs, sweetie!” Her voice was far too cheery, like downing a glass of honey sprinkled with sugar. Ben smiled on, swinging his legs back and forth, trying to come up with a way to change the subject without looking suspicious.

“T-thats great!” Ben crossed his fingers behind his back, silently praying that mimicking Diego’s stutter wouldn’t set him back.

“Why, thank you, Ben. Although I don’t feel it is appropriate to mock Diego’s stutter while he is ill.” Grace fell right into his trap, turning to face him fully while grabbing the spatula, her attention momentarily captured.

Ben’s mind raced. What does he do now? Asking directly about Diego being missing would give Grace a chance to change the subject back to studying, so that's out. He can't stay too vague either, or Grace might get suspicious. Saying things as hypotheticals might work if he says it has something to do with homework. Maybe? Worth a shot.

“Yeah, sorry. Just remembering him more lately. When is he gonna be better? I don't want him to fall behind on work.” Ben leans in, fake smile growing with anxiety and anticipation.

“Yes, as am I. Diego was a vital part of our family.”

“...was?” Ben straightens, breath quickening. His eyes tear up, but he silently chides himself before his worry can advance further. It's just the lag from him acting like Diego. That's gotta be it. “Don't you mean is? He's fine, right?”

No answer. Just that frozen smile, with a light wrinkle near the eyes. His voice rises in volume and pitch, desperately hoping that she made a mistake because he called her mom, and his plan just worked. “Right?!”

“Oh, of course he's all right, silly.” Grace unfreezes, as if awakening from a deep sleep. She wipes a stray tear from his eyes before returning to her work. “I must be getting low on energy, making errors left and right! I'm sorry if I worried you.”

Ben takes a minute, breathing deeply. It's alright, his plan just worked a little too well, and Grace lagged a little bit. Nothing to worry about. Diego's fine. He's fine. Completely ok. He's just… he's fine. He repeats this in his head till his heartbeat doesn't thunder in his ears, before deciding to continue. Even if Diego was ok, it would be safer to know how he is. “Anyway, you're right. I should catch up on some work. Can I ask you a couple of questions from my practice sheet?”

“Of course. Can I see the sheet?” She pulls her hand away, all worry evaporated with the new question.

“Um, it's verbal, so I'll just ask you.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket, the result of his late-night planning. Opening it, he looks at all of his questions. A few were already answered by Klaus, but the answers only led to more questions:

1. What was really wrong with Klaus? I got in trouble with dear old dad.
2. Why did he come back if he was still sick? Cause dads an ass.
3. Why is his arm hurt? Dad. Wow, three for three!
4. Why come back today, and not at the end of the week, if he wasn't sick? Dunno, maybe dad just got bored. (Most punishments last a week or more for serious things. Worth asking again).
5. Is Diego really sick?
6. Where is he?
7. Does she even know?
8. Is he ok?
9. What if he's hurt?
10. When will Diego come back?
11. Is what happened to Vanya why he is gone? Is Dad making him stay and train more for not listening to Pogo? Cool theory, bro, but Vanya said Dad was smiling. SMILING. LIKE A MANIAC.
12. Maybe he really is sick, and Klaus just had a worse sickness when he was in that punishment room?
13. Why lie?

Furrowing his brows, he decides to start with something simple. Something to prove Klaus wasn't just being overdramatic or lying about the punishment. It's not that he didn't trust Klaus, but god only knows what painkillers he was on.

“Ok, number one. What are some common symptoms of… the flu?”

“Well, it's a lot like the cold. A good way to remember it is FROST. Fever, runny nose, over-fatigue, sore throat, and tightness of the chest.”

“And which ones did Klaus have? For the example.”

Well, Klaus had a fever, a-”

“Wasn't he getting chills?”

“It's entirely possible to have uncommon symptoms when it comes to illness in children, silly. You should have read your textbook before asking me for help,” she interrupts, cheery but giving Ben a look almost akin to… fear? Guess that proves Klaus wasn't lying. He really wasn't sick, just withdrawal. Wow, they are messed up when withdrawal is the better option.

1. Maybe he really is sick, and Klaus just had a worse sickness when he was in that punishment room? Klaus wasn't sick.

“Right, sorry. Um… how about the ways it can spread?”

“The flu usually spreads through the air, water, or orally. Is that all?” Ben squints at her, wondering what could be so important for her code to lag like this. She was speaking in a neutral, polite tone, but underneath that, she sounded nervous. But staying calm in stressful situations is an important part of her programming.

 Time to press a little more.

“Almost. How fast do you think it could have spread if they were kids? Diego, for example.” he rubbed a dirt stain off his pants, sneaking a look. Grace was still standing there, her face darkening when she stepped forward into the shadows.

“Well, children usually have weaker immune systems, so it could have spread at any time, quite fast. The symptoms, however, would take somewhere between an hour and a few days to appear. Now, Ben, while I'm sure your father will be ecstatic at your initiative, you should eat before working. A good meal can be the difference between life and death, you know.” She comes even closer, bending down to give Ben… an omelet?

Well, that wasn't creepy at all. His plan must be working, making her act weird.

1. Is Diego really sick? Nope.

“Yeah, sure,” he says casually, remembering his planning. Bringing a bite to his lips, he savours the greasy, salty taste before getting a little carried away. “Oh, one last thing. When Klaus got sick, he needed a lot of help from machines, but you said the symptoms weren't even that bad, so why-” 

He had sped through the question, hoping his body language would confuse her like he planned, but her adaptive code must have caught on to something, and she covered his mouth with a small smile. “I love you, children, and I only want the best for you, as does your father. I will need to remind you of his intolerance to-” 

She suddenly pulled her hand away, face becoming bright and cheerful once more. “Oh, would you look at that! Good morning, Luther. Ben and I were just discussing homework. Sit down, eat a snack before your father comes in with the rest of the children.”

Ben just sat there, hands still trembling slightly. Diego definitely didn't just have the flu. And he wasn't so sure if the fearful look in Grace's eyes was an error.

1. Does she even know? Definitely.

Ben nods absentmindedly at something Luther says, then jumps off the counter and walks out into the hallway to look at his list again.

1. What was really wrong with Klaus? I got in trouble with dear old dad.
2. Why did he come back if he was still sick? Cause dads an ass.
3. Why is his arm hurt? Dad. Wow, three for three!
4. Why come back today, and not at the end of the week, if he wasn't sick? Dunno, maybe dad just got bored. (Most punishments last a week or more for serious things. Worth asking again later.)
5. Is Diego really sick? Nope.
6. Where is he?
7. Does she even know? Definitely.
8. Is he ok?
9. What if he's hurt?
10. When will Diego come back?
11. Is what happened to Vanya why he is gone? Is Dad making him stay and train more for not listening to Pogo? Cool theory, bro, but Vanya said Dad was smiling. SMILING. LIKE A MANIAC.
12. Maybe he really is sick, and Klaus just had a worse sickness when he was in that punishment room? Klaus wasn't sick.
13. Why lie?

He bites his lip; each answered question only leads to more questions. Suddenly, Allison walks in, closely followed by Five and Vanya. He scribbles one last thing onto the paper.

   14. Mom is being creepy as heck. Ask Vanya to check how low on charge she was.

Ben puts the paper away. Tucking it into his pocket for later. The mystery could wait for a few minutes, cause he was starving.