Chapter Text
Prologue.
“Wake up!”
She wakes up to the sound of wheels crushing gravel. Eyes wide open, her hands shaking uncontrollably, her back is stiff and aching. There is no explainable way why she can’t remember the last time she woke up with this much pain, but blurred hands pulling her out of...a car, shocks her out of a seconds-worth reverie.
“Number Seven.” There is a monocle. Then, a face she knows all too well.
“Dad,” she breathes, some mixture of confusion, fear, and grief oozing out of her like spilled toothpaste.
“...Better be in your best behavior…” His lips are out of sync with his words, her reality mushing like she’s pushed deep underwater. “...Teamwork is crucial. Furthermore, the Academy will not disappoint me today. Is that clear?”
The latter line is told to a wider audience, which now she is aware she is a part of. Funnily enough, it’s always been something she’s only ever heard rooms away.
“Yes, dad.” A sugary voice quips, startling clear. It recalls back years of taunts and anguish.
Allison extends her arm to pull Vanya close to her, eyes as sharp as the melodious voice gifted to her. Vanya is grappling for words, unsure of what to say. Especially to a young face she had last seen in her childhood before she had gone and left the Academy. However the sharpness is replaced by a sudden beam when Vanya’s own mouth refuses to respond, heat closing on to her like some desolate sunrise.
“Cheer up, Vanya,” she hisses. Allison’s fingers tighten around her wrist, an action Vanya’s numbness refrains to fully realize. “You can continue being an asshole after we’re finished with the mission.”
Her brain floods. Questions overflow out of her bucket of a mind. Oxygen, she thinks, quickly depletes, and suddenly she can’t seem to breathe properly. She wants to scream, but her vocal cords pull her back from doing so. The pressure from Allison’s hold loosens, and Vanya watches as she departs to follow Dad.
“W-wai-” Scratchy. Unused. When was the last time she spoke? Vanya racks her brain. Where? When? What is she doing here? Why is she here? What’s happening. Why is she here—
“Seven, let’s go.” Luther addresses her with a general smile, appearing from her peripheral vision. “Don’t want to keep Dad waiting.”
But it doesn’t quench the tightness around her belly.
It’s like being a life-size puppet. Like clockwork, her feet obeys words coming from her blond brother even if her mind screams futile. Her eyes scramble to take every stimuli. The trees. The skies. The ground. The screaming. Guards barricading. The incoming bank, where, apparently, she surmises, lies the mission. It’s all breaking into a mess, and she thinks she’s seen this scene before. News of a bank heist that has been thwarted by the amazing and heroic Umbrella Academy.
She knows it must be the same mission. She knows this story, witnessed it. Just not here, but across a rooftop building. With Dad, for that matter, the first time around.
Horror, but also wonderment, takes her. It feels like it's all a hurricane of something downright wrong, and at the same time oh-so-satisfying—and she’s just landed in the eye of it.
Then she’s running. The others too. Action stimulated by multiple gunshots against tile floors and Reginald Hargreeves’ nod of permission.
Uneasiness is an understatement, but everything is almost mechanical, like she’s done this before. Part of her believes this is a dream, and almost laughably, she hardly wants to wake up. To indulge in a what-if, a manifestation of a deep-rooted daydream—is it so wrong to stay asleep for a few more minutes, to stay extraordinary a bit longer?
Several gunmen rush towards them in a midst of panicking citizens. In a rush of adrenaline, she pushes forward to go meet them, eager to see what her dreams have to offer, the powers that will unleash—
Arms loop around her, painstakingly pulling her into them before several gunshots rise through the air to meet her. Several knives curve around to slice off the unassuming heads in front of her, and these butchered parts drop shortly in a neat fashion. The bullets ricochet against a wall of air, curving their ascent backwards. The blood splatters everywhere. She can only watch in deep, rich horror.
Her mouth drops as her attention slowly takes in the ghastly sight before her. What the hell —
“Are you crazy?” Diego yells at her, but it’s like he’s underwater. His voice is warbled, filtered, and he’s clutching her like a ragdoll.
She can’t breathe properly, “I-i-“
“Vanya!” Luther comes around the corner, two men tailing his path. Demand and leadership both quick on his tongue despite his harsh, running form. “Quick! Break the glass.”
“W-what?” She chokes.
It’s almost like she has multiple visions. Her senses tell her Allison rumoring two times in a row, then the sound of Five blinking to multiple spots to address multiple hits. Across the building, Klaus utilizes a leftover machine gun for strayed enemies escaping. She can even sense Ben’s calming voice rushing the hostages out of the building. As if she’s got a wide-range view of the universe from underneath...but with sound.
As it follows, the realization of it all locks her in place, confusion compelling her to face her surroundings. It’s real. It’s all fucking real. Her composure breaks. Her breaths shorten--heavy, heavy, heavy .
“Vanya—“ Diego’s breath is hot. A hand cranes her chin. Numbness overtakes senses, all sound suddenly leaving her headspace. “W-watch out!”
The last thing she perceives is familiar hands harshly snatching her up—before blue light embraces her to cavernous nothingness.
Subsequently, the moon, a white violin, and an estate left in ruins, bludgeon her memory.
Entry #1920
The Monocle
...extra training designed for Number Four to sustain longevity in power control. Number Three’s refusal to stop rumoring the help will call for recommended protocol. Number Six is naive yet cautious. Power manifestation increases every year, but fear, disappointingly, is directly proportional. Number Five is critical and impatient. Mind is sharper than the others. Bouts of continued inflated self-importance, thus refusing to co-exist with the other children. Number Two latches attachment to one of the children. Must further be discouraged, or punished if necessary. Number Seven, nevertheless, has my best interests, thus her ruthlessness to please and adapt is foremost appreciated…