Chapter Text
Number Five Hargreeves wakes up in a straitjacket. He, unfortunately, knows the feeling intimately, from his individual training sessions, but as he squints his eyes open against a searing white light burning across his eyelids, this doesn’t feel like any training he’s ever done before.
Don’t panic, he thinks. Just breathe. Take stock.
What can I feel? The floor of some kind of cell. Five’s cheek is pressed into gritty concrete, and feels like it has been for a long time. His neck aches, and the entire right side of his face is numb. His arms, wrapped in cloth – no, stronger than cloth. Chains? He can’t move his legs either. He is completely restrained. Shit. However, he can breathe, and he is not gagged, meaning he can talk or try and negotiate if necessary.
What can I hear? Breathing. That’s… good. If his siblings are here, they can work together. Not their strongest suit. Will they slow Five down? Don’t think about that yet, he chides.
He can also hear the whining drone of mechanical buzzing. Maybe a camera or a computer is in the room, unless it’s that bright light. If he’s being observed that would be bad.
All right. What can I see? Again, he tries to open his eyes, and that awful light is there. Argh, it hurts his head so bad. He winces, trying to adjust, and when he finally can raise his head and look around, what he sees isn’t good.
The Umbrella Academy are hostages. That’s the truth of it. They are in a square room, separated at intervals around the walls, restrained and mostly unconscious.
Whoever put them here really knows their shit. While Five is wrapped in a straitjacket and chains imbedded into the wall, he can see that Number Three is simply handcuffed and tied to a chair. Unlike Five, she has a gag – no, a muzzle. Some kind of metal mask covering her lower face, digging into her skin in a painful-looking way. There is dried blood down the front of her pyjama top. She, too, is awake, but cannot speak, and stares at Five with wide, frightened eyes.
He looks around again. Number One is laying on the ground under a massive slab of stone. His breathing, rattled and wheezy, fills the room as he is slowly crushed by its weight. His limbs appear to be star-fished out, hands and feet and head all limp, and his face is smushed against the floor. Five wouldn’t be surprised if his ribs are broken. There’s no way he can lift that – it would take at least five fully-grown men to heave it off.
God. If One wasn’t breathing so painfully loud, Five likely would have jumped to the conclusion that he was dead.
Numbers Two and Four, like Three, are tied to their chairs, but only Two has his hands being held up in the air by chains. He appears to still be unconscious, head slumped to his chest, dragging down on the metal cuffs suspending his arms. His arms even look slightly, a little bit, like they may be dislocated from their position.
Finally, there is timid little Number Six. Five had been holding out hope that Six could be their way out, since he couldn’t think of any way the Horror could really be contained.
Turns out he wasn’t thinking creatively enough. Someone has taken the time to painstakingly restrain Six’s limbs into the fetal position, his knees tucked to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. Like a ball, spine hunched over. He’s swaddled in layers and layers of what appears to be thick cloth.
Six couldn’t release the Horror without sacrificing all his limbs, Five realises, feeling sick to his stomach. If he tried, he’d become a quadruple amputee, no arms or legs. That’s the nature of his power – it is uncontrollable, really, and the only thing it’s efficient at is destroying.
These people are prepared, Five thinks, a shock of anxiety going through him. They know exactly what to do to each individual to incapacitate them.
Fuck.
At least Seven’s been spared this torture, Five reasons with himself, sinking down onto the cold floor and letting his head drop back down, his breathing becoming irregular as he tries to fight a wave of despair. He tries to turn it into anger instead, at the people who kidnapped them.
She’s not here with them, which means that they probably left her behind. Maybe she’s still asleep, like Five should be.
Actually, without any windows, Five has no idea what time it is or how long it’s been. Maybe she’s awake, searching for him. He hopes she doesn’t come here, and stays far away. Five has an awful feeling that they’re only being kept alive because they’re more useful as hostages. Seven is not useful alive, and they could hurt her, or even kill her.
Yes, Five thinks with a faint sense of relief, at least Seven isn’t here.
That is, of course, when the metal door opens with a grating, teeth-rattling sound, and a tall man walks confidently in, dragging an unconscious Seven behind him.
He tosses her small, pyjama-clad body roughly on the ground in the centre of the room. She must be close to waking up, because she groans with pain when her head hits the stone.
No!
Five chokes back a cry, straining against his chains to push forward and see if she’s injured. He’s too angry to even form words. Around him, his siblings stir and blink against the light, some beginning to argue and cry out. Five pulls hard against his retrains, feeling panic well up in his throat, unable to shove it down this time.
No, no, no, Seven, why is Seven here? Oh God…
“Who are you?” Two demands, trying to sound tough although his voice sounds wet from pain. Five tears his eyes away from Seven’s limp form and glances over – yeah, his arms are definitely dislocated. Yikes.
The man in the centre does not move. He is wearing a suit and a white porcelain mask, which Five thinks is a good sign. Criminals tend to show their faces only if they are stupid or planning to kill everyone who sees them anyway. The fact that his face is covered likely means that he has no immediate plans to kill them. He wants them to be unable to identify him after they are released. Good. That’s good.
“You can address me as the Professor,” he says, and his voice is fairly neutral, indistinct. Just a man’s voice, a middle-aged man. “I do not plan on harming or killing any of you, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Then w-w-why have you got us here?” Two says roughly, gritting his teeth.
“That’s a very good question,” the Professor says mildly, his body language not indicating anger or instability. Five’s heart is beating so fast with fear, though. “You’re here because you’re valuable,” he says, and Five notes that he was right. It’s about money, not revenge.
This doesn’t comfort him about Seven though.
“It’s funny, though,” he goes on, “I could have sworn there were only six members of the Umbrella Academy. So you can imagine my surprise when we came across this little treasure here while you were all busy being kidnapped in your sleep.” He nudges Seven with his foot and Five jerks forward instinctively, protectively. Shit.
“She’s not a member,” says Two.
“She doesn’t have any powers,” Four adds. “So leave her out of this.”
“How odd,” the Professor muses, and draws his foot back and kicks Seven in the head.
Five can’t help it, he snarls and lunges forward again, chains rattling and hurting. Blue light fizzles and hisses, but he can’t jump. I’m going to kill him, he decides. He sees, from the corner of his eye, Three and Two shoot warning looks in his direction. Usually it’s difficult to get under Five’s skin. But he has a weakness, and no one really knows about it other than him.
Seven gasps awake, hands flying to her head as she scrambles to her feet and looks around, backing away from the tall man. She finds Five straight away, their eyes locking. Then the Professor snatches her by the hair.
“Now, as I said, I don’t plan on damaging any of you,” he says calmly, unaware that his days are numbered. “But this one’s not one of you, is she? And we have to find something to pass the time with while we wait for your generous father to pay the ransom, don’t we? I wouldn’t want any of you doing something rash, like trying to escape.”
He looks directly at Five when he says this, and Five bares his teeth.
“Oh, you’re a little feral one,” the Professor says cheerfully. “Scary. Now what’s your name, sweetheart?”
He’s talking to Seven. She freezes and answers, “Number Seven.”
“Number Seven, what a unique name,” he says. “Are you all numbered like that?” Seven nods, still being held by the hair. “I thought so. Can you tell me who is who?”
“Um,” Seven says quietly, looking to Five for help, but he can’t do anything. “That’s One, that’s Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six,” she says, pointing at each one of them with a shaking hand.
“Seven, shut up,” Two snaps. “Stop te-telling him stuff.”
“That’s not very nice,” the Professor tuts. He looks down at Seven, who is shaking like a leaf but doing a valiant effort of remaining calm considering everything. “So are you going to get different names one day?”
Five hates this. This conversation, he hates it, he hates being useless and tied up.
“Yes,” Seven says, looking down when Two growls at her to be quiet. “For our twelfth birthday Mom said we can have names. That’s very soon.”
“How exciting,” the Professor says, sounding like it’s anything but. “Are you all looking forward to getting names?”
Five growls from his throat.
“Blow it out your ass,” Four says passionately.
One, from the floor, moans.
“Quit m-messing around,” Two huffs.
Three can’t say anything.
“Yeah,” Six says quietly, which is when Five realises he’s awake now.
“You’re quite the uncivilized little rascals, aren’t you?” The Professor laughs. “What about you, Seven? You want a name?”
“Yes,” Seven squeaks.
“Good,” he says, and pulls out a gun.
Seven flinches and just stares at Five helplessly while he struggles against the restraints. Blue light burns around him, the air rippling, his body buzzing and cracking with electricity, but he just can’t move.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Two shouts, “d-don’t p-point that thing at us, we didn’t even d-d-do anything!”
“I know,” the Professor says calmly. “I’m just putting some rules down. From now on, you’re not allowed to talk. I didn’t gag you unless necessary,” Three shrinks back, “because I was feeling particularly generous. But you’re getting on my nerves now, and so.” He raises the gun, not pointing it anywhere in particular, just showing it to them. “talking is now forbidden. If you speak out of turn, little Number Seven here might not live to see her twelfth birthday, and she’ll never have a name, and wouldn’t that be such a shame?”
“Fuck that!” Two yells.
Five is going to kill him.
The Professor looks over, unimpressed. “Disappointing,” he says. “I thought you would be used to following orders.” He points the gun down and fires one shot into Seven’s foot.
Immediately Seven starts screaming, the sound ripping through Five, but as though muffled by a sheet of glass. She falls to the ground and covers her head with her arms to muffle her own wailing. Blood starts to pool around her foot, the metallic scent filling the air. Five realises with a jolt that he can taste the blood – oh, his nose is bleeding.
Next to him, Four is yelling, Six is crying, Two is stuttering.
The Professor looks at Seven, sobbing and gasping violently on the ground, then at Five, who realises his nose is bleeding because he’s trying to teleport so hard that his whole body is shifting, fuzzy, cracking apart and then snapping back together.
His mind is one dangerous gnawing loop of stupid fucking restraints stupid Number Two stupid Professor going to fucking kill him for shooting my favourite going to rip his arms off one by one and make him eat them going to – Reginald has always said his temper is volatile. Dad has no fucking idea what volatile even is. He can see his own blue light reflecting in the spreading pool of blood on the ground.
He gnashes his teeth and thrashes and writhes. He growls and howls and hisses against the pain he’s inflicting on himself as his body tears itself apart. Seven.
Five eventually runs out of energy, slumping to the ground, completely worthless, light fizzling out with a pop. Seven’s screams have subsided to a muted sobbing behind her arms. Everyone is staring at him, he knows it. There’s blood all over his face.
“That was very inspiring,” the Professor says eventually.
Five raises his head as much as he can when his body is shaking this violently, and spits blood out in the Professor’s direction. His head falls back onto the ground, hard. Shit.
He feels the vibrations of footsteps through the stone as the Professor comes closer. The man wrenches Five up by the hair. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Seven here might be your favourite sibling.”
Five scowls up at him, unmoving, Seven still crying. God, he hates it when Seven cries. It’s always wet, makes her face all red, and she tries to hide it but that only makes it worse.
His lip trembles, betraying him. The Professor tilts his head.
“Can you make her be quiet?” he says. “The crying is annoying. You may speak.”
Five slowly turns his eyes to Seven, feeling humiliated and furious. His body won’t stop shaking. Idiot. Should have conserved his strength.
“Seven,” he says, his voice cracking. Throat raw. He tries again, louder. “Seven.”
She looks up at his voice, peeking through her arms. Her eyes are wet. Five hates it. He hates that everyone is watching, all his siblings bearing witness to this.
“Just try and breathe,” he says slowly, shutting his eyes. His scalp aches where the Professor has his hair in a fist. “Just listen to my voice. It’s going to be okay. Okay? Can you put pressure on the bullet wound to try and stop the bleeding?”
He cracks an eye open, waits until she does, flinches when he hears her breathing becoming racked again from pain.
“That’s good,” he says with difficulty. Comforting is not his area of expertise. “Just keep doing that, Ven. You’re going to be fine. Reginald will pay the ransom and we’ll all get to go home, okay? Mom will fix your foot. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening,” she sobs.
Five’s nose finally stops bleeding, his mouth full of blood. He breathes out, trying to slow his heartbeat. “Good. Just keep breathing. Think about – think about how you feel when you’re playing violin. Try and stay calm.”
“Are you okay?” Seven whispers, the Professor lets go of his head, and his skull slams back onto the ground with a crack.
“Oh, good show. That was so touching,” the Professor says. “Really, really touching. My heartstrings have been thoroughly tugged.” He claps his hands. “I’m going to go check in with the guys now, see how our ransom’s coming along. Talk amongst yourselves,” With that, he is gone, letting the door grate shut behind him.
With a buzz the bright white lights suddenly turn off, plunging them into a more normal light with just a regular lightbulb. The others start at the abrupt change. Bright spots dance on Five’s eyelids. He feels the strength returning to his body, slowly, but he can’t move.
“Fuck,” Two whispers. “I can’t feel my arms.”
At least you haven’t been shot, Five thinks bitterly.
“Three… okay?” One says, gasping after each word.
“She’s okay,” Six assures him. “Her mouth is just covered.”
One can’t move or do anything. “Okay.”
Seven crawls over to Five.
“Five,” she says, and he hums, unable to do anything else. Distantly, he feels her use her sleeve to wipe the blood off his face. He can’t offer her a smile or anything. He has nothing to give.
“I’m going to make a bandage,” Seven decides, and tears up her pyjamas’ sleeve, wrapping the cloth around her foot. “The bullet went right through, so that’s actually good,” she rambles like she always does when she’s nervous and it’s just the two of them. “It’s a clean exit, and look I have the bullet right here, see. I’ve never been shot before. Maybe I’ll ask Mom to help me make it into a necklace.”
“Seven,” Five wheezes, “Stop talking.”
“Well, this is a very momentous occasion for me,” she says, “not all of us are superheroes who get shot at all the time.” Her voice falters, betraying how scared she really is.
“Har, har,” Five murmurs. “Don’t get used to it. Not happening again.”
Seven finishes wrapping up her foot tightly. Every time she makes a noise of pain it sends a wave of guilt crashing through Five, cold. It feels like he’s drowning in it. “There,” she says. “All better. Just breathe.”
“Okay,” Five manages.
He feels Seven stroke her fingers through his hair, across his scalp in a soothing gesture. She is caretaker, like Mom, and she brushes his fringe away from his eyes and moves him so that his nose isn’t being pushed against the floor. He’s too tired to move, and he’s saving his strength this time.
He feels like a cat being petted, still embarrassingly shivering and shaking from the overuse of his stupid powers. Everyone knows Five doesn’t like it when people touch him, especially his head, as it makes him feel like a child. He bit Four on the forearm once for daring to ruffle his hair, and ever since then, no one does it. but Seven’s always his exception. She’s not afraid of him.
Eventually Seven moves away and checks on the others, trying to help them if she can while hobbling around and hissing through her own pain.
“Is it cutting your skin?” She asks Three. “Can you feel your hands?” She asks Four.
“I’m sorry,” Six whimpers when she shifts his position to the other side. “I wish I could have…”
“Don’t worry,” Seven says sadly. “I’ll be fine. Don’t blame yourself, it’s the guy with the mask’s fault.”
Oh, yes. “Any of you disobey his rules again,” Five says, forcing himself to talk despite his head spinning, “I will break all your fingers.”
“You’re one to t-talk,” Two says. “You’re always riling the c-criminals up with your t-taunts.”
“He only cares because Seven’s the one in danger,” Four says, accurately, and though Five cannot see his face, it sounds like he’s snickering. “It’s so sweet how he’s not even slightly subtle in his favouritism.”
Five sighs out of his nose. He’d deny it, but it’s true, so.
A few minutes of silence pass, with Seven pressing down hard on her wound to try and not pass out from blood loss anytime soon, chewing her lip hard to keep from crying.
“Dad’s not coming,” Two spits. “He’s not going to pay. He doesn’t care about us.”
“Not… true,” One rasps. “He will.”
“What if this is a test?” Four says suddenly, and Five’s stomach sinks through the floor. Shit.
No one says anything, not even Number One.
The door slides open again with that awful grinding sound. Five cringes.
“Bad news,” the Professor says merrily. “No word from your dear old dad yet, kids. I wouldn’t worry, though. You’re very precious to him.”
A few henchmen carry an old chunky camera into the room. The Professor gestures for Seven to stand, and she does, only slightly wobbling. Five feels a faint surge of pride at the steely expression she sends the tall man, despite her fear and pain.
“I think we’ve got to give the old man a bit of an incentive,” he says. “Something to show him I’m a man of my word.”
The camera is switched on, red light blinking, pointing right at the Professor with his arm around Seven, who tries to shrink away.
“Reginald Hargreeves,” the man says, not with any real anger or threat. “I’ve got your kids here; I think they’d like to say hi.” The camera man moves the camera around, each child glaring angrily into the lens. “Don’t worry, they’re not damaged. Well, not that damaged anyway. Little Number Two here, well, too long like that and his hands might never be the same. And Number One, he’s definitely a fighter but how long it will take for his chest to cave in from all this weight? Do you want to find out? I don’t. And he definitely doesn’t.” He chuckles at that. “Seven, you’re my favourite and most obedient hostage I’ve ever had. What’s your view of all this?”
“Excuse - me?” Seven says jerkily, stunned. “My, my view?”
“Yes,” the Professor says eagerly. “How much do you think you’re worth?”
“Um… they’re probably worth a lot,” Seven says, uncertain. “They have powers.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t… you mean, like, my… organs, and bones?” She looks sick at the thought.
“No, no. I mean to your father, the crazy old man,” the man says, gesturing to the camera, and Seven looks stricken. “How much?”
“Not much,” Seven whispers, and oh, Five is going to kill Reginald. He doesn’t even realise he’s shaking again until the Professor glances down at him and raises an eyebrow. He tries to calm himself.
“Well, that’s depressing. Anyway, it’s an impressive little gang you’ve collected here, Reggie,” he drawls, “not impressive enough to escape by themselves, though, I’m afraid.” He turns and tilts his head at the camera, porcelain face impassive. “One hour until the price doubles and Number Seven dies. Bye bye.”
They take the camera out and slam the door shut behind them. Five, aghast, feels as though he is going to be sick.
“I won’t let him,” he swears, growling, seeing red, twisting around again. He’s fully aware that he’s acting like a feral dog, but he can’t stop it. “Seven, I won’t let him.”
“It’s okay,” Seven says sadly, but it’s not.
“I’ll kill him,” he says, shaking. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Seven, can’t you do something?” Four pleads. “I know there’s security cameras, but we have to get out of here, he’s gonna kill you.”
“He’s not going to kill her,” Five snarls.
“Well how will you stop him?” Four asks, shaking his head wildly. “You’re just wriggling around like a caterpillar.”
Five stops wriggling and glares at his brother with murder on his mind.
“What could I do? I have no combat training, no weapons training, only one working foot and no powers.” Her voice shakes but it’s bolder than Seven would usually be.
Six sniffles. “Maybe I should...”
“No!” Everyone shouts.
“Do not r-release the Horror in here,” Two says. “That would end s-so bad. Don’t do that.”
“But – Seven--” Six cuts off, distressed.
“Don’t worry about me,” Seven reassures gently, and Five looks at her. She just smiles sadly. The smile drops as soon as Six buries his head back into his arms.
The hour passes slowly. Five thinks Number Six has fallen asleep. Two is seriously worried his hands will fall off because he can’t feel them at all. They all have to keep shouting at One to stop him from drifting off, in case he dies. Seven tears off her other sleeve and makes a new, clean bandage from the cloth, cinching it tightly around her foot and discarding the old bloody one.
Overall, Five decides this is the worst day of his life.
An idea strikes him. “Anyone got any food? Any sugar?” He asks desperately. “I’m… diabetic, remember?” That is a lie, for the benefit of the cameras. His powers just work better when he’s got sugar in him, gives him energy. They all know this.
Three brightens, sitting up straight and nodding emphatically.
Seven drags herself over and retrieves a small love-heart shaped candy from her sister’s pyjama shirt pocket. From One, obviously. Three blushes when Four starts to tease.
“Don’t bite me,” Seven says, jokingly, and then she drops the candy in Five’s mouth. He rolls his eyes, crunches down.
The sugar helps, immediately. He can feel it in his bloodstream, from his toes to his fingers.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
He shuts his eyes and leans against her, just breathing, feeling his strength return and hoping to warm her up. Seven has always run cold, her fingers never quite warm. Mom said she just has bad circulation. Five told her it’s because she’s cool. That had made her laugh.
They wait to learn their fate. Five hates that it comes down to Reginald. Almost twelve years of his life have prepared him to kill the man. And one day he’s going to.
The door scrapes against the stone one last time, and the Professor enters, flanked by a whole group of henchmen following him. There must be at least twenty, all wearing carnival masks.
“Hello, Umbrella Academy,” he says brightly, then nods, “and Number Seven.” Five bristles, sitting up. He tries to wiggle his fingers. “I have news, good and bad.”
Fear pools in Five’s stomach, but he refuses to let it show on his face.
“The good news is that your dear father has paid the ransom for the Umbrella Academy’s safe return. Yay!”
While the others breathe out and smile in relief, Five is frozen, a sick understanding twisting through him at the words. He starts to shake again.
“The bad news,” the Professor says soberly, “is that Number Seven is not a member of the Umbrella Academy.” And he takes out the same gun again and levels it between her eyes.
Five’s heart stops beating.
“NO!”
Seven’s mouth opens silently as her eyes widen and she lurches back.
The Professor says, “Look, I’m--”
Five screams wordlessly, in anger or in pain he isn’t sure, as he slashes through space and rips his body apart at the seams of everything it’s made of. Come on, it hisses at him.
The world seems to slow down. Five shreds space and time for Seven, pushing himself way past his body’s limit, blue light pulsing and crackling like lightning through the room, the atmosphere rippling and warping around him. He jumps.
He pushes through the searing pain of his nerves being scratched raw against his power, reaching for the strings of space and pulling and coming out the other side, over and over and over. It’s second nature.
Blood, viscera, muscle and organs.
Atoms and molecules.
Bone.
When he emerges, only one or two seconds have passed. His whole body is trembling and burning, blue light rippling under his skin.
He is pulsing, flickering with power.
He is in the middle of the room, panting, now. He looks at his hands – they’re bloody. They are glitching, warping, like a broken VHS tape.
He looks for Seven. She is huddled against the wall, spattered in blood. Everyone is covered in it. Whose blood?
“Jesus fuck,” Two shrieks. “What the fucking fuck was that?”
“Five,” Four says, opening and closing his mouth, speechless for the first time in his life. Three’s eyes shimmer. Only Six looks unmoved by the carnage.
Five sways on his feet, takes a step to Seven, steps on something squishy, crumples. His whole body is broken, it feels like. Pain, his mind supplies helpfully. Yeah.
“Ven,” he tries. “What’s happening?”
It comes out like ‘veh wha hauughhnnnnn’
He figures it out, anyway. He teleported out of the straitjacket. He must have – he’s not wearing it.
Why are my pyjamas red? He thinks. Shit, it’s blood. Mine?
“Five, Five,” someone is saying, and oh, thank God, it’s Seven.
She crushes him into a hug, and he feels himself sink, not even caring about the blood and gore caked all over him. Everything smells burnt, and he buries his nose into her shoulder, trying to breathe, gasping instead. He is shaking, body racking with the force of it.
Holding Seven grounds him – the warping subsides, his blue sparking out.
“Ven, you okay?” He asks eventually, mumbling into her hair.
“I’m fine,” she assures him. “You, uh, you killed everyone.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did.” She’s smiling, and crying. He can hear it, the way she sniffles.
“Don’t cry,” he says, slurred.
“Sorry. I can’t help it.”
“Hurts.”
“I know. I know. It’s okay.”
“I killed them?”
“Yeah,” she says, and picks up a wet piece of broken porcelain, half of a mask. The Professor’s mask. “See? You teleported right inside of their bodies one by one and tore them apart from the inside. It was really disgusting.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Slowly, lovely Seven helps him up. First, they get Two’s arms down, then break the restraints for him and Four so they can stand. For the first time in maybe ever, Two looks at Five with respect.
“You’re savage, man,” he says, unsteadily. Five grins.
They get the metal thing off Three’s head, Seven sucking in a breath at the sight of the deep scores it left across her cheeks, and untie her too, then they all work to unravel the cloth around Six so he can stand. He says his back hurts, but that’s all. Finally, the five least-shaky kids manage to lever the slab of stone up on one side just enough for Five to take One’s arm and drag him out from beneath it.
Three and One share a tearful embrace and Five looks away respectfully.
The very dead, shredded bodies all over the floor make him feel ill.
He staggers out of the cell, pukes, and goes to find a phone.
He finds one in some kind of office, and dials the emergency number Reginald made them memorize.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?” Pogo’s voice.
“Me. Number Five.”
“Master Five?” Pogo sounds shocked. “Have you escaped your kidnapping? Sir Hargreeves and Grace have both left for the agreed rendezvous point for the exchange.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Five huffs impatiently. “You have to come get us. I killed them.”
“The criminals?” Pogo exclaims.
“Yeah,” Five says, then feels like he has to sit down. “I said I would and I did. So come get us.”
He hangs the phone back on the hook and passes out cold on the floor.
…
Number Five Hargreeves wakes up in his bed, and a clean pair of pajamas.
Bolting upright, he sees Mom and Seven right away, Mom standing, Seven sitting.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Seven says, soothing, and he relaxes a tiny bit.
“Good morning, Five,” Grace says kindly. She hands him a piece of chocolate, which he stuffs in his mouth without hesitation. “You have been unconscious for approximately twenty-nine hours.”
“What?” Five snaps, mouth full of chocolate, and looks to Seven, panicking. “What happened?” He remembers the kidnapping, of course, but everything afterwards is a blur. I fell unconscious, he realises.
“It’s fine, you just have to rest, since you overused your powers to escape from the straitjacket and kill all the kidnappers,” she says. “We’re all okay. Just recovering.”
“Oh. Good,” Five says faintly, and, feeling exhausted, lies back down. A pair of crutches leaning against the wall catches his eye. “Wait, your foot!” He yelps, sitting upright again and sending his head spinning and spiking with pain.
“Five,” Seven chastises, pushing his shoulders back down to the bed, “I told you, we’re fine. I will be able to walk again soon, it’s just bandaged, see?” She holds up a bandaged foot. “It’s all right. You saved us.”
She’s smiling warmly, and Five starts to calm down despite himself, tamed.
Just then, the rest of their siblings come bounding into Five’s room, some limping, but all looking happy. They arrange themselves in a circle around the bed. Five rolls his eyes at the sight of them, not going to show that he’s secretly very relieved that they’re all okay.
“We were outside waiting, and heard talking!” Four says. “So we came to say hi.”
Six waves. Two, who has both arms in a sling, nods. Number One’s holding his ribs, but even he smiles. Three bounds over and gives him a brief hug. He wrinkles his nose when her apple-scented curls tickle his face.
“Sorry, I just had to. Thanks for saving all of us,” she says, pulling away, looking emotional. “It was really scary.”
“Yeah, thank you Five, Seven,” One agrees. “Would have been toast without you.”
“Even if Five only saved us just because Seven was there,” Four says cheekily. Two snorts.
“Your strategy of jumping inside their bodies was extremely revolting, but effective,” One continues, giving Five a queasy look. “Please, never do that again unless really necessary.”
“I think we should s-start bringing Seven on missions w-with us if it means making Five go feral like that again,” Two says, mostly joking, but Five glowers at him, threatening.
“That is not happening,” he says. From the seat next to his bed. Seven giggles. “And please remind me to break your fingers later,” he adds, and his brother goes pale. And kill Dad, he thinks to himself.
Eventually, after a couple hours of sitting, napping, and chatting about nothing, they drift away. Off to eat or get checked up, they wave their goodbyes, until it’s just Five and Seven left.
“Hey, look,” Seven says, and pulls a chain from around her neck out from under her shirt. It is a little pendant, a glass bottle holding a small chunk of metal. “To commemorate my first bullet wound.”
“And last bullet wound,” Five says, frowning at her.
Seven laughs, tucks the necklace safely back next to her heart, and carefully leans down to rest her head tenderly on his chest. Five closes his eyes. Later Seven will play her violin for him, and he’ll say it’s amazing even if she makes a couple mistakes, and then after they have dinner she and him and Six will share the rest of that chocolate, and tomorrow Five can kill Dad, but for now they just lay in silence, and breathe.