On the 12th hour of the first of October, a child was born on an abandoned roadside to a woman who had not been pregnant when the day had originally begun. She was alone, that day, collapsed to the ground to yell and scream and cry, unaware of the other 42 women forced to do the same.
However, unlike it's siblings, the child had died before it lived. The woman had stood on shaky legs, blood coating her thighs and ground as she held the corpse of a child she didn't want in her arms.
The child was set in the grass a ways off the roadside, the woman turning heel on the cold dirt and willing herself to not look back at the baby.
It's corpse stayed in the long grass, not cooling nor warming, unseen by the passerbyers' and avoided by the scavengers until the woman returned, one Sir Reginald Hargreeves in hand.
"Here, " she muttered, voice thick and tired. "I put it here." Sir Reginald had nodded, tugging his wrist from her grasp and waving her away, not bothering to spare a glance to the hesitant steps of the woman.
The child was still, the chest never rising nor falling, cold in Sir Reginald's grasp yet still holding the faint remnants of the livings warmth. He sighed, grip tightening on it's sides - a shame, really. Dead before it had a chance to live.
He turned back to the road, the woman hastily retreating into the horizon on wobbly steps and the baby finally cried. Sir Reginald startled, wide eyed as he looked down at the child, it's green eyes glossy with tears and so full of life.
Sir Reginald's lips pulled up the slightest bit, "Extraordinary," he said, breathless as he touched the cool neck of the child - the faint and slow beat of it's heart finally making itself known. The fourth of these unnatural children he had found, and this one was already showing something more.
Three days after it's siblings were born, Number Four had taken it's first breath.
Out of all the children, Number Four was the loudest - often crying during his infancy and when he learned to speak it was a never ending chatter (although, in all honesty, Pogo couldn't understand half of what the boy was saying. For all the languages he knew the boy seemed to learn another each week, it was difficult to keep up with).
Sir Reginald seemed both infuriated and intrigued by Number Four, unwilling to put up with his chatter but eager to learn more about what the boy could do ("Spirits, Pogo," his master had told him one night. "Number Four can see the dead") .
The boys' siblings seemed to feel the same as Sir Reginald, only willing to put up with his endless stream of consciousness for short periods of time - which Pogo could not relate to. Four's speech was endearing, and in the instances he spoke a language Pogo could actually understand, he delighted in conversation with the young lad. Four often spun tales of great imagery, often including bits and pieces of the lives the spirits around him had lived.
Number Five seemed to enjoy Fours company most out of all the children (which came as a surprise to Pogo, Five always seemed to prefer talking at people rather than engaging in conversation, but perhaps he misjudged the boy), often seeking out his company when Sir Reginald wouldn't humor him or his hypothesis'. The two had an odd and slightly chaotic dynamic - oftentimes whenever they came up with something broken or on fire, when Grace was finally finished he thought that she might actually have a heart attack from their antics.
(It was worth it, in Pogo's mind, letting slide one destroyed curtain or two. The children seemed happy just playing with each other, it's the least he could do to give them some kind of childhood.)
When the children's seventh birthday came around, Four was exceptionally rebellious for such a small thing - always trying to redirect Sir Reginalds anger onto himself and oftentimes succeeding (for what reason Pogo didn't know, the boy either knew that Sir Reginald had already lost that initial fondness of him to frustration and annoyance or thought he should be the one to protect his siblings.)
(Pogo was leaning a bit more towards the first option.)
The night of their birthday, Sir Reginald had told Grace to give the children something - " I don't have much care for what you give them as long as it doesn't interfere with their training or studies," he had said, not pausing in his writing. Grace smiled at him, stiff and fake and nodded.
"Of course, sir!"
Grace had asked him to accompany her to the children's rooms that night, her hands clasped together with that same smile on her face as she walked, knocking on the children's doors one by one.
"Number Four," Grace had said, crouched down to look the boy in the eye, brushing back his loose curls with a smile that began to look more real as the night progressed. "You're meant for great things, no matter what hardships you have to go through I know you'll come out on the other side." Four blinked at her, pressing his lips together as his eyes darted around the room. "Four is a wonderful number, but I think you could do with a better name."
Four's gaze found Graces, his fingers twitching as he fidgeted with the cotton of his shirt, "What could be better than Four? " He had asked, tensing and looking behind him, his eyebrows drawn taut. Grace tutted, a gentle hand turning his face back to her.
"You were born on a roadside in Germany, you know. Your mother had asked that we give you a name that honored your heritage." The woman had not asked that of them, she fled the field with shaky steps, not uttering a word of what she wanted them to do with her undead child.
Four cocked his head, rocking back in his heels, " Wha's that?"
Grace stroked his cheek, "It's what you are, where you're from." Four hummed, nodding his head as his eyes began to flick around the room once more.
"What am I then?"
"Your mother was Sinti, so I suppose you are as well."
Four looked past Pogo, nearly succeeding in hiding the shiver that wracked through his body. "My name is Sinti?" Grace laughed, the sound almost real.
"No bumblebee, your name is Klaus." Four - Klaus focused his gaze back on Grace, eyes wide as he mouthed the name to himself.
"Klaus? " He asked,
"Klaus." Pogo responded.
Sir Reginald had begun Klaus' special training.
Pogo wasn't allowed to come on that first session, "You'll coddle the boy, Pogo. He needs to get over that ridiculous fear of his if he wishes to be a useful member of this team." And Pogo had relented, watching with wary eyes as Sir Reginald dragged the boy out of his room by his arm, not pausing as Klaus stumbled along the hallway, sleep still heavy in his bones.
Klaus was gone well into lunch, and the house felt as though it was missing something important. The children kept glancing towards the spot where their brother would sit, the silence stifling as the clinks of silverware were all that was heard. No quiet words uttered to the corner nor any curses spat at the ceiling.
Ben had approached him, his arms wrapped around his middle with Five trailing behind him. "Where's Klaus?" He had asked, his voice pinched with worry - the Horrors didn't like his absence, Pogo presumed, the monsters seemed to have an attachment to the boy.
"He's training." Pogo had said, not willing to let his thoughts drift to what his master had thought up for Klaus. Sir Reginald knew what was best for the children, he trusted him (and he ignored the feeling of ice spreading through him as the hours ticked and ticked on without any sign of the boy).
"Why's his training taking so long?" Five piped up, swaying his arms back and forth as his hands occasionally sparked with a soft blue glow. "It's been like a day by now."
Pogo paused, "I'm afraid I don't know, Master Five."
Ben let out a soft whine, his arms tightening the slightest bit. "What do you mean you don't know, I thought Dad told you everything."
"Like I said Master Five, I'm afraid that your father has neglected to tell me what your brothers' training entailed."
"Can you find out?"
"I can try, but I can give no promises on the outcome."
Five looked to Ben, leaning forward to whisper something in his ear. Ben nodded, taking his gaze from the ground and looking to Pogo, "Thank you," he said, "for trying, I mean."
Pogo nodded, leaving the children to knock on Sir Reginald's study, "Enter." And Pogo did, squinting at the light pouring in through the window. "Pogo, splendid timing, I need you to retrieve Number Four from his training." His master spared him a glance from where he was packing his papers into a bag, "A meeting slipped my mind, so I must leave soon."
"Where is he, sir?"
"The mausoleum in the graveyard down the road," Pogo felt his breath stutter, is that where the boy had been all night? Locked in a cold tomb without food or water? "Do not coddle him when he gets out, this fear of his will only serve to hold him back." Sir Reginald clicked his bag close, straightening up as he strode past Pogo, pausing to lay a hand on his shoulder. "I'm helping him, Pogo. It's for his own good."
Pogo nodded.
The mausoleum loomed over him, casting him in it's dark shadow as walked towards it. Klaus was here, and had been here for hours upon hours - training to rid himself of his fear (Pogo bit back a scoff at those words, and felt himself flood with shame. Sir Reginald had created Pogo, nursed him
back to life when it should have already ended for him. The least he could do was believe him when he said he was helping the boy.
Sir Reginald knew best.)
He pulled at the heavy doors, the grating sound of stone sliding on stone filling the dead land and swarming the building's old insides were flooded with light. His heart in his throat, Pogo stepped into the tomb, eyes on the boy curled up in the corner desperately tugging at his hair. "Master Klaus," he remembers saying, his voice so loud for such a quiet whisper. "Master Klaus, it's time to go home."
Klaus didn't look up, his eyes clenched shut as the tugging of his hair grew more vicious. A frantic stream of pleads and begs making themselves known to Pogo's ears. This would help him, this would help him be less afraid, take back his power from those wretched ghosts that made the boy feel unsafe.
Pogo knelt in front of Klaus, waiting patiently with a heavy heart for the lad to look up, away from the dead surrounding him and see the living. "Master Klaus," he had said "can you hear me?" Klaus let out a whimper, pressing himself further into the corner of the cove and away from Pogo - from the sunlight that was slowly dimming. Sir Reginald would be mad if he were late returning - although he feared the anger would be targeted at the boy in the corner rather than at him.
He reached an arm out, lightly placing his hand on Klaus' knee and sucking in a sharp breath as the boy let out a terrified yelp, his head shooting up. "It's just me," Pogo whispered, leaning closer to the boy. He hadn't a clue how many dead were pestering the child, "My dear boy, it's just me."
Klaus blinked at him, his green eyes wide and glossy and filled with the silhouettes of people Pogo couldn't see, "Pogo?" He had asked, voice cracked and raspy and sounding so, so scared.
"It's just me, Master Klaus." The boy let out a sob, his bloodied hands finally ceasing the violent tugging of his hair to reach towards Pogo, hesitant to touch. Pogo felt the guilt he pressed down rise, a terrible feeling that he could stop this but - Sir Reginald helped people. He wouldn't hurt the children, he helped them. He was helping Klaus.
The boy made a sound in the back of his throat, eyes becoming unfocused as they darted around the room, unable to find Pogo again. He took one of the boy's wrists in his hand, rubbing circles on the much-too prominent bone with a soft sigh. "I'm right here," he had said, pulling Klaus into his chest as gently as he could and clenching his eyes shut when the boy let out another sob, "I promise, I'm right here."
(He wanted to promise, promise his boy that he would never leave him alone in this dreadful tomb again.
But he didn't.
Sir Reginald knew best.)
Four was six years past four when he had thrown himself into Pogo's arms after another trip to the mausoleum. His thin frame shook as he gasped out sobs and meek apologies.
Sir Reginald took one look at the boy in his arms, "Number Four, cease your babbling and get in the car." Klaus didn't stop, his small hands clutching the lapels of Pogo's coat, his knuckles going white. His boy was filthy, his shirt torn and bloody and his shorts slipping down his hips (Pogo knew what happened, they both did.
His master had straightened in his seat, eyes wide as he beckoned Pogo closer to the screen. Klaus was curled up in the corner, the grainy footage being lit by a beautiful blue glow from the boy's hands and the figures dripping blood and gore across the stone floor. "Extraordinary," Sir Reginald had said, something close to a smile on his face as he watched the dead scream and yell and tear at the boy- raking their claws across him and ripping his decency away with their cold hands.
Pogo didn't want to watch.
But he didn't turn away.)
Sir Reginald sighed, dropping to his knee in front of Klaus and Pogo ignored the urge to pull his boy away from his master. "Number Four," Sir Reginald reached out, turning Klaus' head from where it was buried in Pogo's shoulder to face him. "You've shown great ability today, and managed to prove a theory I've had of you since I had brought you home."
Klaus keened, a pitiful sound, really. "I am proud of you," Pogo swallowed around the lump in his throat, his brows creased as horror rose in him. His son got- got raped and killed by the dead the constantly surrounded him and his master was, was proud of that? That he got hurt? Sir Reginald didn't say anything else, sitting in silence for a few moments more, idly stroking Klaus' face in some meek form of comfort before turning back to the car. "Pogo, have him back in the car within five minutes if you will."
Pogo nodded, his eyes stinging as Klaus let out another sob, shakes wracking his frame. "I didn't-" His boy had said, choked and shaky and nothing like how he should sound. "I didn't wanna make them real Go-Go, I promise." And Pogo nodded,
"I know ," he said, "it's not your fault."
"It hurts."
Pogo ignored the stinging in his eyes, pulling his boy closer to him, "I know, I'm sorry."
"They're still yellin'."
Pogo didn't say anything, glancing at the mausoleum that loomed over them.
"They got what they wan'ed, why won't they stop?"
Sir Reginald stopped him in the hallway after he led Klaus back to his room, "Pogo," he had said, drumming his fingers on the head of his cane. "I am remorseful that his powers caused him harm, but you must understand, come time this will help him." Pogo didn't understand, but he nodded anyway.
His master knew best, after all.
He was no longer allowed to observe Klaus' training.