Five Hargreeves is six-years-old when he's sitting on a stool facing a large bay window, his elbow resting on the windowsill, his chin buried within his palm.
Five Hargreeves is six-years-old when he looks to his father—Reginald Hargreeves— curiosity burning within his chocolate orbs.
"Papa," his soft voice fills the quiet office. His eyes stay focused on the window, following the movement of his siblings outside. "I don't like Number Eight."
Five is only greeted with the sound of a pen scribbling furiously across paper. Five doesn't mind— he knows for certain his statement was heard by his father, it was simply buried beneath other statements— never to be seen again (but it was there, and that was more than enough for Five).
"She's super annoying." He wrinkles his nose, kicking his legs back and forth beneath the stool, careful not to hit the wall will his feet. "Plus, she's young than the rest of us, so they all treat her like a baby."
Reginald simply grunts in response and Five brightens.
"Do you think she's a baby, papa?"
"Number Eight is perfectly capable of performing her own duties in this household like the rest of you, Number Five."
Five hums and continues to watch his younger sister play with the others. "I don't like her. Why is she here, papa?"
Reginald sets his pen down silently and stares at his son. "Number Five!" He barks. The child merely turns his head, meeting his eyes with confusion. "Number Eight is here for a particularly difficult mission you and your siblings will partake in in the future. Your questions are irrelevant for current times."
Five mulls over this and nods, redirecting his attention back to his siblings. His father's words come and go, only to be unearthed years following.
Five finally understands when he's thirteen-years-old, standing on the edge of a cliff, his youngest sibling, Lada, standing next to him.
"Say, big brother, why can't we go play with Diego and Klaus? I know the others are in a bad mood, but they seem to be having a lot of fun!" She frowns, tugging on her brother's sleeve.
Five closes his eyes and shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts, the wind rustling his brown locks slightly. "You'll understand later, right, Number Eight?" He opens an eye at her silence, glancing down at her frozen fingers clutched around the fabric of his sleeve. "Perhaps one day you will forgive me."
"Guys, what are you doing over here?" Allison asks, nearing closer to the two of them. Five can sense the rest of his siblings treading close behind and sudden feeling of dread erupts inside of him, rustling within his chest like waves crashing ashore a moonlit beach— except there is no beach.
No, there is no beach— there are trees, bugs, dirt, and nosy siblings who seems to enjoy sticking their noses in everyone's business but their own.
"The food is getting coooold, Five!" Klaus whines and the boy bristles.
"Klaus," Five says. "I hope you'll forgive me, too. All of you." He turns around and stares.
His voice is unnerving— void of any emotion and whatever bright mood had been present earlier was vacant now.
(Time is the future, Five, and emotions are a weakness.)
"Five? What's going on?" Luther questions him boldly.
(Ah, always number One— the leader. . . why'd it have to be me?)
His hands are shaking in his pockets and he grits his teeth, lowering his head to stare at the ground. There's blood rushing through his ears and his head is pounding. He can feel young Lada's fingertips gripping his arm and it becomes too much— too much— too much
(Get it over with.)
—and in one fluid motion, Five twists around, ripping her arm away from him and thrusts her forward (but he doesn't let go).
The reaction is instantaneous. His six other siblings surround him, shouting words and phrases that Five could not hear— his focus only on that of his sister and the sheer fear that flash through the nine-year-old's hazel eyes. He can feel them touching him and it burns— it burns through his skin like lava, yet he pays no mind.
(Yes, he does. It burns— it burns— he's burning—)
Five raises his chin and digs his feet in the ground, shifting only slightly to prevent his body from shaking (to prevent his siblings from thrashing him around any longer).
"Lada," His voice is loud and clear and it halts all movement around him. "It is quick— easy. Pain is temporary— perhaps only a second long."
Terror flashes across her pale face and she writhes in his grasp, her eyes darting over their other siblings, a silently pleading with them to help her— to save her from her own brother. They are certainly trying, Five will give them that.
"You— you said you'd always protect me!" She cries, flailing her legs in the air.
(Get it over with, Number Five.)
Five's face darkens considerably. "I suppose I say a lot of things I don't mean, Number Eight."
"What the hell, Five! Let her go—"
—and she drops, her screams echoing on the way down before they simply stop.
He's being pulled at from each and every direction and he still burns—
(You deserve it.)
He smiles, ignoring the way Luther's fists beat down on his flesh. He ignores Allison's pained screams, he ignores Klaus' abrupt silence, he ignores it all.
—until he no longer can and his father's face is looming down at his fallen form. His face is emotionless, yet his eyes hold triumph as they sparkle.
(You did well, my son.)
His mind flickers back to his six-year-old self and Five grimaces.
Mission, huh. . . Five closes his eyes, feeling the dirt beneath his body. You had plans for us to raise and murder our sister from the time she was born. . .
"Trauma allows more room for logical thinking when faced with enemies, Number Five. Your emotions get in the way when you only think of the possibilities, but now that you know what it's like to lose someone by your own hand, you will prevent such things from occurring again." Reginald would explain weeks later.
He's right— he's right— he's right— until he's not and Ben dies a month later.
(It's your fault, Number Five. Your own cowardice cost them both.)
Ah. . . Five'll drink to that.
writing this at 4 AM. . . i had this idea earlier and decided to just. . . push it out? it isn't the best, but i think it's okay? i'll give a quick rundown, though if it isn't clear in the story cause tbh i don't feel like proofreading.
lada was killed by five due to a mission given to him by reginald. he only went through with it because he was given two options,
i. let his other siblings go through the trauma of that lol
ii. reginald would literally torture her to death
don't question it too much, i just know that i had (one) idea and that was five being given an ultimatum to kill a sibling. idk. maybe when i'm not tired i'll actually edit it and make a second chapter? to explain things more?