I don't own the Umbrella Academy.
On the twelfth hour of the first day of October 1989, forty-three women around the world gave birth.
This was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.
Sir Reginald Hargreeves, eccentric billionaire and adventurer, resolved to locate and adopt as many of the children as possible.
He got seven of them.
And then one more came along years later.
Her breath came out in a soft exhale as she opened her eyes, blinking tiredly. A quiet chuckle left her lips, although there was no mirth behind it. Here she was, finally free from him, years later, and yet she still acted like the little schoolgirl from so long ago. Still practicing. If he had a heart, he might've been proud of her, but he didn't, and so he wasn't. She had learned that quickly. He cared for nobody but himself.
Her phone chimed. She didn't bother looking at it, though. She didn't feel like it. Instead, she just stood up and drifted toward her kitchen, where she began to absentmindedly make a sandwich. She suddenly flashed back to the time she and Five had had a small disagreement about what kind of sandwiches were best—he argued for peanut-butter-and-marshmallows, whereas she insisted that nutella was better, wrinkling her nose at even the thought of peanut-butter-and-marshmallows as a combination. A small, sad smile graced her lips, remembering that Five was gone, and had been, for almost seventeen years. She had spent more time away from him than time with him. Same with Ben.
Suddenly wanting to distract herself, she hurried back to her phone, sandwich in hand, and scanned the notification lighting up on her screen and her eyes widened in surprise.
Dear old dad had finally kicked the bucket, it seemed.
About time.