Five darted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Commission facility, every fibre of his being thrumming with adrenaline. The blaring alarms and frantic shouts reverberated off the sterile walls, creating a symphony of chaos that propelled him forward. The explosion from the hand grenade he'd lobbed at the Handler still echoed in his ears, a violent crescendo that had bought him precious seconds. He didn't waste them. Seizing the moment, Five blinked himself out of sight, teleporting with precision to hallway just beyond the blast zone.
The plan had been ruthless, a testament to his tactical genius. Earlier, in a brief moment of access to the pneumatic tube system, Five had sent a false message to Hazel and Cha-Cha. It was a masterstroke of deception—he had altered their orders from protecting Harold Jenkins to assassinating each other. With Hazel and Cha-Cha turning on one another, Five's path to Jenkins would be considerably cleared.
As he navigated the twisting passages of the facility, his mind raced, running through the meticulous details of his plan. Every contingency had been accounted for, every variable controlled. The infirmary was his next stop, not far from the briefcase room where his escape would be secured. He had left her a cryptic message, a subtle breadcrumb trail that only someone of her intelligence could follow. After all, Five had always been acutely aware that Elora was smarter and more observant than she let on. Her keen intellect and sharp perception had often been underestimated by others, but he knew better.
Skidding to a halt outside the infirmary doors, Five paused, gathering his composure. He knew what he was about to face—Commission paramedics would be there. Though Five admired Elora's intellect, he was well aware of her limitations in physical confrontations and brute force.
He gingerly opened the door, slipping inside with the stealth of a seasoned assassin. The scene before him was both impressive and unsettling. Elora lay on a gurney, her skin an unnatural shade of pale, eyes closed as if she were teetering on the brink of death. The paramedics were engrossed in their work, oblivious to the true nature of the situation—and to the threat that had just entered the room.
Elora had executed her plan with impeccable timing. As Five watched from the shadows, he saw her harnessing her cryogenic powers with precision. She carefully created a localized area of intense chill around her, the temperature in the room plummeting with each passing second. The air grew thin and frigid, causing the paramedics' equipment to malfunction. Their breaths became laboured, their movements sluggish as the cold seeped into their bones. One by one, they succumbed—some fainted from oxygen deprivation, while others stumbled and fell, disoriented by the sudden drop in temperature.
It was a far gentler method than Five would have employed. His own approach would have been far more lethal, but he couldn't help but respect the elegance of Elora's solution. Her aversion to unnecessary violence was something he had come to appreciate, even if it sometimes clashed with his own ruthless pragmatism.
Without a word, Five signalled for Elora to follow. They moved in sync, their steps swift and silent as they made their way to the briefcase room. The room was a vault of temporal power, each briefcase representing a potential escape route—or a means of pursuit for their enemies. Five's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the rows of time-travel devices. There was no room for error.
He snatched the nearest briefcase and, with a fluid motion, retrieved another hand grenade from his pocket. The fuse sparked to life, and Five tossed it into the room, turning away just as the explosion rocked the facility. The force of the blast obliterated the remaining briefcases, rendering the Commission's time-travel capabilities useless. It was scorched-earth tactic, leaving nothing behind for their pursuers.
The sound of the explosion still echoed in their ears as Five and Elora activated the stolen briefcase. The device hummed with energy, its mechanisms whirring as the temporal vortex began to open around them. Five braced himself for the familiar rush of time travel, the sensation of being torn from one reality and flung into another. For Elora, it was a first—a plunge into the unknown that left her wide-eyed and breathless. The briefcase's teleportation system engaged just as the sound of the explosion reverberated through the facility. The intense heat and shockwave from the blast reached them as they were pulled
After what felt like an eternity, the swirling vortex began to stabilize, and the chaotic colours and sounds started to coalesce into something more familiar. Five's vision cleared, and he saw the familiar faces of his siblings, their expressions twisted in mid-argument. It was a scene he had witnessed countless times before—Luther's stern disapproval, Diego's simmering anger, Allison's quiet concern. They were all there, minus Vanya, their voices clashing in a cacophony of sibling rivalry.
The abrupt jolt of time travel came to a crashing halt, throwing Five and Elora back into their own time. The disorienting transition caught them off guard, and they collided with a bar table, landing hard. Five's body hit the briefcase, front-first, with a force that knocked the wind out of him. The sharp edges of the metal dug painfully into his chest, but he barely had time to registered the discomfort before Elora's weight crashed down on his back. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through his body, pinning him against the cold, unyielding surface beneath him.
"You guys, am I still high, or do you see a pile of Five and Elora too?" Klaus's dazed voice cut through the confusion, followed by a barrage of questions from the others. Their words blurred together, forming a disorienting wall of noise that only added to the physical pain Five was experiencing.
He tried to push himself up, but Elora's weight held him down. He could feel her struggling to regain her bearings, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body, but he bit down on the discomfort, forcing himself to stay focused.
Finally, Elora managed to roll off him, her movements clumsy as she nearly toppled over, only to be caught by Diego. Five let out a grunt of irritation, his body aching from the impact and the rough landing. The transition between timelines had been more jarring than he anticipated, but he shoved the discomfort aside, determined to maintain his composure.
As his siblings continued their barrage of questions, Five tuned them out, his mind already working to assess their situation. Spotting Allison's coffee on the table, he snatched it up and chugged it down, the bitter warmth grounding him in the moment. The bitter liquid seared his throat, but the familiar burn helped to anchor him, clearing the lingering fog from his mind.
Five let out a deep, measure sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as the sun set outside, casting an orange glow through the dusty windows. His siblings' faces were a mix of confusion, frustration, and weariness.
He turned to face his siblings; his expression grim. "So, the apocalypse is in three days," he announced, his voice cutting through the chaos. The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in. Elora, who had been quietly observing from the sofa, perked up at the mention of the impending disaster that was mentioned by the Handler before, her green eyes narrowing in thought.
Five continued, his tone laced with urgency. "The only chance we have to save our would is, well, us." His gaze swept across the room, landing on each of his siblings in turn. The weight of his words was undeniable, a stark reminder of the impending disaster that loomed over them
Luther, ever the soldier, straightened at the implication of a mission. The old determination flickered his eyes, a spark of the leader he once aspired to be. "The Umbrella Academy," Luther murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, as if trying to rekindle a long-dormant sense of collective purpose as a team.
Five nodded, his expression hardening. "Yeah, but with me, obviously." His voice was dry, but beneath the sarcasm lay a steely resolve. The tension in the room was thick, a tangible pressure that threatened to break at any moment. He could still hear echoes of their earlier arguments—complaints about not wanting to be caught in another apocalypse, the petty squabbles that had kept them from focusing on the real threat.
He levelled a hard stare at his siblings, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "So, if y'all don't get your sideshow acts together and get over yourselves, we're screwed. Who cares if Dad messed us up? Are we going to let that define us?"
The challenge hung in the air, unanswered. The ticking of a clock was the only sound, its rhythm mirroring the collective heartbeat of the room. His siblings met his gaze with a seriousness that had been absent for too long. Then, Klaus, usually the one to deflect with humour or sarcasm, shook his head. It was the right answer. No, they wouldn't let Reginald's failure in parenting define them.
"And to give us a fighting chance to see next week," Five said, pulling out a small, worn piece of paper from his pocket, "I've come back with a lead." His voice steady but charged with tension. The room seemed to tighten around them as he held up the paper, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. "I know who's responsible for the apocalypse."
He walked over to Allison, his steps deliberate, and handed her the paper. "This is who we have to stop."
Allison's brow furrowed as she read the name aloud. "Harold Jenkins?" The rest of the Umbrella Academy, sans Elora who was more than happy to just sit by them, crowded around her, eyes scanning the piece of paper she held.
The name lingered in the air, foreign and unsettling.
"Who the hell is Harold Jenkins?" Diego snapped, his voice breaking the heavy silence, laced with suspicion. The question hung between them, unanswered, as the weight of what they were about to face settled in.
Five chugged down the remaining fill of the coffee cup he held, before tossing it behind him, carelessly. "I don't know yet." He admitted, his voice tight with frustration. "But I do know that he's responsible for the apocalypse. So, we have to find him, and we have to do it now."
Luther's question came hesitantly, "How is he connected to what's gonna happen?"
Five's shoulder sagged a bit, his eyes instinctively seeking out Elora. Her slight smile, a quiet but reassuring gesture, gave him the strength to admit the truth to his siblings: that he doesn't even know the connection of Harold Jenkins to the ending of the world. The name Harold Jenkins was so obscure, so seemingly irrelevant, that it might as well have belonged to a complete stranger. He wasn't part of Five's calculations, and the revelation had blindsided him just as much as it did the others.
"Wait, so you just know his name?" Diego asked, his tone a mix of surprise and genuine disbelief. It wasn't ridicule but rather shock that someone as thorough as Five could overlook something so critical. "That's it?"
Five felt the sharp retort forming on his tongue, ready to fire back with a biting comment about how even Diego wouldn't have pieced it together if he couldn't. But before he could speak, a glance from Elora stopped him—a silent reminder to keep his temper in check. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders, and met Diego's gaze with a steady calm.
"That's enough." Five stated firmly.
"There's probably dozens of Harold Jenkins in the city." Diego countered, still sceptical.
"Well, we just better start looking, then." Five replied, his voice resolute, leaving no room for argument.
But with his siblings, nothing ever came easy. It was as if they were hardwired to resist following orders—especially Five's orders, though they had seemed to follow Reginald's without question when they were younger.
"I'm sorry. Am I the only one who's sceptical here?" Allison broke in, her voice tinged with doubt. "I mean, how exactly do you know all this about—what's his name again?" Her question was reasonable, but to Five, it grated like metal on metal, sending a ripple of discomfort through him. His left side tightened painfully, eliciting a quiet grunt. The sound was barely audible, but it was enough for Elora to notice. He could see her posture straighten, her eyes quickly assessing him, scanning for any signs of injury.
"Harold Jenkins," Five corrected, his tone clipped as he reminded them of the name that had become central to their mission. "You remember those lunatics in masks who attacked the house?"
"Oh yeah, I think I remember those guys," Klaus chimed in, his voice light and airy.
"Yeah, the ones that attacked us while you were getting drunk," Diego added sarcastically, his gaze locked on Five. Normally, Five wouldn't tolerate such a tone, but he didn't have the patience to drag out this conversation any longer, so he dryly responded to Diego that his answer was correct, it was in fact Hazel and Cha-Cha.
"They were sent by the Temps Commission, to stop me from coming back and preventing the end of life on Earth." Five explained, his voice growing more serious.
"The Temps what?" Allison asked, her confusion evident.
"My former employer," Five answered, his patience thinning but still present. "They monitor all of time and space to make sure that whatever is supposed to happen... happens." He then delved into the details of his infiltration of the Temps Commission, explaining how they had intercepted a message meant for Hazel and Cha-Cha—a message he believed could be connected to the impending apocalypse. The message, centered around protecting Harold Jenkins, led Five to the only logical conclusion: this man was somehow responsible for the end of the world.
After laying it all out, Five hoped his siblings would finally grasp the gravity of the situation and get on with what needed to be done. But instead, they bombarded him with another round of questions, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus that frayed his already strained nerves. The tightness in his left side intensified, almost unbearable now. Glancing down, he noticed a tear in his uniform, and beneath it, blood slowly staining his white shirt and the checkered sweater above it. Not wanting to shift their focus from the apocalypse to his injury, he quickly covered the wound with his blazer. His eyes flicked to Elora, worried she might have noticed, but her attention was elsewhere—focused on Klaus, who was muttering under his breath, clearly not in the best state.
"Do you even know how insane this sounds?" Allison's voice rose, pushing Five to his limit. He had been patient, but his siblings' lack of cooperation was wearing thin. He doubted Elora would blame him for what he was about to say.
"You know what else is insane?" Five's gaze sharpened as he looked at each of them in turn. "I look like a thirteen-year-old boy." He pointed to himself, then turned to Klaus. "Klaus talks to the dead," and finally to Luther, "and Luther thinks he's fooling everyone with that overcoat." At the mention of Luther, everyone turned to him, taking in his appearance.
"Everything about our lives is insane," Five continued, his voice lowering. "It always has been."
They went on a little bit until Five finally managed to get through their heads, and his siblings began to come around, understanding the urgency and the necessity of their mission. They agreed to dig into the information about Harold Jenkins, with Diego offering to call in some favours from his police contacts. However, not everyone was on board. Luther chose to stay behind, convinced the apocalypse was linked to Reginald's decision to send him to the moon. Klaus, claiming he wasn't feeling well, opted out as well.
Which lead them outside a police station, waiting for Diego to retrieve files from his friends on the force. Five leaned against a pillar while Allison used a nearby payphone, saying she was calling Vanya after a recent argument. Elora, however, kept her focus on Five, her eyes narrowing as she tried to determine what was wrong. She had noticed his limp when they exited the car, and her concern was evident.
Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, Elora finally asked, her voice soft, "Are you okay?"
Five shifted uncomfortably under Elora's scrutinizing gaze, the midday sun casting sharp shadows on the pavement around them. He leaned against the pillar, trying to appear nonchalant despite the throbbing pain in his side. She knew him too well—his subtle winces, the way he favoured one side, how he held his breath just a fraction too long before exhaling. All signs pointed to more than just a bruised side.
"You win. Yes, I am hurt," Five admitted, his voice edged with irritation as he met her piercing green eyes. "The Handler kicked me way too hard when I confronted her." The lie slipped out smoothly, but he could see the scepticism etched on Elora's face.
Elora raised an eyebrow, her expression a mix of concern and disbelief. "Do you really think I wouldn't know what a kick to the side injury looks like?" Her voice was soft, but there was a firmness beneath it, an unspoken challenge to his excuse.
Five's jaw tightened as he considered his next words. Elora wasn't easily fooled; her sharp mind and perceptive nature had always been traits he both admired and found frustrating when he was trying to deflect. He could see her mind working, connecting dots, analysing every detail of his behaviour. She was too observant for her own good—or rather, for his own good.
Taking a breath, Five softened his tone, letting a hint of vulnerability seep in. "Elora, I appreciate your concern, but I know what my body can handle." He glanced around, making sure they were still out of earshot of anyone who might overhear. "It's not as bad as it looks. Trust me."
Elora crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she continued to assess him. "You're limping, Five. And I've seen the way you've been holding your side. If it's just a bruise, then why are you so tense?"
Five forced a smile, trying to project more confidence than he felt. "Because I'm stubborn, and because we have more important things to worry about right now than a little pain." He pushed off the pillar, straightening up as if to prove his point, though the motion sent a sharp pang through his torso.
Elora's gaze softened slightly, but her scepticism remained. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Five, you can't fool me. I know you're not telling me the whole truth."
There was a beat of silence between them, the sounds of the city around them fading into the background. Five could see the worry in her eyes, a reflection of the deep care she held for him. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
"Elora," he said, his voice gentler now, "I promise you; I'll be fine. I've dealt with worse, and I'm still standing. We have a mission to focus on, and I need you to trust that I can handle this."
Elora studied him for a long moment, her green eyes searching his face for any sign of deception. She knew Five was capable of enduring immense pain, of pushing through injuries that would cripple others. And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was downplaying whatever he was going through.
Finally, she let out a small sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she took a step back. "Fine," she relented, though there was still a hint of doubt in her voice. "But if I find out you're lying to me, you're not going to hear the end of it."
Five gave her a half-smile, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. "Fair enough," he said, grateful that she was willing to let it go for now. He knew she wasn't fully convinced, but for the moment, that was enough. They had bigger problems to deal with, and he needed her focus on the task ahead.
Elora nodded, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, as if trying to memorize every detail of his condition. "Just... don't push yourself too hard, okay?"
"I won't," Five assured her, though they both knew that was a promise he might not be able to keep. Still, as they turned their attention back to the mission, there was an unspoken understanding between them—Elora would be watching him closely, and Five would do his best to keep her from worrying too much.
Before they could dive into another discussion, Diego rounded the corner, a smug expression on his face as he held up a file. Allison, having just finished her call with Vanya, grabbed the file from him and swiftly opened it. Her eyes scanned the contents before widening in shock.
"Holy shit," she exclaimed.
The source of her surprise was clear as she held up a photograph for everyone to see. "Harold Jenkins is Leonard Peabody."
They managed to find Harold Jenkins' house, nestled in the middle of a quiet suburban neighbourhood. The house itself was unremarkable, blending in with the rows of identical homes lining the street. It had a modest, cookie-cutter design typical of suburban sprawl, with a neat lawn, a white picket fence, and a small porch that could easily be overlooked. The paint was slightly chipped in places, the windows were clean but devoid of any personality, and there was nothing about the house that stood out—no vibrant flowers, no whimsical garden gnomes, not even a stray leaf out of place. It was the kind of place where someone could easily fade into the background, where one could live unnoticed, hidden in plain sight.
The plan had been to infiltrate the house as quietly as possible. Allison opted for the back door, slipping in with practiced stealth, while Five effortlessly teleported inside. Elora stood beside Diego, stifling a grin as she watched him eye the front porch, clearly searching for a way in. But, predictably, Diego's idea of subtlety leaned more toward brute force. With a determined grunt, he hurled himself into the glass panel of the front door, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
The crash echoed through the quiet neighbourhood, and Elora couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as she heard Diego groan from the impact. Allison and Five quickly converged on the heap that was Diego, their expressions a mix of exasperation and amusement.
"Subtle," Allison remarked dryly, crossing her arms as she surveyed the damage.
Five, always quick with a quip, tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. "You know the door was open, right?" he said, his tone laced with mockery as he turned to Diego. He pushed the door open with a smirk, holding it for Elora. The amused glint in his eyes matched the smile tugging at her lips, but she managed to suppress her laughter, not wanting to bruise Diego's ego any further.
Diego, still trying to regain his dignity, grunted as he picked himself up. "Yeah, well, my way works just fine," he muttered, brushing off his jacket. "Spread out. And, uh... yell if you're in trouble." With that, he marched toward the living room, leaving the three of them behind.
"Ah, Inspiring leadership," Five quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Elora chuckled softly. "One of the greats," she replied, her amusement evident as she exchanged a knowing glance with Five.
They decided to split up, with Five joining Diego on the first floor while Allison and Elora headed upstairs. Allison moved to search the room on the left side of the staircase, while Elora's curiosity led her down the second-floor hallway. The area was sparse, with little more than a small cabinet tucked into the corner. She opened the drawers but found nothing of interest. Her gaze drifted upward, where she noticed a small, inconspicuous latch in the ceiling—a potential entrance to the attic.
Elora stood on her tiptoes, stretching her fingers toward the latch, but it was just out of reach. Frustrated but undeterred, she stepped back and called out softly, "Allison, can you give me a hand?"
Allison, having finished her sweep of the nearby room, joined Elora in the hallway. With a quick nod, she reached up and easily pulled down on the latch. The ceiling creaked in response, and a narrow staircase descended with a faint groan, unfolding itself like a hidden secret.
The passageway to the attic loomed above them, dark and uninviting. Allison glanced at Elora and stepped aside with a small, encouraging smile. "After you."
Elora hesitated for a moment, her eyes scanning the shadowed steps. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and began to climb. The wooden stairs creaked under her weight; the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent house. As she ascended, the air grew cooler and thicker, carrying the faint scent of dust and old wood.
As they took in their surroundings, the scene that greeted them was nothing short of eerie. The attic was a dimly lit space, thick with dust and the unsettling sense of obsession. It was, in every sense, a shrine—dedicated not just to the Umbrella Academy, but to a twisted version of them.
Official posters and newspaper clippings covered every inch of the walls, documenting the Academy's heroic deeds and public appearances. Their familiar faces stared back at Elora and Allison, frozen in time, captured in moments of triumph. But something was terribly wrong. The posters weren't just displayed—they were defaced. Deep, jagged scratches marred the eyes of each member, as if someone had violently tried to erase their very identity. The gashes in the paper left the faces hollow and haunting, a chilling testament to the owner's dark intent.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with Umbrella Academy action figures and merchandise, items that might have once been treasured by a devoted fan. But here, they were anything but cherished. The action figures were mutilated—faces burnt off, limbs twisted and melted, as if subjected to some cruel experiment. The destruction was methodical, a grotesque mockery of the heroes they once represented.
"Guys, you need to see this," Allison called out, her voice tinged with unease. The urgency in her tone carried through the quiet house, summoning Five and Diego. The sound of their hurried footsteps echoed up the stairs as they quickly made their way to the attic.
When they arrived, their expressions mirrored the shock and unease that had already settled over Allison and Elora. The attic's twisted shrine was a disturbing sight, and it left them momentarily speechless.
"All our faces are burnt off," Allison murmured, her eyes lingering on the disfigured action figures and defaced posters that surrounded them.
Diego, never one to shy away from voicing his thoughts, crossed his arms and shook his head. "Well, that's not creepy," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "This guy's got some serious issues."
Five's gaze narrowed as he focused on the row of burnt action figures lined up on the shelf. Among them, one figure stood out—Reginald Hargreeves, their father, untouched by the destructive rage that had marred the rest. The figure remained pristine, a stark contrast to the others that had been twisted and disfigured.
As the weight of the discovery settled in, a realization dawned on Allison. Her eyes widened slightly as the pieces began to fall into place. "This was never about Vanya," she said, her voice laced with a sudden clarity. "This was about us."
Before anyone could react, the attic's tense silence was shattered by a loud thud, followed by a pained groan. They spun around to see Five Hargreeves collapse to the floor, his hand clutching his side in a desperate attempt to stem the pain. Elora's eyes widened with panic as she took in the sight before her. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling as they hovered over his prone form.
"Wh—Blood," Allison stammered, her voice rising in alarm as she noticed the dark stain spreading across Five's clothes.
At the mention of blood, Elora quickly pulled aside the blazer that Five had been using to cover his injury, the same one he had brushed off as just a "kick from the Handler." But as the fabric fell away, her worst fears were confirmed. This was no mere bruise or scrape. Embedded in Five's abdomen was a jagged piece of shrapnel, its edges slick with fresh blood that oozed from the wound, soaking through his shirt and sweater.
"I knew it," Elora whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration. Her eyes narrowed at Five, the panic in her gaze now edged with anger. She wanted to scream at him, to demand why he hadn't said anything sooner. Why he had risked his life, for what? She couldn't even begin to understand his reasoning, but now wasn't the time for questions.
"Jesus, Five," Diego muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Five's breaths were coming in ragged gasps, his strength waning by the second. "You have to keep going," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper as his consciousness began to slip away. "So… close…" His words trailed off, and with that, he went limp in Elora's arms.
"Five?" Allison's voice cracked with desperation. "Five!"
Elora's heart pounded in her chest as she shook Five slightly, trying to rouse him, but there was no response. Panic gripped her as she looked up at Allison and Diego. "We need to get him to a hospital, or anywhere we can treat his injury—now!"
Without wasting another second, they scrambled into action. Diego and Allison carefully propped Five up between them, his head lolling against Diego's shoulder as they hurriedly carried him down the attic stairs. Elora stayed close, her hands hovering anxiously near Five as if she could somehow keep him conscious through sheer willpower.
As they reached the car, Elora's mind raced. The sight of Five's blood-soaked clothes was a cold knife to her heart, and the image of him lying unconscious in her arms filled her with a gnawing dread. Her voice trembled as she pleaded, "We need to get him to a hospital! He needs proper medical attention, Diego!"
But Diego shook his head, his expression set in a hard, determined line. "We can't," he said, his tone firm and unyielding. "A kid with a shrapnel wound is going to raise way too many questions. It'll be more trouble than it's worth. Pogo can treat him at the house. He knows what to do."
Elora opened her mouth to argue, her heart pounding in her chest, but the gravity in Diego's voice made her pause. She could see the logic in what he was saying, but it didn't make the fear any easier to bear. Her eyes flicked to Five, unconscious and vulnerable, and a wave of helplessness crashed over her. The image of him lying so still, his usually sharp and confident demeanour replaced by a pale, bloodied figure, twisted something deep inside her.
Reluctantly, she nodded, biting down on her fear and anxiety, but it was a struggle to keep her emotions in check. They bundled Five into the backseat, his body limp and unresponsive. Elora slid in beside him, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his cheek, hoping for any sign that he was still there, still fighting.
As Diego sped off toward the mansion, Elora's gaze never left Five. Her hand found his, cold and slack, and she squeezed it gently, as if that small connection could somehow anchor him to the world. The ride back to the mansion felt interminable, every second stretching into an eternity as the car raced through the streets. Elora's heart pounded with worry, her thoughts consumed by the fear of what might happen if they didn't reach Pogo in time.
They reached the mansion in what felt like both the blink of an eye and an eternity. As soon as the car screeched to a halt, Elora's hands fumbled with the door handle, her heart racing in her chest. The moment she managed to throw the door open, she was out and rushing to Five's side. He was still slumped in the back seat, his face pale, his breathing shallow, and the sight made her stomach twist with fear.
Allison and Diego were right behind her, their movements urgent but careful as they positioned themselves to lift him out of the car. Just as they began to shift his weight, a faint groan slipped from Five's lips, startling them all.
Elora's heart leapt at the sound, a small surge of hope breaking through her overwhelming anxiety. She leaned in closer, her voice trembling as she called his name. "Five?"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, almost as if her voice had reached him from some distant place, his eyelids fluttered open. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were unfocused, glazed with pain and exhaustion. He seemed to struggle to make sense of his surroundings, but then his gaze found Elora. Despite everything, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're... crushing my hand," he mumbled, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words slurred.
Elora let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding her system like a tidal wave, though it did little to ease the tension that had settled in her chest. "Well, maybe if you weren't so stubborn, I wouldn't have to," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion, even as she tried to sound teasing.
But before she could say anything more, Five's eyes rolled back, and he slipped back into unconsciousness, his brief moment of lucidity gone as quickly as it had come. The sight of him so vulnerable, so unlike the confident, defiant Five she knew, made her heart ache. But that fleeting moment of awareness was enough to give her the strength to keep going. She exchanged a quick, worried glance with Allison and Diego, and together they carefully manoeuvre him out of the car.
Once inside, the mansion's grand, dimly lit interior seemed eerily silent, the usual lively atmosphere replaced by a heavy, almost oppressive stillness. The weight of what was happening bore down on all of them as they carried Five into the living room. Elora hovered close, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his face, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was clammy, and his breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest seeming more laboured than the last. Her heart pounded in her chest, the fear and helplessness nearly overwhelming her as she struggled to think of anything that could help him.
Allison, her face set with grim determination, was already moving to grab a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet, her mind racing with the need to do something—anything—that might help. But just as she was about to speak, Diego straightened up, his eyes catching on something in the room.
Diego's gaze locked onto Grace, who was moving through the house with an eerie calmness, tidying up as though nothing was amiss. The sight of her strolling serenely, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding around her, sent a cold shiver down Diego's spine. Only a few nights ago, he had severed her wires, effectively shutting her down after she began malfunctioning following Reginald's death. Seeing her now, fully operational and seemingly unaffected by what had happened, was deeply unsettling.
Ignoring Elora and Allison's anxious calls, Diego began to approach her, his steps hesitant. "Mom?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, sounding small and uncertain.
Grace turned to face him, her warm smile unwavering as she regarded Diego's troubled expression. "Oh, hello, Diego, dear," she greeted him in her usual gentle tone, the familiarity of her voice clashing with the confusion that gripped him.
Diego's disbelief was palpable as his eyes scanned her form. He focused on her forearm, where jagged stitches marred a large scar— the exact place he had cut open to disable her. "How are you still... walking around?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of astonishment and dread.
Grace's expression remained unfazed as she responded with a light-hearted tone. "One foot in front of the other," she said, doing a small, almost whimsical twirl. "Why? How did you do it?" she added, her voice teasing but completely out of sync with the situation.
Before Diego could respond, Elora's voice sliced through his thoughts like a knife, pulling him back to the present. She was at Five's side, her face etched with deep concern as she tried desperately to rouse him again. "Diego, we don't have time for this!"
The urgency in Elora's voice jolted Diego, shaking him from his stupor. The gravity of the situation crashed down on him, and he forced himself to focus. He shook off the lingering discomfort and turned back to Grace, his voice firm but laced with anxiety. "Mom, we need your help. Can you take care of Five?"
Grace's serene smile remained as perfect as ever, entirely at odds with the intensity of the moment. "Of course, dear," she replied, her tone as gentle and reassuring as ever. Without missing a beat, she moved toward the sofa with a calm efficiency that belied the seriousness of the situation. Kneeling beside Five, she began to assess his injuries with the same nurturing care she had always shown them.
"Let's get him to his bedroom," Grace suggested with a practiced ease. "I'll treat his injuries there."
The group quickly mobilized; each movement charged with urgency. Diego and Allison, with a determined efficiency born from their desperation, gently lifted Five from the sofa. Elora stayed close, her eyes locked on Five's pale face, her worry palpable.
Grace led the way, her calm demeanour in stark contrast to the frantic pace of the others. As they navigated the mansion's familiar halls, Elora's grip on Five's hand remained firm, a silent plea for him to hold on. They reached Five's bedroom, a room usually filled with the muted elegance of his personal space, now seeming stark and clinical in the moment of crisis.
After settling Five on the bed, the group realized that the situation required more than just immediate first aid—it needed a proper environment for treatment. Diego and Allison, understanding the gravity of the situation, knew that changing Five into more suitable clothing for the treatment was a necessary step. With a silent agreement, they decided to handle this part discreetly, leaving Elora outside the room to give them some privacy.
Elora stood just outside the door, her heart pounding as she waited. Her thoughts raced, each one a fragment of worry for Five's condition and anxiety over the uncertain outcome. The seconds felt like hours as she paced back and forth, trying to maintain her composure despite the gnawing fear.
Inside the room, Diego and Allison carefully undressed Five, replacing his bloodied clothes with a set of soft pyjamas. Their movements were gentle and respectful, driven by a shared urgency to ensure Five was as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Once Five was dressed, they carefully positioned him back on the bed.
Grace then took charge, her demeanour calm and methodical. She set up an IV drip, her movements precise as she inserted the needle and began the slow process of administering fluids. The soft hiss of the IV line and the gentle beeping of the monitoring equipment provided a faint backdrop to the tense atmosphere.
After completing the setup, Grace turned her attention to Elora, who was still outside the door. "You can come in now," Grace called softly, her voice carrying a note of reassurance.
After completing the setup, Grace turned her attention to Elora, who was still outside the door. "You can come in now," Grace called softly, her voice carrying a note of reassurance.
Elora stepped into the room, her eyes immediately searching for Five. The sight of him in his pyjamas, with the IV drip steadily working to stabilize him, brought a small wave of relief. Despite the strange circumstances and the discomfort of the IV, Five looked more peaceful, though still pale and unconscious.
"Let's assess the damage," Grace said, her voice steady and soothing. She carefully peeled back Five's shirt, revealing the wound—a gaping cut where the shrapnel had embedded itself. The sight of it made Elora's stomach churn, but she forced herself to focus on Grace's steady hands.
Grace began by cleaning the wound, her touch gentle but firm. She worked with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times before, applying antiseptic with practiced precision. The smell of the disinfectant filled the room, mingling with the faint metallic scent of blood.
Elora watched as Grace deftly removed the shrapnel, her face set in a mask of concentration. Each movement was deliberate, every action calculated to minimize pain and maximize care. The seriousness of Five's condition hung heavily in the air, but Grace's calm presence offered a small measure of reassurance.
After removing the shrapnel, Grace began to stitch the wound, her hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. The process was slow and meticulous, each stitch a small step toward stabilizing Five's condition. Elora's eyes never left Five, her worry giving way to a fierce determination as she silently willed him to pull through.
Finally, Grace finished stitching the wound and began to bandage it, her actions precise and methodical. She straightened up, her face showing a mixture of relief and fatigue. "He's stable for now," Grace said, her voice soft but firm. "We need to monitor him closely, but the immediate danger has been addressed. We've also got him hooked up to an IV to keep him hydrated and help with recovery. I'll keep a close watch on him."
Elora nodded, her gaze never leaving Five. "Thank you, Mom," she replied, her voice thick with gratitude and concern. "We appreciate everything you're doing."
Grace offered a reassuring smile. "It's my duty to help, dear. You should take a moment to rest."
Elora took a seat beside the bed, her hand gently resting on Five's. The sight of him lying there, hooked up to the IV and finally receiving the care he needed, brought a measure of comfort amid the turmoil. As Grace continued to tend to him with a calm efficiency, Elora allowed herself a moment to breathe, her focus entirely on Five's well-being.
Her moment of quiet was abruptly interrupted by the escalating conversation between Allison and Diego. Elora, who had been focused on Five, now found her attention diverted by their heated exchange.
"You think he took her there?" Allison's voice was laced with worry, her concern palpable.
"It's a good enough place to start," Diego replied with resolute determination.
Elora's heart began to race. She pushed herself up from her chair, frustration surging as she moved toward them. "Where are you going?" she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety.
Diego turned to face her, his expression reflecting a mixture of urgency and frustration. "We can't wait around. If Harold really took Vanya to that cabin, she could be in serious danger. We have to act now."
Allison stepped in, her tone softening as she tried to reason with Elora. "I understand you're worried, but Vanya's safety is at risk. We need to check this lead. It's crucial that we move quickly."
Elora's face was a study in reluctant resolve. She knew Five was stable, thanks to Grace's attentive care, but the thought of proceeding with the mission without him felt profoundly wrong. "But we need Five for this. We can't just go ahead without him."
Allison nodded, understanding the weight of Elora's concern. "I know, but if we wait for Five to regain consciousness, we might be too late to save Vanya," Allison reasoned. "Five is in good hands with Grace, but Vanya? She's in danger."
Elora's resolve faltered as the gravity of Allison's words sank in. Her thoughts raced, vividly picturing Vanya in peril, perhaps trapped or harmed, while they hesitated. Vanya's safety was not just a matter of urgency—it was a matter of critical importance.
Elora felt a pang of guilt and anxiety twist in her chest. The image of Vanya's vulnerable state, potentially at Harold's mercy, became a vivid reality in her mind. They could not afford to be side-lined by Five's current condition, no matter how crucial his role was. The risk of Vanya facing danger alone while they waited weighed heavily on her.
Her gaze returned to Five, still unconscious and receiving care from Grace. Though she was reassured that Grace had him stabilized, the thought of leaving him behind while Vanya's life hung in the balance was unbearable.
"I... I understand," Elora said slowly, her voice heavy with reluctant acceptance. "Vanya needs us now. If Harold has her, she's in immediate danger, and we can't afford to wait."
With a sigh that carried the weight of her decision, Elora squared her shoulders and prepared to join Diego and Allison. The resolve to act swiftly overcame her reluctance. She knew that, as difficult as it was to leave Five behind, the need to protect Vanya and address the imminent threat was paramount.
"I'll go," Elora said, her voice firm despite the turmoil inside her. "Let's get to that cabin and see if we can find her before it's too late."
As Elora moved toward the door, she cast one last look at Five, who was now under Grace's diligent care. Her heart ached with the knowledge that leaving him was the right decision, but it didn't make it any easier. The urgency to save Vanya drove her forward, even as a part of her remained tethered to the hope that Five would be there when they returned.
Did you like that?
Sorry that it took me a while to update. My weekends were busy with school's events and my weekdays were filled with assignment.
This was a long one as I wanted to compress the things that happened before the concert.
Btw, I've mapped up the whole story for the fanfiction from Season 1 to Season 4 TUA. I cannot wait to get to Season 4. Hopefully, my uploading schedule can be more frequent.