Chronological markers: this scene fits in as a deleted scene from The Umbrella Academy, season 3, episode 6, following the previous chapter (while Klaus is unconscious, having been electrocuted by Reginald).

Suggested soundtrack: Miyavi - Snakes

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April 05 2019, 12:48 pm

"Fascinating?"

Repeating this word is all I can manage as I stand over Klaus's lifeless body, freshly electrocuted by Reginald Hargreeves. I've become visible again, fully tangible, startling the man with the monocle who has just done the unthinkable: the most inhumane thing imaginable, at least in my eyes.

And it isn't killing him.

Reginald Hargreeves has exploited the image of the father he is not, but whom Klaus sees in him: the father he's desperately wanted to please - as a child and still even now - despite all the abuse. The father whose approval Klaus hopes for, against all odds, clinging to illusions of love that break my heart. Reginald Hargreeves opened his arms, promising an embrace, a rare show of affection, only to betray him and use the gesture to electrocute him: almost literally stabbing him in the back. No, killing Klaus is not the worst thing you can do to him. Exploiting his emotional deprivation is.

"You just… shocked him with 220 volts…"

The words barely leave my lips. My legs tremble as I struggle to look at Klaus, who lies there in cardiac and respiratory arrest. Hargreeves does nothing but reset his small generator, preparing it to administer another jolt when the time comes.

"He himself asked to better understand what he is."
I blink in disbelief.
"Not like this! He trusted you. He-"
"Come on, young lady? He wouldn't have let me do it if I had warned him."

He checks his watch and finally kneels to feel for Klaus's pulse, a fleeting look of disappointment flashing across his face, as if he finds it already excessive that he's taking so long to 'come back'. But barely a minute has passed since he literally killed him.

"Are you planning to do as your counterpart from our timeline? Killing him over and over again to monitor how quickly he comes to?"
He doesn't look at me, continuing to focus on his watch.
"He babbled something along those lines earlier, yes. So I did that?"
I frown.
"He was just a kid when you did it."
"Plausible, and brilliant: children learn everything so much faster. It wouldn't surprise me, coming from me."

For a moment, I could yell at him in rage, but then I see his irritation growing at how 'slow' Klaus is in coming back to life. I cross my arms, close to Klaus's lifeless body.

"He's going to take more than half an hour to wake up. You have time to make yourself some tea", I say, my sarcasm biting, though it clearly registers to him as genuine advice.

He drops Klaus's wrist, letting it fall limply to the carpet, lifeless. I remain kneeling beside him as if my presence could change anything. Hargreeves cannot know it, but even though Klaus's vital energy has vanished and his heart is no longer beating, I can feel his Marigolds stirring and his power pulsing within him. I know where he is right now. He's somewhere in a sepia-toned landscape, enduring the irritating commentary of the divine, childlike concierge of the afterlife, as he likes to calls her now.

"Half an hour is far too long", Hargreeves says, taking my words literally. He goes to start the kettle with a casual detachment from the horrific act he just committed.

"In combat situations, everything happens quickly. Half an hour is an eternity, during which most scenarios are already resolved: usually not in your favor if your EEG is flat".
"That's bullshit", I mutter. "Except for Black Friday, Klaus never puts himself in combat situations."

I roll Klaus over - he'd landed face-down - and consider whether I can drag him to the couch where he spilled his guts just moments ago. Klaus doesn't look like much, but he's heavier than you'd think. Gripping his limp arm, I decide on another method and aim carefully.

*Crack!*

He lands sluggishly on the couch, and I collapse awkwardly into the cushions beside him, muttering curses. Hargreeves, completely indifferent, focuses on his kettle. As he prepares a bag of Earl Grey, he casually remarks without looking at me:

"We're in an apocalyptic context. Who knows what might soon be required?"
I narrow my eyes at him. He continues:
"We don't know what we're truly capable of until we're faced with our own extinction."

I'm wary of his words, but this time they seem less enigmatic than before. Now that I know the fate of Makȟá Zuȟéča, now that I understand his promise to return it to his people, I interpret this statement for what it is. The word 'extinction' hits hard.

"You know what you're talking about", I say, anger stirring within me. "I know what you're hoping for. You want to activate-"
My eyes dart to his notebook, where I spied earlier.
"-you want to activate the Oblivion machine."

He whirls around sharply as the kettle whistles, but I quickly realize he's not about to snap or accuse me of poking my nose where it doesn't belong. On the contrary, he remains impassive, as if everything is proceeding exactly as he intended. As if I'd taken his advice to heart: advice casually offered over cocktails at the tiki bar where he used to host his so-called 'light suppers'. That day, he urged me to dive into my fascination with complex machinery and electronics. And, evidently, I did, in spite of myself.

"So you've reached that conclusion…", he says, lifting the kettle as a cloud of steam rises. He doesn't confirm or deny, which is clever. I want him to know that I understand who he is.
"You are The Wayfarer. One of the last survivors of an extinct planet, trying to bring it back."

There's defiance in my voice, and his monocled gaze glints just as brightly in return. I still can't decipher the energy within him: his nervous system doesn't speak the same language as a human's. No. Like Iggy, he's impossible to read.

"With a few nuances, you've touched on the truth, my young friend. But the only question that matters - beyond the wild hopes of a too old being - is: in my place, would you do it?"

I sit still, perched on the edge of the couch where Klaus still doesn't breathe, though his power shines blindingly through my perception. I have no doubt he'll come back this time. What troubles me more is Hargreeves's question. Do I condone what he's doing? His desire to save his people?

I remain wary. It feels like he's seizing upon my speculation, trying to soften me. For a moment, I wonder if he has ulterior motives masked by seemingly noble ambitions. I don't want to believe he's manipulating me about this. What kind of being would be so selfish as to exploit the destruction of their entire species, for personal gain?

And yet, I can't help it. My empathy resonates deeply with his story, with Iggy's story, and now with the plight of my own kind, disappearing by the tens of thousands every three hours. Am I truly in a position so different from what he once faced?

"I haven't always loved my kind", I admit honestly. "But… these last years… have certainly changed my mind."

I frown sligthly and lower my gaze.

Since the Celestial Theater, since witnessing the Kugelblitz take half the population away, since seeing loved ones crumble, since Granny was taken again: every fiber of my being rebels against the idea of another apocalypse. We've avoided so many. It can't be for one more to finally succeed. The answer is crystal clear. I won't deny it. So I reply with sincerity:

"Yes. I probably would too."
"Perfect!"

Trembling slightly, I realize what Hargreeves might have meant in 1963 when he envisioned a 'future collaboration' with me. The scent of Earl Grey fills the office as he returns to Klaus, checking for a pulse. I blink, piecing together new fragments of the puzzle.

"You're waiting for me to help you activate this machine, aren't you?"

The realization terrifies me. The fact that my desires align with his. But perhaps sensing my sudden internal conflict, he dismisses my question abruptly.

"For now, that's terribly premature. Many conditions must be met, and some here are not yet prepared to face the truth: like the young man who sought my help to better understand himself this morning."

He pulls me to my feet, ushering me from the couch. I realize he's effectively expelling me from his office, wanting to be alone with Klaus. Maybe because I expressed some form of agreement, I'm no longer his priority.

"What are you going to do…" I stammer, "electrocute him again and again?"
"Is that your concern? This is between him, me, and the father I am not, but whom I can certainly enlighten him about. Yes. It's no longer your business."

The sudden exclusion from anything concerning Klaus stings sharply, leaving me stunned at the audacity with which Hargreeves shuts me out. But deep down, he's right again. Klaus is here because he chose to be, for reasons both good and bad, and I decided to support him. I have no legitimate right to interfere.

"What part of those 'conditions' involve us?" I ask as he pushes me toward the door, though I offer no resistance. "What purpose does Klaus-"
"Questions, questions! Curiosity is wonderful, but we have work to do, if you don't mind. Now, off you go!"

In seconds, I'm in the corridor, the black-and-white tiles amplifying the sound of my boots.

"Please, don't hurt him…"

It's a pathetic request, but it's all I manage to say in my haste and anxiety, dreading more trauma piling onto Klaus's already overflowing burden.

"Oh, don't worry about that", Hargreeves replies, with a reassurance that is far from reassuring. "With proper accelerated training, you'll find him with more confidence than he's built in thirty years."

On that note, he shuts the door in my face, and I hold back - barely - from teleporting right back inside. But I mustn't, no. Even if I feel dazed and hollowed out. Klaus has to face this on his own, even if it means he might fail.

I sigh in the hallway outside the office, a corridor none of the Hargreeves have ever liked walking down. Further down the wall, photographs line up: those of the early years of the Sparrow Academy. I step closer, leaning in to examine them. There's Chris, likely a year or two into testosterone, not yet a cube. Holy shit. I look - he looks - like a young Miyavi, customizing his red uniform. I sigh again.

Suddenly, I feel crushed by what I've just discovered about the Oblivion machine and its plug-ins. By what Hargreeves is doing to Klaus again. By what's happened to Chris. I almost feel sick right now. Helpless. I need to clear my head and shake off the nausea that's gripped me.

*Crack!*

A single teleportation makes me land in the upstairs bathroom, a place I've been so often in the past. It holds terrible memories - like when Klaus returned from Vietnam - but also a few good ones. I place both hands on the cool porcelain of the sink and let clear water run. I splash some onto my face.

Deep down, I can't shake this thought: Hargreeves has made me into exactly what he wanted: subtly, by playing on my empathy and my deepest aspirations. The values I thought were mine, those I believed I had cultivated precisely because he hadn't raised me. And I-

"What are you doing here?"

As water drips from my face, I look up, letting the faucet continue to run. I know that voice, having so often enabled it to materialize into sound waves when his spectral vocal cords could not resonate. Wearing a gray and black shirt with patterns resembling squid skin, Ben, the Sparrows Ben - with his ridiculous haircut - is staring at me, a sketchbook in hand. And he adds:

"I never thought seeing Chris's face again would make me want to kick his ass so badly."

I blink, I splash more water onto my face, and shut off the faucet before grabbing a random towel. This version of Ben knows my powers better than most. He likely realizes that if he tried to physically throw me out, he'd pass right through me. And that Chris, for his part, would probably do far worse to him. So I meet his gaze calmly. After the morning I've had, his obnoxious attitude doesn't even faze me.

"I'm not Chris", I tell him, though I know how unsettling this must be for him. "Just like you're not our Ben."

I've seen my companions reactions to him since our arrival, especially Klaus's. Having lost his brother for the second time, he was particularly shaken and, in a way, somewhat happy to find an illusion of Ben. But - having lived through something similar with Chris - I know we're light-years away from being the same people.

"Our Ben? Pardon me, but you should know that the muscle-bound gorilla you call Luther is now wearing the Sparrows uniform and has made it quite clear that you're just a tag-along."

My eyebrows knit, and it's not because Luther is cozying up to Sloane. No. I've always fought to remain outside the Hargreeves dynamic, that's a fact. But now I feel almost hurt to be considered an outsider? Clearly, that was Ben's intention, and it annoys me that he succeeded.

"I'd advise you against making value judgments", I say sharply. "I saw your portrait above the living room fireplace, and I know what it means."

Any sane person might think that the portraits Reginald Hargreeves displays so prominently are meant to glorify or memorialize the subjects. Five, in our timeline. Ben, in this one. But no, they're not. These portraits are a wall of shame: a constant reminder of those who have failed, an example not to follow, an overt, ever-present accusation of disappointment. Ben knows this better than anyone, and I can see the fury boiling in him as he clutches his sketchbook.

"Vermin, I'll turn you into fossil energy."

Wow. This Ben is much more hot-tempered than the previous one. He lunges, aiming to grab me by the throat and pin me against the wall. But *Crack!* I reappear behind him. He slams into the wall, dropping his sketchbook, which sends a flurry of sketches scattering around us. They're monochrome portraits in oil pastel, all depicting the same woman, sketched somewhat naively, in various poses. Each page bears the name Jennifer in the same color, catching my eye.

"I'll say it again: I'm not Chris", I tell him. "Save your punches for your bickers with your cubic brother."

If there's one thing I've come to understand since we arrived, it's this: while I initially thought the Sparrows were united, I was wrong. Sure, they work as a team, but they're really just a group of strong personalities in constant competition, never truly collaborating. Another stellar example of Reginald Hargreeves's parenting, or lack thereof. But then again, did he even choose to raise them? Sometimes, I get the strange feeling he did it out of necessity rather than choice.

"Why are you dragging your Metallica t-shirt here?" Ben growls as he starts gathering his scattered drawings. He's clearly frustrated that he can't physically intimidate me, and I shrug.
"For non-violent actions. But you? Why did you lead your siblings to Hotel Obsidian yesterday, huh?"

His group lost two members, something I don't voice aloud but I'm painfully aware of. He doesn't need me to tell him anyway, he's clearly suffering enough already, which makes him even quicker to snap.

"Your Number Three guaranteed us you had Marcus, in exchange for a suitcase we don't even have… when that damn lightning orb in the basement had already taken him."

Viktor had told me that Allison and he had been trying to negotiate for the briefcase, though I hadn't known what arguments they'd used. The very briefcase Five casually brought to my workplace later. So, two people died yesterday… for a poorly placed bluff? Allison and Viktor are both desperate to recover their loved ones. Allison's grief, it seems, has driven her to recklessness.

Ben, like Chris now, has lost half of his siblings. But this time, I won't apologize for what the Hargreeves have done. I crouch down and help him pick up his drawings. More portraits of Jennifer, her expressions varied but predominantly sorrowful.

"I'm not responsible for Allison's bad choices."
"Oh, don't worry. She has a chance to make amends, if she hands over the old man who's with you. The one who killed Jayme and Alphonso."

I swallow hard as I stack the drawings. I can only imagine what they'd do to poor Harlan, who never asked to be caught up in all this. Propelled into chaos fifty-six years ago as a child, he's had no say in this fate. Sometimes, I feel like everywhere we go, we only ruin lives and leave apocalypses in our wake. And that 'old man who used to be a kid', as Klaus called him, certainly didn't ask for this.

"There are far more urgent matters than vengeance, Ben", I say, using that diminutive for the first time. He steps closer, threatening, and snatches the drawings from my hands. I quickly rectify, "Benjamin. Sorry. But the basement of this house harbors a monster. A collision of black holes, feeding on reality, matter, and energy. These petty quarrels make no sense: they only delay the moment when we could save whatever can still be sav-"

I stop mid-sentence. From the Reginald Hargreeves's office of, I sense Klaus's life energy returning. I push away the dread of wondering how soon it will fade again. Ben, meanwhile, shoves past me to grab another sketch and adds it to the stack.

"Chris and you are singing the same tune, and I'll handle it. I fully intend to gather everyone about this. Everyone. Like a true Number One."

Oh, Reginald Hargreeves will be thrilled if he manages to orchestrate such a gathering. Ben has no idea of the chaos he's about to unleash, or that he's likely still playing into his father's plans. I've never believed a leader is what the Hargreeves need. But Ben practically shouts his intentions, clutching his sketchbook tightly:

"This is the perfect opportunity to prove to Dad that I didn't deserve to be demoted to Number Two."

So that's what this is about. I blink, standing still, realizing Ben has momentarily forgotten again I'm not Chris and has nothing to prove to me.

The numbers Hargreeves assigns are not a ranking of value or merit. Luther, at least, learned that painfully. They're a reflection of his ability to control his children: something this fiery, competitive Ben doesn't seem to grasp.

Still, he was Number One, and he was stripped of it. I don't know what he did to lose that status, but it was significant enough to earn his portrait a place above the 'mantlepiece of shame'. I step toward a lamp, where another drawing lies scattered: this one done in black charcoal. Jennifer's face looks terrified.

"Who is she?"

My question isn't entirely innocent. Klaus has mentioned his brother's death before, calling it the 'Jennifer Incident'. A mission gone wrong, I gathered. I doubt it's a coincidence. I suspect that in this timeline's divergence, the 'incident' didn't end the same way.

"That's none of your business", he says, snatching the drawing from my hands.
"You think about her a lot, don't you?"
"IT'S NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!"

I shouldn't have pushed it. Before I can teleport or turn myself intangible, his fist hits my jaw, slamming me into the dark wallpaper of the corridor. Everything happens quickly after that. A sudden, sharp cramp in my stomach making it clear.

I don't know how long Chris had been watching the situation, but the moment Ben hit me, Chris was on him in a blink of an eye. His entire cube-like form now glows with furious orange-red energy. He sizzles, addressing Ben directly in his mind, compressing his nerves to the point of agony.

"Chris, I'm okay…" I say weakly, holding my jaw, which thankfully isn't too hurt. "Let him go… I shouldn't have asked him that."

Chris vibrates, growling. Finally, he releases his brother. As Ben gets to his feet, brushing off his ridiculous shirt with indignation and lingering pain, he sneers at both of us as if it means anything at all:

"Little shits. You're both Number Seven, and you'll stay that way."

-

Notes:

It's subtle in the show, but an entire half-day and night pass before Reginald takes Klaus on the road for the "bus-ball". We can imagine that during that time, his 'training' had already painfully started.

Rin is personally experiencing just how insidious Reginald Hargreeves's manipulations can be: he uses her empathy, ethics, and values: the ones he allowed her to build by not raising her himself.

As for Sparrow Ben, he's still far from realizing he's being manipulated. Writing this version of Ben, who is so different from the old one, feels strange. I miss the previous Ben too sometimes, you know?

Any comments will make my day!