Umbrella Academy fic: Reflex Memory (1/2)

[faye_dartmouth]

Title: Reflex Memory

Disclaimer: I got nothing here.

A/N: This is actually set post S1 in an ambiguous timeline wherein they have clearly stopped the apocalypse but you don’t know how. It’s not important. Fills my Stockholm syndrome square for hc_bingo. Unbeta’ed.

Warnings: torture, brainwashing, etc.

Summary: Five is the best agent the Commission has. But his next mission has unintended consequences.

PART ONE
PART TWO



-o-

Five doesn’t remember, you see. He doesn’t remember the beginning. There is time, there are years and months and weeks and days, but it collapses in on itself. The time converges and he wakes up struggling, screaming, suffocating, alone.

This room, this small room. It’s got concrete walls and a grated drain on the floor. The door is locked, and the hinges are inset, incapable of being tampered with. Food is provided through a slot on the door three times a day, and there’s a bulb in a cage hanging above him. There is no furniture; there are no amenities.

This room is a prison, though he can’t fathom why. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him. Even so, he doesn’t recognize the place. That is probably to be expected, however. See, Five doesn’t recognize himself either.

This is probably supposed to be the beginning.

Somehow, it feels a lot more like the end.

There are vague memories, of course. Fleeting images of an apocalypse, a cloying darkness he can’t escape. He knows his name is Five. He knows he’s survived. He knows this isn’t where he belongs. He knows he’s alone.

-o-

Five is not alone any more, however.

A lot of memories are ill defined in his life, but not that one. Five doesn’t remember how he came to the beginning, but he remembers leaving it. He remembers it because he’s here now.

He’s here.

It’s a prescience he thinks matters.

More than dreams, at any rate. More than fleeting memories. Five has no such time for such insubstantial things. Emotions are irrelevant. He has a job to do.

And it is his job. If he doesn’t do it, it’s hard to tell who will. See, the Commission has a lot of assassins. But Five, despite being only 18 years old, is still the best of them. He’s the one who handles the hard jobs, the real jobs, the jobs no one else can do.

He is the Commission in action.

And nothing more.

This is what the Handler tells him, anyway, and he finds no cause to disbelieve her. She has, after all, been the only one there to protect him. She saved him, in the beginning. She’s the reason he’s here, she’s the reason he’s the man he is to do.

He wants to do his job, then. He wants to do his job for her.

This job in particular.

He reviews the file and finds it unremarkable. Five marks; siblings, adopted, rich. Powerful. They have defied the Commission multiple times in the past, enough to leave them marked as serious offenders by Commission personnel. They seem to cause the Handler anxiety, though she tries to deny it. Five knows her, though. He knows she wants them taken out of play, so he doesn’t even have to be asked.

He volunteers.

“I’ll do it,” he tells her with a nonchalant shrug. “I’d be happy to take care of this for you.”

She smiles, looking warmed. “You will?”

“Of course,” he says. “I owe you everything.”

The answer pleases her. She looks reassured. “Well, then, Number Five,” she says. “The case is yours.”

He takes the file and starts to the door.

“But a word of warning,” she calls after him.

He pauses, turns around.

“They are not to be taken lightly,” she says. “Do not hesitate. Do not engage. Kill them before they have a chance to tell you anything.”

He furrows his brow, quizzical. “Why?”

Her smile turns sweet again. “Oh, Five, you and your cute questions,” she says. “I’ll be here, waiting for a full report of your success.”

-o-

This room is a place devoid of peace. That’s how he comes to think of it, this small, private room. It’s his torture chamber.

Sometimes, when he eats the scant meals, he falls asleep and wakes up in another room. He wakes up, tied to a table, bathed in darkness. Wires are attached to his head and chest, and electrical surges are timed to pulsate through his body. The shocks vary from inconvenient to debilitating, and he soils himself from time to time because it’s too much.

When he can take no more, he passes out and wakes up back in his cell. He starts to think of it as home, for what that’s worth. His small, private torture chamber. At least it’s his, he thinks.

He knows they’re drugging him in the food. When it’s not a sedative, sometimes it’s a hallucinogen. Sometimes it’s a stimulate. Sometimes he can’t tell. He thinks about not eating, but the hunger aches in his stomach and it makes the time pass, at least.

Time, you see, it passes.

Five feels like he’s standing still.

-o-

Her concern, in all honesty, seems unwarranted. There’s nothing of significance in the file. Nothing of concern or question at any rate.

Five siblings.

That’s all.

As best Five can figure, it should be easy, in and out.

Sitting outside the target’s home, however, he can’t help but feeling a twinge of trepidation.

No, that’s not it.

It’s not trepidation.

It’s something different. Not something nearly so ominous, but something familiar somehow.

It’s possible, of course, he’s been here before. He’s traveled all of time and space; he’s been at its beginning and at its end. He’s met more people than he can possibly remember; he’s been more places than he could possibly account for. So maybe he’s been here.

Of course, that’s no reason for him to feel this way. Memory, most of the time, is inconsequential. He’s been trained in this, trained for this. Hold onto nothing. Tie yourself to nowhere. He has no time; he has no place. He’s divorced from the timeline, devoid of connection.

Five is everything the Commission hopes to be.

That’s his identity, his purpose, his meaning.

And yet, the feeling now is pervasive. He cases the house and can’t shake it. Part of him thinks that’s an indication that he should go ahead with the mission, just get it over with, but he decides against it.

He’ll give it a day.

He’ll give himself a day.

After all, a job this important, deserves his full and undivided attention.

Anyway, time is irrelevant. One minute, one day, one year.

These marks? Whoever they are?

Will never see him coming.

-o-

He’s rented a hotel room not far away under some pisspoor alias. It’s not a nice hotel, but that’s just as well with him. Given his status, he could demand for more. In fact, the Handler has offered him more, offered him everything.

He always reminds her that she’s already given him everything.

He’s not tired when he lays down on the mattress, but he feels obligated to rest. He stares up at the ceiling and can’t bring himself to close his eyes. It’s hard for him to let go; it has been, for years now. The Handler says he can, that he should be able to move on, but she doesn’t understand.

Against his will, his eyes start to blink.

She doesn’t understand.

His eyes blink again, slower this time.

She doesn’t--

His eyes close.

--understand.

-o-

Then, one day, the food stops coming. Five can’t tell at first -- there is no sense of time, no sense of day or night -- but eventually his hunger gets the better of him. He sits by the door and tries to jimmy the slot open, but it’s no good. None of it’s any good.

To quell the pain that digs through his stomach, Five curls up on the floor to sleep. He’s long since learned to sleep with the light on, so that’s not a problem, and the concrete floor is acceptable. But when he drifts off, when he starts to let go, a loud sound blasts through the room and startles him awake.

He thinks that’s a sign of something, and he prepares himself. When the impulse passes, he starts to drift off again before the sound reverberates even louder than before.

No rest, then.

This goes on for days, sometimes. Five doesn’t know. It’s slipping away from him, the days, the weeks, the months. He thinks that means something, but since he can’t remember life before, it doesn’t mean as much as maybe it should.

What does it matter, he decides eventual. What do these days, these weeks, these months.

It seems like he’s already lost a lifetime

-o-

He wakes up feeling worse than he did the night before, but that’s no matter.

Not when he has a job to do.

For the record, Five always has a job to do.

-o-

Five doesn’t bother with stealth or espionage. He has no desire to infiltrate. He saves himself the time and trouble and goes through the front door.

It’s actually unlocked.

He thinks this is fortuitous. He also counts himself lucky when they’re all together, all five of them, in a single room -- a sitting room, by the look of it -- to the right of the front door. The old manor is archaic on the inside; it reminds Five of ancient building he’s been in throughout history. He knows he’s supposed to engage, but he can’t get over the floor.

Black and white marble tile, scuffed but swept clean. There’s a gash in a few of the tiles across the middle, but you can’t tell unless you’re looking. Five’s not really sure why he’s looking, why he’s looking right there, right now, but he has trouble taking his eyes off it.

Slow as he is, the marks don’t seem particularly concerned that some stranger with a gun has just come in through their front door. In fact, if anything, they appear to be waiting for him.

All the same.

The fight that’s coming is necessary and inevitable.

Five wastes no time with pretenses. He lunges at the closest mark -- tall, dark hair, Hispanic. He has a scar across his cheek into his hair line. Five catches him hard, and throws him. He could finish him off, but it leaves him vulnerable to secondary attack. He does not hesitate to engage the next mark, a woman this time, African American, curly hair. She dodges his assault, but Five sweeps her feet out from under her. She hits the ground with a yelp, and Five turns, already anticipating the next wave.

It’s the big one. He’s unnaturally large, and Five doesn’t waste time with body hits. He’s in too low of a position to go for the head, so he settles for the groin instead. There is no such thing as fighting fair in Five’s book.

The big man wheezes, and Five knocks the final two to the ground -- a skinny, slight man with a goatee and a simple looking woman with kind eyes. She goes down almost without a fight, almost like she wants to. She looks like she’s sorry.

Five tries to shake the sudden sensation of dejavu, but he’s lost precious seconds. By the time he whirls around, the Hispanic man is on him again, and this time, he lands a few blows. Five volleys between him and the big one, who has recovered enough to engage him once more. It’s an even back and forth, and Five has to exert some energy to send the Hispanic man sprawling. The African American woman falls easily into his place, and Five is admittedly slightly winded as the fight continues.

Five approaches such things with no holds barred. He leverages anything he can find -- swiping at the woman with a decorative walking stick, jumping off the couch to catch the larger man across the forehead. He goes for a move off the coffee table, but he loses his balance inexplicably. It’s almost like the damn thing moves.

He falls hard, and his vision explodes momentarily while he absorbs the shock. The Hispanic man is back on top of him, and Five rolls out of the way, just barely missing a thudding blow from the meaty fist of the big one. Breathless now, Five scrambles for a better position. It’s hasty and inelegant, but it gives him the time he needs. He lashes out at the one with the goatee. He has not posed an active threat as best Five can tell, but he’s the closest and easiest mark. He has to start whittling them down, one by one, if necessary.

The man falls, and Five hits the African American hard enough to bust open her lip. The big one grunts in apparent frustration and knocks Five back. He’s off his game, and his instincts are all wrong. He turns to go left, but the Hispanic comes at him from the right. He ducks down, but the African American is waiting for him, and he takes a kick to the head.

Spitting blood, Five doesn’t let himself panic, though he recognizes with a dull detachment that things are getting away from him. Clearly, these marks are different. They can anticipate his moves in a way that isn’t natural; he can’t explain it. Moreover, they’re not scared of him. It’s almost like they’ve been waiting for him. Like they know him.

Five sends the Hispanic man crashing into a wall, and catches a glancing blow on the back from the large man. He reaches out to catch himself against an ottoman that inexplicably disappears from his view. He lands hard on his face.

That’s ridiculous.

This whole thing is ridiculous.

Grunting, he forces himself back to his feet, ignoring the slightly doubling of his vision and the ringing between his ears. He settles back into a more defensive position, at least to get his bearings. The marks, all standing now, look only moderately worse for wear, but they don’t make any move to engage him.

“Come on,” he taunts. “We all know this ends with one of us going down.”

The Hispanic one grits his teeth; the African American blanches. The small man with the goatee looks anxiously while the simple woman all but frets. The big one just winces. He seems to sigh. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says.

Five snorts, and he lunges. The simple woman ducks out of the way, and Five goes hand to hand with the African American woman instead. She lands several hard punches to his body, and Five responds with a vicious kick to her abdomen that sends her sprawling.

Five straightens and faces them again. “It does,” he seethes. “It does have to be this way.”

This only seems to make them sadder. They have put up quite a fight, but there’s no sign of aggression in their eyes. In fact, their position is entirely defensive. This is not a fight they want to have.

Yet, it is a fight they are going to win.

Five knows this, but he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He doesn’t understand failure. It doesn’t compute.

“Come on, man,” the Hispanic says. He sounds like he’s pleading. “Don’t make us do this.”

Jaw working, Five feels electricity running through his fingers. He is poised on the balls of his feet. There’s a connection, a familiarity. It doesn’t make sense, and he shakes his head. “Do what?”

He lashes out again, this time picking of the small man with the goatee. He shrieks a little and crumples, and Five turns fiery eyes on the others.

“Come on!” the simple woman says. “Listen to us, Five!”

He stops, his body going cold.

They know his name.

How do they know his name.

He’s frozen to the spot, entire body trembling. The adrenaline, the shock, the head injury: all of it. Five can’t compute. Five can’t.

“How do you know my name?” he asks, and he swallows hard as his stomach flutters. The electricity builds and he shaking now. “Who do you work for?”

“Nobody, Five,” the big man says. His lips curl up in almost a kind smile. “We don’t work for anyone.”

Five lunges viciously, snarling as he attempts to make contact with the big man’s stomach. All thought of strategy has left him, and his coordination has suffered. “You’re liars!”

The man dodges, and Five fumbles, badly off balance. He struggles to correct himself, turning back around on them.

They’re all up now, each of them. Standing in a perfect row. One, two, three, four…

Five.

He shudders.

“Five,” the simple woman says, almost pleading him now. “You know us. I know you do.”

He shakes his head, adamant in his immediate and irrevocable denial. “I know a lot of people,” he says, half hissing the words. He throws a punch that the Hispanic falls away from easily.

“No,” the big one says, steadier than ever. He steps closer to Five. “You know us.”

Five doesn’t know what he means.

He has no idea. It’s nonsense. Utter nonsense.

His chest constricts; his heart pounds. His stomach flips, and tears inexplicably prick the back of his eyes. The concussion, he tells himself. He’s got a concussion.

“No,” he says, struggling for focus now. “I don’t!”

He almost yells those last words, setting himself full on against the big man. It’s not a smart sort of attack, but Five’s off his game. This is a fight he can’t win.

No, he thinks as the punch comes, straight at his temple.

It’s a fight he’s already lost.

He might have lost it the second he came into this room.

He has the sneaking suspicion he lost it well before that.

That’s his last reasonable thought before the punch connects and his consciousness leaves him abruptly.

-o-

And it’s not even the hunger or the drugs. No, that’s not what breaks him.

It’s the isolation.

Complete and utter isolation.

There are people -- he knows there are people -- but they do not interact with him. There is no exchange of pleasantries at meal time. There is not even an exchange of unpleasantries. There is no contact; nothing.

He tolerates this as well as he can for quite some time. But it’s hard; it’s lonely. For awhile Five talks to the walls, but the walls don’t talk back. He talks to himself, arguing over equations and probability charts that he no longer has the ability to solve. He laughs, raw and hysterical, when the numbers stop making sense, and he curls up in the corner, hugs his knees to his chest and closes his eyes.

It’s the kind of isolation that shakes you, the kind that pervades everything. It leaves him wondering what’s real. He starts to wonder if he’s even real.

He pounds at the door, then, just to feel it clatter. He presses his ear against it, trying to hear any sound of footsteps. Then, he begs for someone to come. He promises to be good; he promises to do what they want. He promises anything.

When the tears run dry, he screams instead.

He screams until his throat is raw. He screams until his voice gives out.

Someone has to come, he reasons with his failing logic. He’s not sure who, but someone.

Someone.

Someone has to come.

-o-

He wakes up, cold and hot all at once. His heart feels like it’s lodged in his throat and his head hurts -- a lot. He takes a shaky breath, blinks a few times and then realizes that he’s bound to a chair.

It’s rope, of all things. Oddly simplistic and outdated. It’s tight around his wrists, ankles and chest, but not as tight as he expects. He still has circulation in his extremities, for what that’s worth. It seems like an oversight; possibly, they’re amateurs.

He looks up, and takes a calculating look at them. The five of them -- plus the another one, one that seems a little different, less corporeal, somehow -- are all there. He reminds himself how they took him out; they are anything but amateurs.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, he stares them down and weighs his options. This isn’t good, but it’s not insurmountable. Five’s been in tight spots before. In no way does this mean that the mission is over for him.

Failure, after all, is not an option.

The marks seem to be waiting for him, and none of them seem willing to make the first move. They’re cautious; tentative. It’s a sign of weakness. Five has to find the source of that weakness and exploit it with no holds barred.

“You should have killed me,” he says, already pulling at his bonds. He doesn’t much try to hide it; stealth has never been his go-to approach. “Because I’m certainly going to kill you.”

They do not seem scared by this prospect, which is only vaguely annoying. Most people who see Five underestimate him. He doesn’t have the build and exterior appearance of a seasoned killed. He prefers to use that for his advantage.

Still, Five finds their overall demeanor far too nonchalant for the situation at hand. “Who do you assholes think you are, anyway?” he asks, yanking hard at his wrist, feeling the bite of the rope as it scrapes against his skin.

This question seems to cause them even more distress. Several of them have to look away. The large one -- he seems to be in charge, for what it’s worth -- clears his throat and looks reluctant when he speaks. “We’re your family, Five,” he says. “We’re your siblings.”

Five stops cold. His heart stutters in his chest and he goes ice cold before denial wells up. “What?”

“It’s true,” the Hispanic one adds. “We didn’t want to believe that you didn’t remember, but…”

Five blinks at them, his fingers having gone limp in the restraints. “But what?”

“But you don’t remember,” the African American woman gathers her courage to say. “You came in here, saw us face to face, and you don’t remember us yet, do you?”

Five scoffs, though it feels a bit unbalanced. “Remember you? You’re marks,” he says, as if this must be the most obvious thing in the world. It has to be the most obvious thing in the world. He shakes his head, trying to orient himself again, keep his focus. He has a problem with that sometimes: focus. Don’t get distracted. “You’re marks. I was sent to kill you.”

It’s a bit on the nose; Five doesn’t like subterfuge, but he’s also a firm believer in communicating only the bare minimum when possible. He shouldn’t be telling them this, but the words keep coming out. He can’t think of anything else he’s supposed to say.

He can’t think, really.

It’s probably a concussion. From the fight. That’s probably what it is.

“No, Five,” the slight man says. His face is drawn in an intense kind of empathy. “We’re your siblings. All of us.”

Five grunts, pulling at his bonds again, even more viciously than before. “That’s bullshit,” he says. “I don’t have family.”

They exchange worried looks, and the simple looking woman stands up, crossing around the strangely ethereal one. She doesn’t get close enough to touch him, but she’s closer than the rest.

Five feels his heart skip another beat.

“You do have a family, and it’s not the Commission,” she says.

He flinches; they aren’t supposed to know the name of his employer. No one knows the name of his employer. That’s the whole point, that’s how the Commission flourishes: in absolute secrecy.

She doesn’t stop there. “They took you from us, your real family,” she says, and she talks earnestly, like she’s imploring him. Like she’s asking him to believe her. “The Umbrella Academy.”

The name sends shockwaves down his spine. He shudders.

There is weakness to be found here, but Five is starting to worry that it’s his. If he’s smart, he’ll blink out of here, but his concentration has been shattered. It’s the concussion, of course. That damn concussion.

The woman takes his silence as an encouragement. “That’s who we are, that’s who you are,” she says. “The Umbrella Academy. Seven siblings brought together with the hope of saving the world. It didn’t quite go the way it was intended, but we did it, Five. We worked together, and we did it.”

She has to be lying, Five knows this. It’s obvious a trick. It’s emotional manipulation. They think they can save themselves if they confuse him. Maybe they’re naive enough to think that they can turn him.

Which is ridiculous, of course.

Because Five knows who he is.

He’s not some ill-fated superhero. He’s the top assassin for the Commission. He travels through time and kills people. That’s who he is.

On the chair, Five curls his lip vindictively. “Do you actually think this will work? That you can stop me from completing my job with lies? And bad lies at that?”

“They’re not lies, Five,” the big one says. He shakes his head. “You are our brother. You can travel through time, and that’s how we lost you. You said you were going to make sure that everything was okay after we stopped the apocalypse but then you didn’t come home.”

Five feels a tremor rattle up his spine, but he forces it back. “That’s a lie. A ridiculous lie.”

“No, man, it’s not,” the Hispanic one says. He gives a short snort of incredulous laughter. “We had to look for you for years, and it wasn’t easy. We figured the Commission had gotten ahold of you, but we didn’t have much proof until recently.”

“The Commission is my employer,” he blurts, a little rasher than he intends. He’s not supposed to say that; the Commission thrives in secrecy. But these assholes already know that. Five reels; how do they already know that?

“They were,” the African American woman clarifies. “You betrayed them, Five. You turned on them to save us, to save the world. You’re a hero, Five.”

At that, Five can only laugh. It’s a short and brittle sound in his throat. “That’s mathematically unlikely,” he says. “And proof that you don’t know me at all.”

“We do, though, better than you know yourself right now,” the skinny one panders. “We knew they’d done something to you, but we had no idea how bad -- not until you showed up here. You know, ready to kill us and all. But you’re the kind of guy who sees things through, even impossible things, no matter what.”

That much sounds like him, actually. There’s no reason to admit that, however, because it still doesn’t apply. They are still positing a premise that lacks substantiation. Five certainly upholds his commitments at all costs, but his first and only commitment is to the Commission.

Surely, it always has been. Five can’t rightly remember before, but now matters. The Commission saved him. The Commission rebuilt him. The Commission defined him.

To think that he might betray the Commission for them? This motley crew?

Five shakes his head, still twisting his wrists in the ropes. They are beginning to cut deep enough to draw blood. “Maybe so,” he relents. “But why would I do that? What reason would I possibly have to betray them?”

The small woman, looks up. Her eyes are red, but her gaze is steady. “For family,” she answers simply. “You did it all -- every last bit of it -- for family.”

Something cold roils in his gut, and he arms suddenly go numb. He struggles to think clearly, but it’s becoming a bit of a chore. He wets his lips, swallowing with force. “Family,” he repeats, and the word feels light and heavy on his tongue all at once. “I don’t remember family. I just remember being alone. There was no family when the Commission took me in.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” the big one is almost pleading now. “Come on, Five. They’ve done something to your memory, and you know it. You can’t remember how you got to be with them, do you?”

He does his best not to frown, but the sense of consternation is hard to fight. He wants to say they’re wrong -- wants to yell it at them, smash it into their stupid, tiny little brains -- but the words are lodged in his throat. He yanks at his ropes and snarls. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Why would they turn me into their most trusted assassin if they were the bad guy?”

Logic, he tells himself. Logic will win out. Logic.

“You literally just admitted that they were the bad guy,” the Hispanic one scoffs. “I mean, who else goes around hiring time traveling assassins?”

Logic is overrated, Five thinks through gritted teeth. He shifts his legs, which these idiots have failed to secure. The chair is thick and pretty solid, but it’s still a possible point of weakness.

The African American woman jumps in. “And isn’t that what the Commission does? Make corrections?” she asks. “Think about it. If you’re the one who foiled their master plan, then they would want to target you to fix it.”

“Yeah, also, they’re crazy people,” the thin one adds with a small wince. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of this is just spite. They’re turning you into the thing you refused to be. It’s cruel, you know? But, like, in a brilliant sort of way.”

Five shakes his head. He shakes his head and shakes his head and shakes his head. “No, you’re all insane,” he insists. He vehemently insists. He has to insist. “The Commission saved me.”

“That’s what they told you, Five,” the small woman says. “But really think, okay? Do you remember them saving you? Do you remember how you came to be with them? You have to remember.”

Her pleas are impassioned; they are reasonable.

And Five can’t help it. He goes still. He remembers waking up. He remembers being alone. He remembers who was there when the door was opened.

“No,” he says, but his voice sounds hoarse. He sounds young; he hates when he sounds this young. “You’re wrong.”

The big one holds out a picture. “Are you sure about that?”

It’s a picture, a family portrait. There are seven children, and Five can see resemblances with all of them. The image of himself, smirking next to them, is easy to recognize.

Harder to accept. “You can doctor that kind of thing,” he says, even while he tries to figure out where they got a picture of him as a child from. “That’s nothing.”

The Hispanic produces another picture. “We were raised together since we were infants,” he says, flipping through several more. There’s seven of them, growing up, growing bigger. Year after year. “Fought like cats and dogs, but we’re siblings.”

The African American woman flips through a comic book, slowly enough for him to see the pictures. “We were famous,” she says. “Superheroes, all of us. Everyone knew us.”

The images are caricatures to some extent, but the resemblance is still telling. The dialogue makes him stiffen.

Get him, Five! Jump through space!

He’s blinking; his eyes are burning. He feels sick.

“And this,” the skinny ones says, holding up a tablet. “We had the content digitized, but it’s still the original stuff. Us as kids, see? Doing kid things?”

Eating dinner, playing chase in familiar hallways Five has no reason to remember. Five watches the footage of himself as he laughs, high fiving the others.

“See, Five?” the average woman asks. “It’s true. We’re your family. You belong with us, Five. Us.”

And Five can’t.

He can’t accept it, but he can’t deny it. He can’t argue it, but he can’t acknowledge it. He can’t make sense of it, and he can’t let it go. He can’t.

There are breaking points, and Five knows because he’s broken before. He’s been broken down into pieces, tiny, little pieces. He’s had himself shattered and fractures; he’s struggled to find the disparate parts and put them back into a whole.

This life he’s built. This carefully balanced world he lives in. It’s a perspective that narrowly honed, intricately calibrated. It keeps him together; it keeps him sane.

He can’t go back. He can’t be broken again.

The terror of it takes him, and he feels rebellion swell up inside of him. It’s a primal response, grounded in a sudden, unadulterated panic. He channels it the only way he can: through rage.

He doesn’t the bonds anymore. He surges against them, getting to his feet and slamming the chair backwards to the wall. It cracks, and Five’s hands are loose. He’s working on pulling them free entirely when he sees the marks approach him. Luther is at the lead--

Five stops, the weight of the thought nearly taking him off his feet. The big one, the one in charge: his name is Luther.

It’s possible Five read it in the file. Maybe Five heard it in his briefing.

Maybe Five does know him.

Stunned, he stands there dumbly while Luther’s fist comes barrelling at his head. Behind him, Diego, Allison, Klaus and Vanya have all stepped forward.

The Hargreeves, Five thinks.

This is the Umbrella Academy.

And then he passes out.

-o-

The world is small. This is a physical and a mental distinction. True, the four cement walls give him minimal space to move and exist. That makes it hard to exercise, hard to get comfortable, hard to think. But it’s the mental confinement that is truly distressing.

See, Five’s world is small. It is painfully small. Over the course of time, the outside world ceases to exist to Five. He knows, on some level, that it must exist; but it doesn’t not exist for him. He no longer thinks about it like that. He doesn’t think about the hallway beyond the door. He does not think about the floor of the building in which he is being held. He doesn’t think about the building in a neighborhood, in a community, in a country, in the world.

These things are no longer relevant to him.

Five exists here, in this room. There is nothing more, and there is certainly nothing less. The idea of past and future are meaningless to him. There is just here. There is just now. There is just this.

He thinks of nothing more.

Hope is too difficult to maintain.

Acceptance, then.

Acceptance is the only path toward survival that Five has left.

-o-

It is not pleasant to wake up, but Five has become accustomed to that kind of thing. His life is not exactly one of indulgence, and he knows that the particulars are not important. The important thing is that he is awake, which means he has another opportunities to finish this job.

Or, at the very least, he consoles himself, to escape.

Running away from a job is not a thing he does, but retreat is a viable option when other means offense are limited. Besides, running away doesn’t mean he doesn’t intend on coming back.

That seems particularly salient to him.

He intends to come back, to this house, this family.

He’s not done here.

With a deep breath, he rights himself and quickly takes stock of his situation once more. He is in the same room as before, but he’s clearly been tied to a different chair. This one is similar to the first, which seems like a misstep on their part. The first chair had broken easily, so clearly these marks are not thoroughly considering a repeat attempt.

That said, they have taken some precautions. His hands are tied in a similar fashion as before with rope that is not as tight as it should but. However, this time, he also has his feet tied to the legs. It’s a step, but Five knows it’s not nearly the level of security they should be employing if they are professionals.

Not that they are claiming to be professionals exactly. Still, he can’t fathom what else they might be if they managed to best him -- twice.

As for the names and identities they claim, Five has some perspective and clarity on that now that the emotion has waned. Their names are likely in the files he’s been assigned. He makes a point not to study the files -- that’s a peculiarity of his, he prefers not to know -- but he does skim them for basic necessary contact data such as dates and locations. He probably passed over their names during his briefing. That’s all.

Their claims are another story entirely. They are saying a lot of things, and while their stories seem consistent amongst themselves, the details are not able to be confirmed. Plus, they are incomplete stories. Snippets. Snapshots.

In other words, there are noticeable and relevant gaps. The marks are relying on heavy handed emotion to obscure that, but Five knows better. The gaps mean that there is more to the story.

Now, Five concedes, this offers no proof that they are lying. He can neither confirm or deny. It is justified that he would have doubts on both fronts.

The thing is, while he can recollect the names of the marks, that vague recognition pales in comparison to his attachment to the Handler. Her presence is so clearly defined that it is hard to refute. She is, in a sense, the defining feature of his life. To doubt her is to do doubt everything.

Yet, it’s a persistent doubt, one he cannot quite shake. Therefore, he approaches it with the clinical rationality that befits him. He simply must learn more.

Fortunately, these marks are formidable fighters, but they are clearly soft touches. When Five clears his throat, they are only too happy to comply. He forgoes antagonism, and he makes no visible signs of resistance. His compliance is rewarded with relief. That relief is palpable and it breeds trust. Within 30 minutes, Five is still bound, but the protection detail has relaxed to the point that the marks decide to take turns.

This indicates they are playing a long game. They are anticipating some kind of gradual reconciliation. This serves Five and his purpose perfectly fine.

As is expected, Luther takes the first watch. He waits until he’s sure the others have left before he smiles sheepishly at Five. “I'm really sorry. I know I clocked you pretty good,” he says.

Five musters a good natured shrug. “To be fair, I attacked first.”

“I know this is confusing for you, Five,” he says. “What’s happened to you, all this, it’s not your fault.”

He sounds quite certain about this. It’s a naive sort of faith, but it is somehow endearing. Five reminds himself to keep on point. “You say we were raised together, but it’s clear we are not biological siblings,” he ventures. “How does that happen? Seven super powered children? That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

Luther nods. “It’s not, as I’m sure you know,” he explains. “We were chosen for our powers, all of us. Put together to save the world.”

After a period of time, Diego takes over, and Five switches from the what to the who for a time. “This man, our father as you call him, how did he know?”

Diego seems vaguely bemused but in a bitter sort of way. He lacks a fondness and harbors resentment. It makes him unnecessarily volatile where Luther is too predictable. “Beats me,” he says. “I always just thought he was an asshole. And he was, don’t get me wrong, but he had a reason to it. I think he knew we needed to save the world.”

“The apocalypse you all talk about,” Five says. “That’s a real thing?”

“It was, until we stopped,” Diego replies. His bitterness turns wry. “Just like the old man wanted us to all along.”

With Allison, he opts for a more personable approach. She is maternal, after all. Five can play to that. “You say we were all born on the same day,” he says. “Then why I am I so much younger?”

Her gentle smile in response suggests he’s read her correctly. “That’s s bit of a story, actually,” she tells him. “Let’s just say that this isn’t the first time you’ve disappeared on us.”

That is far too vague to be useful. “What do you mean?”

She sighs a little, like this is a story she would rather not tell. “You walked out at 13 and disappeared. We thought you’d died, but you really jumped forward into the future. You got stuck there in the apocalypse. It took you 45 years and working with the Commission to finally get you back here.”

Five is confused. Her story doesn’t make sense. “But that means I would be way older than you.”

She nods. “You are, cognitively anyway,” she says. “The calculations on your jump back, when you betrayed the Commission, were off. You explained it but I never quite got it.”

Her explanation is wanting, but Five knows what she’s saying somehow. “I projected my consciousness into a version of myself that existed in all of time and space,” he recites. He frowns, not sure why he knows that. “Or something like that.”

The conversations serve a dual purpose. As Five collects important information about these marks, he also puts them at ease. They seem to be enjoying the conversations immensely.

As for the data, Five admits the story they build is consistent and, therefore, credible in its detail. Five can’t run the numbers in detail, but his rough estimation suggests that this is a very elaborate ruse or there must be some ulterior motivation that Five has yet to speculate.

There is no time for speculation. Rather, there is no need. This type of theorizing is not going to be satisfied while he’s still being held hostage. They may be friendly, but they are still marks, and if Five is going to figure out who these people are and what they want, he needs to obtain his freedom again. He’s managed this charade for several hours, but he has no intention of waiting days or weeks to be fully ingratiated into their good graces. He lacks the stamina for that nature of deception.

Besides, the Handler is expecting him.

That’s a solidifying though. It grounds him.

What these marks are saying is speculative. The Handler is a concrete entity. She is the one thing he knows is certain. At the very least, she will have answers. She can provide Five with the truth.

Therefore, his ruse has gone on long enough. It’s time for him to leave. He has no intention of killing them right now -- he’s not in prime condition and frankly he’s ill prepared right now -- but he is confident he can cut and run. If he can get out, find the answers, then he can come back with a better plan for success.

He’s not even sure what success looks like right now. For all that these marks are surely playing him in some way or another, they are speaking with enough credibility for him to investigate it further.

This time, he is more calm and collected, and he is not acting out of sheer emotion. This allows him to formulate a more effective plan of escape, leveraging their seeming goodwill. Over the last several hours, they have released his hands twice -- once to drink, once to eat -- and Five smiles benignly as the skinny one comes in for his shift. He has already pegged this one as the softest target. Sentimental, not prone to strategizing and physical slim.

While the small woman is probably a less able target, she puts him on edge. He finds himself anxious in her presence, and there’s something about her that he has trouble pinpointing. He cannot afford any distraction if he’s going to escape.

No, if Five is going to escape, now’s the time to do it.

“So I was wondering,” Five says, allowing for several moments of small talk in which Klaus tells him about knitting techniques. “I’ve been stuck here all day.”

Klaus looks duly sympathetic. “It’s a precaution, you know?” he says. “We’ve been looking for you for years. We don’t want to lose you again. You’re not a prisoner; I swear.”

Five nods as if that makes total sense to him. “Sure,” he says. “But, you know, I kind of have to--”

He dips his head to the door.

Klaus looks blank for a moment, then realization dawns. “Oh! You’ve got to take a leak!”

That’s not the way Five would put it, but whatever. He’s going to have to play the sympathy card a bit here. Klaus is no strategist, but he’s not a complete moron.

Probably.

“Haven’t gone since I got here,” Five reminds him with a small smile. “I would hate to pee all over the furniture.”

“Well, you did smash the last chair,” Klaus reminds him.

Five forces himself to keep smiling.

Klaus shrugs, as if eschewing the thought. “But yeah, you shouldn’t have to pee your pants,” he says with a little chuckle. “I mean, I should go get Luther or something--”

“No,” Five says, a little quicker than he should. “I mean, why? You guys have been pulling all nighters. He needs to rest, recuperate.”

“Sure,” Klaus says, hesitating slightly. “But I mean, technically speaking, I’m not supposed to let you out of the ropes.”

“Then I can wait,” Five says with a shrug. “No sense in bothering the others.”

Klaus chews his lip in contemplation. He’s regarded Five uncertainly, weighing his obvious empathy for him being tied up and his regard for his siblings taking their respite. For a second, Five worries he’s played this too far. If these marks are playing a long game on him, then Five is overplaying his hand. If they’re strangers will ill intent, then they’re not going to be sentimental enough to be this stupid.

If this is all a ruse, then there’s no way in hell this is going to work.

But then Klaus shrugs, getting to his feet with a sheepish grin. “Well, okay,” he says, reaching around to start on the knots. “A quick trip to the bathroom can’t hurt.”

Five is somewhat shocked when his hands come free. When his feet are freed, too, he’s actually too dumbfounded to move.

Tactically, if they are indeed trying to trick him, then this is an utterly stupid move. The only way this move makes sense is if they believe in what they tell him wholeheartedly.

The weight of this probability gives Five pause. He’s numb as Klaus cheerfully helps him to his feet. “Come on,” he says. “Better make this quick and all.”

Five takes a step forward, mentally reeling at his newfound freedom.

Could they be telling him the truth?

And, if so, then what does it imply?

What is the truth?

“I’m actually impressed you waited this long,” Klaus rambles without a care as he guides Five into the hall. “I always have to take a leak when I’m tied up. And I know, I know, you ask, how often does that happen? But let me tell you, it happens a lot more often than you think.”

There is a friendly air between them, like two best friends sharing secrets.

At least, Five thinks that’s what it’s like.

He’s never had a best friend.

He’s never had a brother.

He’s just got a Handler, and she’s never treated him like this.

“Sometimes it’s serious and stuff -- and yeah, that stinks,” Klaus continues on without a care. “But I have to admit, there have been a few times for pleasure. I mean, it’s not my normal kink but a little bondage here and there. Keeps things interesting.”

He looks back at Five with a grin and a wink.

Five stares back at him blankly, feet following along obediently down the hall. Five shouldn’t know which way is which, but in his mind, he thinks the bathroom is three doors down on the left.

“Almost there,” Klaus croons. “Bathroom is three doors down. Just on the left there.”

Shit, Five thinks while his breathing catches painfully in his chest. Shit, shit, shit.

“And, like, if I drink something while sitting? I mean, well, forget about it,” Klaus ambles on. He makes a fluid motion with his hand. “Right through me.”

Five can’t do this.

Five has to get out of here.

Five has to get out of here now.

Spurred by a sudden burst of claustrophobia, Five turns rapidly. Klaus never sees it coming, and Five doesn’t have to work hard to put him on his ass. He doesn’t go for a kill shot -- the blow he lands will only be momentarily disorienting by design -- but he doesn’t need a large window. He just needs a split second.

With Klaus down, Five’s instinct is to jump, but he finds his emotions too rattled to make it more than a few inches. When he goes for a consecutive jump, his power fizzles, and he mutters a curse, coming face to face with Luther, who is coming out of a nearby door.

The large man has the bulk, but his expression is one of naive surprise. “What the -- Five?”

Five does not waste time dallying. It feels vaguely cruel to attack the man when he looks so genuinely concerned, and Five’s not sure where the trepidation comes from. It’s never bothered him before to take out a target -- any target. The job, he tries to remind himself. He always has to do the job.

Still, he takes Luther by the arm, yanking him into the hall. Tactically, going directly hand to hand will not work in his favor. Luther is confused, but that won’t last. He’ll respond to the threat Five is posing in a very direct fashion, and Five doesn’t much want to sustain another head injury tonight. Instead, he opts for a course of minimal conflict. He uses Luther’s forward moment, turns him around the corner and forces him down the narrow staircase to the bedrooms.

Luther has no time to react. He bounces heavily on the steps, rolling with a series of thumps down to the landing. He moans and stirs, but doesn’t get up, and Five easily takes the stairs two at a time, managing a small jump past him and down the second flight toward the main floor.

He rounds a corner and runs right into Diego -- literally. They collide with some force, and Diego is quicker to respond with force, but they are better paired for combat. Five ducks the punch he knows is coming, and he already anticipates when the other man goes for the knife Five had no way of knowing he was carrying. He disarms him with ease, circling around back and fully jumping on his back. He cinches in a choke before Diego has a chance to react, and though he suspects -- knows, somehow -- that the man is carrying more weaponry, the pressing need for air causes him to panic.

It’s not oxygen that Diego is lacking; it’s blood flow to the brain. 15 seconds and he slackens, and Five lowers him to the ground, seeing the subtle rise and fall of his chest before he continues for the exit.

He makes it to the main floor, heart hammering with anxiety, and Allison comes out of the hallway. She looks disappointed.

“Five,” she says. “But why?”

He can’t explain it to her. Or he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to explain it to himself. He doesn’t want any of this.

“Shut up,” he says, charging at her now. He’s pulsing with electricity, but he can’t control it. He’s haphazard and out of control, and he’s all but shaking as he advances. “Shut up!”

She looks surprised if anything, and Five hits her harder than he intends, a kick that lands just shy of her temple. She crumples to the ground, and Five is nearly hyperventilating with the exertion. His stomach churns, and he’s overcome with it. Allison’s still holding a phone in her limp hands. Probably talking to her daughter.

Five doesn’t know she has a daughter.

The daughter’s name is Claire.

Blanching, Five feels like throwing up. He hasn’t sustained any damage in this exit, but he still staggers as he makes his way toward the door. He feels like he’s suffocating. He’s losing control. He’s--

Steps from the front door, one last figure comes into view.

It’s Vanya.

He stops cold, frozen in his tracks. His legs feel like lead, and he’s sincerely worried he may throw up this time.

A mere few feet away, she looks slighter than ever. Unlike the others, she makes not attempt to engage him. She won’t fight him; not for anything.

Instead, she stands opposite him looking abjectly stricken.

“Five?” she says, like he’s gone and broken her heart. “What are you doing?”

He should attack; he should take her out while he has the chance. She’s small, and her fighting skills are far less advanced than her so-called siblings. She’s an easy target, and Five is not a sentimental person.

He can’t, though. He stands there, eye to eye, transfixed.

“Five?” she asks, and something hopeful flickers in her eyes. She steps closer. “Do you remember?”

She is exposing herself; it is a foolish weakness, and Five should exploit it.

Yet, he thinks of her making peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for some reason. He’s grounded to the spot, transfixed by the memory he cannot place.

She is hopeful; the others, however, are recovering. Five’s window of escape is closing rapidly. They want him to stay; the Commission wants him to finish the job.

The question is: what does Five want?

It’s a surreal sort of question, the kind he has not considered in years. He cannot remember the last time he made a decision of his own volition for his own end.

In that split second, he has to do the math.

Their testimony is incomplete and sentimentally driven, but there is enough substantiating to give it the slimmest credibility. There is a small chance, in other words, that they are, in fact, telling him the truth instead of enacting some sort of elaborate ruse.

By those odds, Five should simply finish this the way he has been ordered.

The problem is, he doesn’t want to.

That’s the truth of it, a truth so sudden and foreign that he scarcely recognizes it. That strange reluctance is new to him; he’s never fought an order before. Therefore, one can only conclude that he is emotionally affected by these marks. There is no reason to be persuaded by marks unless there is credible history between them.

Logically, there is no reason to give weight to a one percent chance. But family is not a logical distinction. It explains his utter confusion, his reluctance and overall clumsiness. They know him, clearly.

By these measures, it is like that Five knows them, too.

This does not answer whether or not they are friend or foe.

It does, however, warrant further investigation.

“I’m sorry,” he says, locking eyes with Vanya. He offers no explanation. He offers no substantiation. The apology is more than he should give, and he has no intention of explaining himself. Instead, he ducks past her, sprinting for the door. The others are quick to follow suit, but there are five of them and one of Five. And Five is good in a fight -- he really, truly is -- but he’s always been better at running.

He runs all the way back to his hotel room. He looks at the files, reads them from start to finish. He reads them again.

There are no names listed anywhere.

Five lights the papers on fire in the trash, does his calculations, and makes the jump.

-o-

He’s losing himself and a door opens. Framed in the light, she’s there.

“Hello, Five,” she says with a smile. “I think you’ve been there quite long enough.”

He recoils, almost like a feral creatures. He’s scared of her. As best he can figure, she’s a figment of his imagination. He almost wants to call her Delores.

She presses her hands primly on her dress, straightening the skirt. “Come now,” she says, offering her hand. “You’ve suffered long enough, don’t you think? Don’t you want to get out of there?”

He hesitates, breath staggering. He can feel his heart as it thrums against the taut skin of his ribcage.

“I can help you, Five,” she promises. “Follow me, and I promise, I will make everything make sense again.”

She speaks without hesitation. Her smile doesn’t waver, almost like it’s been painted on. Shakily, he gets to his feet, his knees almost knocking as he balances himself against the wall, regarding her warily.

“As long as I’m here, Five, you’ll never be alone,” she pledges. “You’ll never be alone again.”

Five takes a step forward, halting and unsure.

“That’s it,” she coaxes. “That’s my boy.”

He is transfixed with the movement now, her figure poised in an open door. He stumbles for her, legs almost giving way and she catches him. Her hand is real.

Five looks up at her in awe and wonder.

She’s actually real.

She lifts her fingers, running her hand gently over his ragged hair. “Good boy, Five,” she says. “Are you ready to follow me now?”

He doesn’t answer, but as she leads him out the open door, Five follows, step by step, into a whole new world.