000
( we hope your rules and wisdom choke you )

( prologue ! )

VINCENT LEBLANC held a power that surged through his veins and shot out through his whole body when he needed it most. Yet, he still felt entirely ordinary. He knew how to control his power quite well through teaching himself the 15 years he'd been alive, calculating how fast he could change into whatever he wanted. The amount of control he had over what he did had easily gotten better as time went on. He knew just how much he could do at this point, just what fucked up things he could easily do with his abilities. He supposed he was dangerous. Or could be used for that. Although, he had never purposefully hurt anyone with it. Not yet, at least.

He usually wrote in a small journal he kept hidden away underneath his pillow to shy away from his parents disapproving eyes. They had never wanted their son to be a freak. A shapeshifting snarky asshole who was depressed out of his godamn mind. It was humorous to Vincent. He didn't care much for his parents anyway. They didn't do much for him. He still had to buy his own groceries and make his own dinner, even at the mere age of 15. His parents told him it was the way the French did it, that since he grew up in Paris, France he'd have to permanently act like he grew up in Paris, France. Although, Vincent knew that was indeed not the way the French did it.

He wrote in his journal about all different types of things. Like his powers or the way the sun shines through his sheer black curtains onto the ground. But mostly his powers. He wrote down each ability he was aware he had. The ability to shapeshift into basically anything he wants, the ability to go into separate dimensions and a small tinge of telekinesis. He liked to pride himself on the fact that he had more abilities altogether than it seemed any of the infamous Umbrella Academy had.

Vincent had heard about the children, who were the exact same age as him, on the television one day whilst pouring himself a cup of orange juice. Knowing the French language came in handy, understanding everything the woman on the television had iterated. His parents hadn't been home, so he was allowed to watch the news and hear all about the others just like him. He knew from first glance his favorite was probably Number Five. He looked more sophisticated than the others, more put together.

Number Five had gone missing two years before, thought to never be seen again. Vincent was surprised to hear the news, but supposed he would eventually come back. He had to, didn't he? In those two years, France had become more and more boring for Vincent. He had lived there for 15 years and wanted a change in scenery.  His parents refused to take him anywhere but where they lived, their grimy little apartment filled with cockroaches and other creepy crawlies that made Vincent flinch in disgust.

He hated the place so much.

Vincent had left his house on Sunday morning, off to the store or the "le supermarché" as they called it. He hated speaking French. He knew how to speak English perfectly fine, despite the small hint of an accent that always peeked through. He hated it, he hated it so much. He shrugged off the thought, continuing to walk to the supermarket. He had ran out of orange juice, the one thing he drank in the house. His parents had slipped him 5 euro under a magnet on the refrigerator, alongside a note underneath that read "buy yourself more of that shit you like to drink," undoubtedly written by his father. His mother, a devout Christian, had prided herself on only ever cursing once in her life. Vincent saw through the lie easily.

His walk to the supermarket was short lived, a perk of living merely 5 minutes away from the place. He had bought his orange juice, a large bottle that would last him a month, maybe. If he got lucky. He had used all of the money his parents had given to him, meaning he probably would have to eat nothing but boxed macaroni and cheese for the rest of the week. His stomach churned at the thought... he hated that shit.

As he walked out of the supermarket, his nose scrunched up slightly in the disgust centered around macaroni and cheese, he had ran into someone. A large man with a fedora on and an overcoat, grey in color. Vincent had huffed, muttering a "fuck off" in French. The guy could have at least said excuse me, common courtesy and all. Vincent had stiffened when the man turned around, revealing an intimidating bulk of pure muscle, a mustache on his lips.

The 15 year old boys eyes had widened, but quickly hardened again after his initial shock. He never knew a man could be that large. The man grumbled, sniffing the air like a fucking dog. Vincent had taken a slow step back, trying to get away from the odd man. Perhaps he was a schizo, or just drunk. But Vincent didn't smell any alcohol on him. "You're one of them.." The man spoke, in perfect English. Definetly a schizo.

Vincent raised his eyebrow, chuckling under his breath awkwardly. "One of who?" He questioned, clearly nervous. One of his hands gripped the handle of the orange juice bottle, holding onto it for dear life. If he was going to die, he was going to die holding what he loved most. He knew what the man was talking about, or the basic idea at least. But the fact that he could sniff it off of him was worrying to no end. How the hell is that even possible?

The man grinned, a sick twisted curl of his lips that revealed his yellow crooked teeth, a few metal crowns on the back molars. "A umbrella academy folk. One of ya with the powers. You're one of em's," He spoke, an accent that Vincent couldn't put his finger on very clear, thick and southern. The man had suddenly stepped closer, into Vincent space.

Vincent had stepped back quickly, nearly tripping before he simply turned, sprinting down the alleyway. He wasn't very fast, always the kid that walked the track when they said to run. His legs were short and his feet were small. He wasn't too cut out for what he was doing. Vincent had looked back over his shoulder for a moment, almost breathing out a sigh of relief before the familiar grey overcoat came back into view.

The man looked angrier than before, a wild look in his eye that only slightly horrified Vincent. He looked almost ready to kill, his tongue poking out from between his cracking lips. Vincent panted as he ran, thinking of how he could possibly get out of this situation. He couldn't handle his telekinesis, that was one thing he was still heavily working on. He supposed he could disappear into a different dimension. But he had only ever tried that once. And well, it didnt work out all too good.

He had merely been placed a few days into the future, had never been able to go back and get those 3 days he'd skipped back. He had been missing for those 3 days, apparently. Although, there had been no missing persons report. The only way he found out was when he walked into his home and his mother hugged him tightly, asking where he'd gone. He hadn't known what to say and had simply walked to his room and shut the door behind him.

It wasn't necessarily time traveling. No, it was much different. He could only go into the future. But once he did it, he seemingly couldn't go back. The thought terrified him. But now it seemed as though he had no other choice.

Vincent's eyes widened as the man got closer before he shut them tight, squeezing his hands closed. When he opened his eyes back up, he didn't know where he was. There was ruin everywhere, building debris and ash all over the ground. Bodies were scattered around, ones he didn't recognize. He didn't understand. There were no other living people around, not ones he could see. He had let out a shaky breath, looking around with wide eyes. "Mom? Dad? What the fuck?" He yelled out, stumbling around the area.

It was much too hot now for what he was wearing, a turtleneck sweater and a pair of loose cuffed pants. Although, he didn't have much else to wear. Considering his predicament. He supposed he had gone more than 3 days into the future. But how much longer?

Vincent breathed heavily, looking around more as he walked. Nothing looked familiar, the area looked almost foreign. He definitely was not in Paris, France anymore. But where could he be? He still had the bottle of orange juice in his hand, looking perfectly fine compared to everything else. The only delightful color he could see. He almost chuckled at the sight.

He sunk down to his knees, looking up before looking around once again. "Well, fuck. Guess I'm not in Kansas anymore." He had mumbled jokingly to himself, rolling his eyes.

What the hell had he done?

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A/N: this is the prologue. sorry it's kinda shitty. I also don't know how to speak french, so..... if I do mess anything up please tell me so I can fix it sksksk!