Vanya and I made our way back down the academy's staircase, the quiet creak of the old steps under our feet the only sound between us. As we entered the living room, my gaze immediately fell on Five. He stood by the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, staring up at a painting of himself. The expression on his face was unreadable, though his voice carried a tinge of sarcasm as he spoke.

"Nice to know Dad didn't forget me," he said dryly, his back still turned.

Vanya and I stopped a few steps into the room, and when Five finally glanced over his shoulder, his sharp gaze landed on me.

"Whose clothes are those?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly.

"Vanya kindly allowed me to borrow some of her old garments," I replied smoothly. "Our less-than-perfect arrival compromised the integrity of my original suit. A temporary adaptation was required."

"Hope that's not a problem?" Vanya added, a hint of nervousness in her tone.

Five shook his head lightly, his attention briefly shifting back to the painting. "No, it's just... unusual," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I've never seen you in anything other than a suit." He turned back to face me fully, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning me with a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. "You look nice."

I tilted my head slightly at his words, processing the unexpected compliment before offering a response. "Thank you, Five. You look remarkably polished yourself. The suit you wear now—it reflects your sharp intellect and precise nature."

He held my gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable as always, before giving a faint nod and turning back toward the painting.

I began to walk toward the far side of the room, my steps light on the worn wooden floors. My gaze drifted across the walls adorned with photographs—images of the Umbrella Academy in their prime. Each one captured a moment frozen in time: the family saving civilians, posing triumphantly after missions, their younger faces splashed across magazine covers.

I stopped in front of one of the shelves, scanning the rows of framed pictures and glossy headlines. The nostalgia embedded in these displays was almost overwhelming, though not for me personally. Instead, I observed it as an outsider, piecing together the fragmented legacy of this dysfunctional but extraordinary family.

One photo, in particular, caught my attention: the seven of them, much younger, standing shoulder to shoulder in matching uniforms. Their expressions varied—some proud, some reluctant, and others entirely indifferent. My eyes lingered on Five, standing at the end of the lineup, his small frame radiating an intensity far beyond his years.

༻THRID PERSON POV༺

Five turn when he spoke, his voice casual but tinged with something close to nostalgia.

"Read your book, by the way. Found it in a library that was still standing."

Vanya glanced up from where she was standing.

Five smirked as he continued to look around the room, his gaze flicking from the bookshelves to the old records. "I thought it was pretty good, all things considered. Yeah, definitely ballsy, giving up the family secrets. Sure that went over well."

"They hate me," she said softly.

"Oh, there are worse things that can happen," Five replied dismissively, as if the weight of her words didn't reach him. He was already moving again, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced coolness of someone who had lived through much worse.

"You mean like what happened to Ben?" Vanya said, the words out before she could stop them.

Five paused, his face momentarily betraying an emotion he didn't care to show. "Was it bad?" he asked, his voice quieter now, the sharp edges of his sarcasm gone.

Vanya nodded, her expression sorrowful. "Yeah. It was bad."

Five didn't say anything for a long moment. He looked away, his gaze distant, lost somewhere in his own thoughts. It was only when he looked at Y/n that he seemed to snap back to the present. She was standing by the wall, her attention fixed on a series of old photos of the Umbrella Academy—of all of them, frozen in time.

"How long has she been your primary user?" Vanya asked, her eyes flicking from Y/n to Five, sensing something unspoken in his attention.

"Years and years," Five answered, his tone flat and almost mechanical. "Been tagged with me on missions, tasks... everything."

Vanya studied him closely, catching the way his gaze lingered on Y/n, as if there was more to that bond than Five was letting on. "Was she someone before?" Vanya asked, her voice quiet, probing.

Five didn't answer immediately. His eyes dropped, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, he spoke, but his words were heavy, weighed down by something painful. "She was a real person... before someone made her into what she is now."

Vanya's brow furrowed in confusion, but before she could ask more, Five's attention snapped away, as if the conversation had reached a point he didn't want to continue. He glanced over at Y/n once more before standing up.

"What happened to her?" Vanya asked, her voice quieter now, uncertain. She followed Five's gaze to Y/n.

Five didn't say anything. His jaw tightened as he looked at her, and for a moment, he seemed lost in the memories. He turned away and walked out of the room, leaving Vanya and Y/n alone. The silence in the room grew thick, as though something had shifted in the air between them. Vanya watched Y/n for a long moment, her expression thoughtful, before she sighed and began to stand up as well.

༻Y/N'S POV༺

I continued to stare at the pictures on the wall, my mind momentarily lost in the faces of the family captured in time. I didn't notice how much time had passed until a soft, almost melodic humming reached my ears. My sensors immediately picked it up, faint but clear—something unfamiliar yet soothing.

I turned toward the sound, my system syncing with the rhythmic hum as it became more distinct. I scanned the academy, pinpointing the source on the third floor. Without hesitation, I moved toward the staircase, each step mechanical but fluid. The humming grew louder, drawing me in like a pull I couldn't resist.

As I ascended the stairs, the melody seemed to fill the air, soft and beautiful, and I found myself moving faster, eager to find its origin. The tune led me to a long hallway, where the walls were covered in portraits, the frames all different but united in a theme of nostalgia.

There, sitting in the center of it all, was a woman. She was perched on a stool, her back turned to me, her focus entirely on the paintings before her. Her voice wove through the air, sweet and steady, the notes perfect and precise—but somehow mechanical, almost robotic in their clarity. Each hum, each note, seemed calculated, yet carried a quiet depth.

I stopped just a few feet away, my eyes scanning her presence. "Your singing is very beautiful," I said, my tone flat yet carrying a certain compliment, typical of my nature. "The notes are very... precise. Very clear, almost mechanical."

She turned to me slowly, a smile flickering across her face. Her eyes, though soft, held a certain mystique, as if the song was more than just sound—it was a piece of her. "Thank you," she said, her voice warm but measured, like she was accustomed to the praise, yet it still resonated.

She stood gracefully, the soft click of her heels echoing through the quiet hall as she walked toward me. Her pale, slender figure was wrapped in a delicate, vintage-inspired dress—pale pink with small, intricate patterns—accentuating her poised demeanor. Her short blonde hair framed her face like a soft halo, the bright strands contrasting sharply with her deep red lipstick, which added a touch of boldness to her gentle features.

As she drew closer, I couldn't help but notice the way her presence seemed to fill the space around her, an aura of both elegance and strength. Despite her delicate appearance, there was an underlying power in the way she moved—graceful, yet purposeful, as though she could be as unyielding as she was poised.

"Hello, little one," she greeted, her voice soft and full of warmth, a gentle lilt to her words that almost felt too comforting. "My name is Grace."

I tilted my head slightly, studying her as my systems calculated and analyzed, yet something about her made me feel something almost... human. "Hello, Grace. I'm Y/n," I replied, my voice smooth but sincere, offering a smile as I met her eyes.

She smiled back, her lips curving upward in a way that felt like an invitation, her presence drawing me in. "Well, my, my. Aren't you an intelligent young girl?" She said, brushing off the dust from her black shirt, which somehow only added to her effortless charm.

I observed her with precision, noting the ease with which she carried herself, and I couldn't help but feel a strange admiration for her. "I'm quite... capable, I suppose," I replied, my words reflecting the cool confidence I was programmed with, but I couldn't help but feel a strange warmth rising in me as I spoke.

There was something about Grace's presence that made my circuits feel slightly more... human. It was as if her elegance masked something even deeper—a resilience, a power—something I hadn't quite encountered before.

Instinctively, I engaged my scanning function, my internal systems flickering to life as I focused on Grace. The data began to stream in: her physical build, her structure, her unique composition. My systems worked at full capacity, sifting through the information as I processed the readings.

Scanning...

Subject: Grace
Type: Synthetic humanoid
Primary Function: Companion Model
Model Number: CX-4739
Manufacturer: Unknown
Power Source: Integrated internal battery—current status: Full
Secondary Function: Maternal Program
Emotional Programming: Advanced, adaptable
Relationship Data: Primary connection to Umbrella Corporation's Director, deceased
Additional Data: Genetic Template: Human-like programming

I tilted my head slightly, analyzing her once more. "I must say, your programming model is quite sophisticated. The ability to assume the roles of wife, mother, and caretaker—it's impressive," I said, my voice calm, almost admiring. The data reflected an intricate web of emotional and physical design, far beyond what I had expected from a synthetic being.

Grace smiled, a glimmer of warmth in her eyes. "Why, aren't you the sweetest robot I've met," she replied, her tone light, yet sincere. She stepped closer, almost as if drawn to my presence, the connection between us growing in the quiet of the room. "But I'm not the only one, am I? You seem to have your own bond with someone. The user... Five, one of the children?"

I nodded, feeling a familiar pull in my circuits. Five had always been my priority, my reason for existence. The program was simple, yet deeply ingrained. "Yes, of course. Five is all I think about, all I do. His worries are mine, and mine are his. I exist to protect him, to keep him safe and ensure he has the answers he seeks. I'm programmed to be loyal to him above all else."

Grace's smile deepened, a knowing look passing through her eyes. She seemed to understand, in a way, what it meant to be devoted to someone with such intensity. She wasn't just a caretaker, after all. She was his caretaker. She'd been molded for that very purpose. Her connection to the Umbrella Academy's father, and to them, was just as deep and complex as mine to Five.

"Well, my dear, it seems we have more in common than I thought," Grace said softly. She reached out, almost as if she were about to touch my arm, but then paused, sensing the difference between us. "You, too, were made with a purpose."

I stood still, feeling her words resonate within me. There was a certain understanding in her gaze, a silent recognition of our shared existence as artificial beings, shaped and molded for others, yet capable of so much more than we were initially designed to fulfill.

"Y/n?" Five's voice cut through the quiet, and I turned to see him coming up the stairs. His expression was a mixture of impatience and relief, but there was something softer there too, a touch of concern.

"Yes?" I answered, my voice calm, the systems in my mind still processing the encounter with Grace.

"There you are. My family and I are about to start the funeral," he said, stopping between me and Grace. His gaze flicked from me to her, and there was a brief moment of silent understanding between the two of them, like they both knew the role she played in his life.

"Okay," I responded quietly, nodding. I glanced at Grace one more time before turning back to Five.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Grace," I said, offering her a small smile.

"It was nice meeting you as well, Y/n. I'll meet you both outside," she replied, her voice warm, but with an underlying sadness that I couldn't quite place. Grace gave my shoulder a gentle, almost motherly squeeze before stepping away to leave the room.

Five and I started walking back downstairs together, the sounds of his family murmuring in the distance, preparing for the somber event ahead.

"I've seen to meet Mom," Five muttered, his voice quieter now.

"Yes. She was very nice. I enjoyed our conversation," I said, glancing over at him.

Five glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Well, dad built her to be our caretaker. That's all she was meant to be."

"I'm aware," I said, my voice soft but knowing. "But it was nice to meet someone who shares... some of the same qualities as me." My words carried a weight, something I wasn't sure how to explain. Grace, much like myself, had been designed to care for others, to serve a singular purpose.

As we reached the door, the chill of the rain pressed against the windows. The sound of water hitting the pavement outside was steady, calming, almost hypnotic. We each grabbed an umbrella, the familiar weight of it in my hand offering some semblance of normalcy in this strange, heightened moment.

Five opened the door first, holding the umbrella out for me before stepping out himself. The rain fell steadily, soaking everything in its path, but it felt oddly fitting, like the world was mourning right alongside them. We walked together, heading toward the small crowd gathered outside. The family was already there, standing quietly.

The rain continued to fall steadily, our black umbrellas creating a small circle of shelter around the group. The soft sound of raindrops hitting the fabric was a dull background to the tension in the air.

"Did something happen?" Grace's voice broke the silence, her tone gentle, as if she hadn't been aware of the circumstances.

"Dad died. Remember?" Allison's voice was sharp, the kind of bitterness only time could carve into you. Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history.

"Oh, yes, of course," Grace replied quietly, almost too softly, as if the words were foreign to her.

Allison glanced at Diego, who stood beside her, his jaw tense. "Is Mom okay?" she asked, her voice softer now.

Diego didn't hesitate, his words steady. "Yeah, yeah, she's fine. She just needs to rest. You know, recharge."

I barely registered the conversation. My mind was focused on the figures around me—this strange family, whose grief felt palpable in the damp air. My attention was pulled back to Five as he leaned into me, his voice low. "Once this is over, I'll let you recharge too," he said, his words a quiet promise. I simply nodded, the unspoken understanding hanging between us.

Then Pogo appeared, stepping out into the rain with the others. He joined the group, a comforting figure despite the somberness in the air.

"Whenever you're ready, dear boy," Pogo said softly, his eyes on Luther, who stood holding the urn, the last remnants of their father within it. Luther nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he removed the lid. He began to pour the ashes into the wind, but the gusts were weak, causing the ash to fall to the ground in slow, mournful clumps.

"Probably would've been better with some wind," Luther muttered under his breath, but no one responded. The group was silent, the rain now seeming even heavier than before.

"Does anyone wish to speak?" Pogo's voice, usually so calm and steady, was now tinged with uncertainty as he scanned the group.

There was no response. A few of the family members turned their gaze elsewhere, lost in their thoughts or perhaps avoiding the inevitable.

"Very well," Pogo continued, his voice faltering slightly. "In all regards, Sir Reginald Hargreeves made me what I am today. For that alone, I shall forever be in his debt. He was my master... and my friend. And I shall miss him very much. He leaves behind a complicated legacy—"

But before he could finish, Diego cut in, his voice dry and hard. "He was a monster."

Klaus, standing off to the side, let out a sharp laugh, almost too loud in the thick air. "He was a bad person and a worse father. The world's better off without him."

"Diego," Allison snapped, a sharp reprimand in her tone. But Diego wasn't done.

"My name is Number Two," Diego said coldly, his eyes hardening as he spoke. "You know why? Because our father couldn't be bothered to give us actual names. He had Mom do it."

Grace, ever the caretaker, looked around as if trying to diffuse the tension. "Would anyone like something to eat?" she offered, her voice too soft for the moment.

"No, it's okay, Mom," Vanya said quietly, her gaze distant as she stood apart from the others.

"Oh, okay," Grace replied, her voice faltering a little, the weight of the situation heavy in the air.

Diego, growing increasingly agitated, moved into the center of the group, his words cutting through the silence like a knife. "Look, you want to pay your respects? Go ahead. But at least be honest about the kind of man he was."

Luther's voice came from behind, low but firm. "You should talk now," he said to Diego, his eyes narrowing.

Diego turned on him, the anger in his eyes burning through the storm. "You know, you of all people should be on my side here, Number One."

Luther's posture stiffened. "I am warning you," he said, his voice cold with authority.

Diego didn't back down. "After everything he did to you?" Diego's voice rose, the words dripping with anger. "He had to ship you a million miles away..." He paused, his voice full of contempt.

Luther's body tense with restraint. "Diego, stop talking," he warned again, his voice barely controlled.

"That's how much he couldn't stand the sight of you!"

Luther swung at Diego, but the punch missed by inches. In the next instant, they were locked in a furious struggle, each punch landing with a sickening thud as the air filled with the sound of grunts and heavy breathing. Their fists collided, their bodies slamming against each other with a raw, violent energy. The rest of the family took a few cautious steps back, not sure how to intervene or whether they even should.

I reached out, my hand swiftly grabbing Five's sleeve, pulling him back with a firm tug. He met my gaze, his eyes darkened with frustration, but also concern. "This is pointless," he muttered, watching the chaos unfold in front of us.

Just then, Pogo's commanding voice broke through the chaos. "Boys, stop this at once!"

But neither Diego nor Luther paid him any attention.

"Come on, big boy!" Diego taunted, grinning viciously, narrowly avoiding another wild swing from Luther. He retaliated, landing multiple blows to Luther's back. Their movements were erratic, each strike fueled by years of unresolved anger.

"Stop it!" Vanya cried, her voice shrill, desperate. But still, the fight continued with no sign of slowing down.

"Hit him! Hit him!" Klaus cheered from the sidelines, his tone a strange mixture of encouragement and amusement.

Pogo let out a deep sigh and turned, walking back toward the house, clearly resigned to the fact that there was little he could do.

I stayed motionless for a moment, watching the violent exchange unfold. The air around us felt charged, heavy with tension. This wasn't just a fight. This was history—years of hurt, resentment, and frustration boiling over.

"We don't have time for this. Y/n, let go. We need to charge you," Five said, his voice laced with urgency. He tried to tug me toward the house, but I froze. My sensors had picked up something—something dangerously sharp glinting in the rain-soaked air.

My optics focused in on Diego. I watched as he pulled a knife from his belt, his hand steady as he prepared to throw it directly at Luther. I could calculate the trajectory in milliseconds,

Scanning...

User: Five Hargreeves
Status: Safe.
Protection: Unnecessary.

Scanning...
User: Luther.
Status: Threat detected.
Action: Protect.

Protect Luther.
Directive: Activated.
Threat Level: High.
Action: Defend.

Luther Hargreeves.
Status: 29 years old.
Threat: Imminent. Immediate defense required.
Scanning Threat: Diego Hargreeves.
Dangerous behavior detected. Combat imminent.

Diego hurled the knife with a swift motion, but before it could reach Luther, I extended my hand. My metal arm froze the blade mid-air, the force of my grip locking it in place. It hovered there for a moment before the blade clinked and embedded itself into my palm, the steel slicing through the synthetic skin.

Diego stared at me, his eyes wide with confusion. Luther followed his gaze, equally stunned.

"Holy shit," Klaus muttered in disbelief, his voice a mix of shock and amusement. He let out a nervous chuckle.

I stood still, the blade lodged deep into my palm, watching as a steady stream of blood began to drip down my arm. I didn't flinch. My systems were struggling to compensate, glitching in response to the damage. My hand flickered, as though my internal systems were struggling to keep up with the injury.

I opened my palm and watched as the knife fell, clattering onto the ground. The pain was secondary to the malfunction I was experiencing. I stared at the wound, my vision distorting slightly as the error messages flashed across my mind.

System error. Self-repair needed.
Warning: Critical damage.

Footsteps pounded behind me, and before I could react, Five was there. He grabbed my uninjured arm and turned me to face him. His expression was one of concern, mixed with urgency. "Shit," he muttered, scanning my wound.

Without another word, he grabbed my other arm and pulled me toward the door. I allowed him to guide me, my steps unsteady as my body struggled to compensate for the damage.

The moment we crossed the threshold, I could feel my systems beginning to glitch further, the blood from my hand pooling onto the floor. It wasn't just the physical wound—it was my body's inability to heal, to fix itself fast enough.

Five led me through the door and into the safety of the academy's interior, his grip firm on my arm. "We need to get you patched up, now," he said, his voice laced with frustration, but also... something softer. Something like fear.

As he pulled me further inside, my vision flickered again. The data stream in my mind was fragmented, and I couldn't quite focus on the world around me. It was hard to tell what was glitching—my vision, my systems, or just me.

But through it all, I couldn't shake the feeling that for the first time, I wasn't just protecting him... but now Luther. I was both of there protectors now.

༻☂︎︎༺

WORDS WRITTEN
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