definitely maybe i will live to love || Five x Reader/OC ||

tell her all the little things i'm gonna do on saturday night

Saturday Night

The gala has become Jupiter, drawing everyone with its gravity to allow you to move unobstructed to the records department. You've been waiting for the absence of employees who would have nicely but firmly stopped you from dipping your fingers into the record you want because of your lack of clearance. Field agents such as yourself don't usually get to look at records they themselves haven't completed or attributed to.

You could have asked Five to look at the record for you instead, but this...well, this is one of your own little things, just like you told Cha-Cha when you first filled out a report. And even though you'd be safer with Five by your side, your simultaneous absences at the gala would raise suspicion.

When you informed him that you wanted to sneak into the records department during the night of the gala, he was reluctant to support the idea at first. But Five has a feeling that your luck together is running out, so you need to act now or get the hell out of the Commission. So it means that tonight, you have to act now for everything.

Five told you about all the areas to avoid and walls to stick to as you make your way down. You can't jump like him, but you do have a good amount of stealth tactics drilled into you, so you find yourself in the sprawling archives in no time.

You're only going to be gone for a little bit.

Clutching the note Herb hid for you behind a placid painting only dystopian companies such as the Commission would hang on their walls, you stop in front of the oldest end of the filing cabinets. Heavy, sticky dust blankets the metal surfaces, and a few units have rust stains from constant water damage. Even the lights flicker more than the newer and more well-kept sides do, as if to discourage you from delving into the Commission's earliest records.

It disturbs you that you are in the ancient pits for this.

You unfold the note again to read the number to double-check, even though you've long memorized it.

43

Ironic. Ha.

The search doesn't last long. The file number doesn't even have letters or sub-dashes to go with it because this—he—was one of the Commission's earliest alarms when it came to preserving the timeline. It unnerves you that he's beneath the one hundred mark

You open a drawer on the cabinet labeled 40-50.

Dad's file, whose tab reads R. Hargreeves, is hefty.

With little time to sift through contents that are meant to take days to go through, you begin skimming for the most important details and facts. What you read makes your stomach slide to your feet, brain going fuzzy yet hyperaware, coldness in your chest.

Reginald Hargreeves. Alien. Inventor of prohibited technology. Arrival on Earth: 1919. D.S. Umbrella Manufacturing Co. Multiple attempts to assassinate. First attempt: 1919. Last attempt: 1940. Extreme threat to the correct timeline. Failure to exterminate on all occasions. Too powerful in intelligence and strength. Planet origin: unknown. Founder of the Umbrella Academy. Potential cause of the birth of forty-three children around the world by women who had not been pregnant the day before. Exact method and reason unknown. Unknown interest on dark side of the moon. DECEASED.

At the end of the file's documents, you see a typewritten list of the forty-three children born on October 1st, 1989. They all have normal, unmemorable names. Some have supplemental file numbers that can be found elsewhere in the archives, but not every single one.