Number 43: Five Hargreeves

Chapter One

The large man awoke from his horrible slumber. The bed in which he slept on, was not exactly comfortable, especially on the Moon. Groggy and exhausted, he stretched his muscles and began to do his daily routine in which he had done for Four long and lonley years. He often thought about ending it all, just to take off the helmet and become one with the dark, however a fever compelled him not to. That feaver was Sir Reginald Hargreeves, his father. 

For that reason alone he did not take off his suite outside of the cramped spacepod. His father must have sent him there for a reason. Reginald Hargreeves was calculated and didn't proceed with his actions unless a purpose was involved. 

He put on his suite and made his way out onto the barren landscape in which he called his new home. A chair sat out all alone on the wasteland, giving the illusion that something or someone wasn't as alone as they knew they were. The chair sunken in from many uses still held up against the gorilla like man, fortunately not breaking due to low gravity. The man sighed and and stared out onto his real home. Earth. The Sun behind it slowly rising up through the darkness. A beep from his wrist brought him out of his daze. 

He looked down onto the mini screen attached to him. A message displayed and a grave look brought about.

He was going home, but not for the reason he would.

His father was dead.

A family sat in there living room. All was quite and the T.V. was playing. Of course on a ordinary day any family would be sitting happily in their living room, however this family was on the floor, duck-taped shut and tied up. 

The man proceeded to scatter their belongings in search of something valuable, however a knife was thrown into the man's heart. Killing him instantly, blood slowly spilling from his chest, he crashed into the floor. The other men looked in search for what had caused it, but they were sadly too late.

The masked hero had grabbed the intruder and threw him up against the wall, causing a dent and brought a calloused fist into the man's face. He doubled back in pain before being brought onto the floor being kicked in the face, earning an easy win for number two. 

More of the men came and still it was fairly easy for him to win, they may thought he was no match, but the men soon learned he could take them both down at the same time. Once defeated the man unbound the poor family and told them the police were on their way. 

The T.V. reporter brought him out of his trance from helping the family. 

"And on this sad day, Sir Reginald Hargreaves, eccentric billionaire, has sadly passed away. . . " The reporter continued on, but number two stood still not listening, for he was in shock. 

Sir Reginald Hargreaves was dead.

The woman stepped out into the red carpet. Lights blazing and cameras flashing at her. Most people would be in shock, however she was not. She was used to this behavior. Just smile and wave, don't anwser too many questions but just enough to let them think they're in control, they were very much not in control. 

The beautiful woman strutted and put on a show, completely in the moment, however a single question brought her out of this ordinary moment for her. 

"Mrs. Allison! What will you be wearing to the funeral?" The woman photographer questioned. 

Funeral? What funeral? No one had died. Or had they? These thoughts pondered her mind as she her happy and content expression to one of confusion and worry, until a women had come and whispered into her perfect ear, not daring to ruin her perfect hair or dress. Soon dread had replaced all emotion and she was hurried off the red carpet. Her perfectness had no longer lingered, no matter how much she looked it, it was not perfect, nor would it ever be. 

Her father was dead.

90 days clean. That's how long he was. 90 days sober. 90 day with the dead. 

The junkie processed with a sarcastic but cheerful expression on his face, "I believe in you! If I can do it so you!" He said running through the bunks of others like him, taking things to make them feel better, to not see things they didn't want to see, "and you, and you, and you," he pointed to the many people there. "Except you! You're never getting out of here." Number 4 gestured to the man sitting on a bottom bunk across the door, and annoyed look on his face.

Number four raced down the street, feeling free, felling good. What he was going to do next would make him feel heaven better. In the alley way he had not so sneakily run into, a man with a black hoodie waited for him in the shadows. With what little money he had, he exchanged for drugs. Oh how he was going to feel great, no matter how many times he had to go to rehab, he did it to escape the daunting dead. 

He awoke in a ambulance, sirens blaring, a man I paremedics uniform bringing him from the brink of death. The junkie shot up, ripped the breathing mask from him, laughing in the process. He high-fived the paramedic, the word Goodbye, smiling at him, and on his other hand, Hello peaking through. 

This happy moment was however short lived. The small, outdated television announced that Reginald Hargreaves was dead. A look of shock and amazement went through the man's body.

Finally that man was dead.

The Vilonist finished up for the day, her music is what had kept her going, not that it was over, she just wanted to go to bed. To go home. To where she called home at least. 

The darkness envelopes her as she stepped out of the building, her jacket a little to big, but she liked it that way. It made her feel protected. If no one could see her, then she was safe. The crowded streets didn't make her feel that way, she held the violin in its case protectively, not wanting anyone to touch her prized possession. 

The lights of the city light up her path, neon colors giving the illusion this was where everyone wanted to be, masking the crude and awful things that happened at night. Just like what awful thing was about to happen now. 

Televisions of all different models scattered the glass casing in the shop. They all said the same taunting phrase, ". . . . Sir Reginald Hargreaves has died. . . " The woman looked at the anchor in shock. 

Dad was dead.