Sarcasm | Five Hargreeves

1 | we only meet at weddings and funerals

"Pogo, what's the point of still training if Dad's dead?"

The woman huffed, leaning on the charred punching bag for support as she leveled out her breathing, small beads of sweat dripping down her neck.  

Pogo, ever patient, sighed and gripped his cane, leaning forward slightly. "You shouldn't speak of Master Reginald's death so lightly, Miss Y/N."

Y/N rolled her eyes, tired from the training and tired from the ever long pampering Pogo continued to give her father, even after his passing. She straightened her posture, pushing off the red and black punching bag before grabbing a towel, wiping the perspiration off her face and throwing it over her shoulder. 

"Leave to Dad to still be a control freak," she mumbled. "Operating from the pits of hell."

Y/N Hargreeves was Number Eight, the youngest of seven world-famous super-children that fought for the city and lived under the roof of the Umbrella Academy, taught by Reginald Hargreeves. Reginald was a genius, no doubt, from his breakthroughs in technology and the wonders of our modern world, to the study of the phenomenon that brought 44 new lives out of 44 non-expecting mothers on the same hour of the same day. However to the eight children he adopted, his glory was shrunk down to hate and resentment for his cold persona and stern criticism. Hence Y/N's indifferent attitude to his heart attack.   

The said woman sighed, plopping down onto an ornate chair as her body cooled down, the hotness on her fingertips diminishing. Her eyes wandered lazily around the expansive room, recalling each nook and cranny that followed her everyday in training since her days as a child. The difference was that back then, she had six other comrades training with her.

The taste of freedom was like poison. One sip would have it spreading throughout your entire body, until each part of you became ill. That was the case for almost everyone in the Umbrella Academy, who started drifting away as soon as they got a drop of that poison. Y/N was the only one who willfully stayed. She wasn't stupid enough to go out into the world of expenses and bothersome pedestrians. It was better to not mingle in the crowd she busted her ass off saving everyday.

"Mr. Hargreeves may have passed a few days ago, but the responsibilities he instilled upon us remain," Pogo continued, his voice carrying the weight of decades spent serving their enigmatic father. 

"I don't think they really care. The people these days are too suicidal," Y/N retaliated, snapping out of her daze.

"Y/N," Pogo's tone turned stern, a gentle reproach veiled in his measured words.

"Sorry?" She shrugged, letting a questionable expression flicker across her face as she apologized. 

Pogo shook his head, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth despite his attempt to maintain composure. He regarded Y/N with a fond yet knowing look. "You may be thirty-two years old, but there are times when you should consider the weight of your words."

Y/N pursed her lips, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger and heating it up, satisfied as it left a bouncy curl. "Maybe you should've told me that before everyone left."

Pogo sighed again, his gaze softening with empathy. "Your siblings will be arriving soon. It might be wise to prepare yourself for their return."

With that gentle reminder, Pogo turned and left the room, the rhythmic clink of his cane on the hardwood floor echoing in the wake of his departure. Left alone, Y/N let out a frustrated groan, rubbing her temples as she pondered the impending reunion with her estranged siblings. She didn't know what to say and she didn't know how they'd react. For some, it's been years since she last met and none of them had left with good terms.