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It's his birthday.
Number One, Luther, observes.
He stands on the moon, his too big body crammed in a too small suit, and he's watching for anything odd to write in his daily report. The Earth spins round and round and is so very, very small.
Above it the stars glimmer brightly and he can't help but stare.
The one to his right is red. Bright, blazing red. It reminds him of blood and anger and fierce competition. It flickers sometimes, almost like a stutter, as if trying so very hard to be the brightest but always falling short.
He turns away, ignoring the ache in his chest.
Not far from it is a star so blue it's nearly purple. It's sparkly and mysterious and so, so beautiful. It whispers sweet things in his ear, of home and laughter and first love. It is the prettiest star in the sky and when he goes to sleep he worries that when he wakes up it'll be gone and he'll never see it again.
He tears his eyes away and blinks back tears.
In between them is a star that burns a combination of blue and yellow. As if it couldn't decide what color to be so it just chose both. It makes him think of glitter and frozen waffles and little blue pills. It looks simultaneously weird and colorful and, yet, sad and haunted.
He averts his gaze, a dull ringing in his ears.
In the distance, separated from the others, is a tiny, little blue star. Once upon a time it was bright, shiny, and clever, but now it's faded, faded, faded, having almost disappeared completely. For some reason it makes him think of complex equations, hands on a clock, and porch lights left on every night.
His eyes drift as he pushes back thoughts of a brother who never came home.
Beside the yellow and blue one, there sits an orange star. It splutters and spasms, trying to stay lite, but he knows it's dying. It taunts him with images of a floor covered in blood, a book left unfinished on a table, and a brother he couldn't save.
He shifts his gaze, swallowing the bile building in his throat.
Not quite as far away as the little blue one, but still away from the others is a pure white star. There isn't anything special about it; it doesn't gleam or sparkle or flicker or shine like the others. It's completely ordinary, but he can't help but think it looks lonely. His mind fills with the memories of the high notes of a violin, a book spilling long kept secrets, and a little girl crying to be part of a portrait.
He chokes back a sob.
From here on the moon the Earth looks so very, very small, but he knows it is much larger than it appears. That, once upon a time, it seemed much too big to ever be saved, and it tore seven siblings apart.
He asks the stars if they can ever be fixed.
The stars don't have an answer.
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It's his birthday.
Number Two, Diego, attacks.
Patch told him to stay out of it, but he ignored her. Now he's in a warehouse, fighting a small gang.
Blood, sweat, and knives go flying, the sound of fists against flesh filling the air. A growl builds in the back of his throat, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins allows him to ignore the burning pain in his shoulder.
An opponent charges him and he jumps into action.
The man is more muscle than any thing else, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. Diego aims an uppercut at his stupid perfect face, but the man catches his arm with brute strength and twists. Diego hisses as it pops out of his socket, but doesn't stop fighting. Instead he yanks his arm away and kicks the man squarely in the chest, pushing him away.
His arm dangles uselessly by his side.
He whips around and sees his next opponent, a woman so beautiful he could've sworn he's seen her someplace before, perhaps in a magazine or in a movie. She smiles a him, a cunning look in her eyes and confidence in her stance. She leans forward as if to tell him a secret, but instead sweeps his legs out from under him.
He hits the ground with a thud.
He doesn't stay there long and leaps up, a new opponent in front of him. This man is obviously nervous and the least prepared for a fight, his hands shaking and his breath uneven, coming out in panicked little gasps. He feels a strange urge of brotherly protection over the man, thinking dimly that he should get him out of here and protect him from the others before he can get hurt. But the voice is drowned out by adrenaline and he charges forward anyway.
He finds nothing there.
He hears a laugh behind him and turns to see a boy somewhere in his early teens. He wears a know-it-all grin on his face, eyes twinkling with an almost teasing playfulness. He bounces on his toes, always moving and Diego cannot explain the sudden shard of shame that burns in his chest. The boy lands a punch right in his mouth, but when Diego moves to retaliate, he's gone. Disappeared, as if he had never been there to begin with.
He spits a mouthful of blood on the floor.
In the middle of the floor lies a young man, blood pouring from the multiple stab wounds in his chest and spilling out of the corner of his mouth. Diego stops and stares, panic bubbling in the back of his throat. This is all his fault. How could he have let this happen? He rushes forward and checks his pulse, begging to be wrong. But he isn't, and the man is dead.
He closes his eyes with his middle and index fingers.
Only one fighter remains, a small woman looking inexperienced but determined. Her stance is awkward and unnatural, her shoulders much too tense and her face too exposed to an attack. She's the odd one out, the scapegoat of the group, and looking at her fills Diego with a pity that quickly burns to anger. He lunges for her and she raises her fists, ready to strike back.
He hits nothing.
Blood, sweat, and knives litter the warehouse floor, the air suddenly quiet without the sounds of an attack to fill the silence. But he knows it won't be that way for long, and soon he'll pick another battle to fight on his own, to make up for the absence of a little crime-fighting team long dispersed.
He wonders if he'll ever fight along side them again.
He wonders why he hopes so.
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It's her birthday.
Number Three, Allison, acts.
She stands in front of the casting directors, acting like she's going to actually earn this part and not just rumor them into giving it to her like usual. Acts like she's going to go home tonight to a husband who actually, genuinely loves her who'll sing her Happy Birthday while Claire presents her the not-so-well hidden macaroni necklace she's been excited to give her for the past week.
The bright lights burn on her face as the director's shouts fill her ears. Just like that, her audition begins and she becomes someone else entirely.
She's a soldier, always following the general's orders no matter how questionable. He tells her to lead her troops into war, and she does, despite knowing it's a suicide mission. She's no longer sure what thoughts are hers and which are his, she only knows that he is right and she will always be wrong.
Cut! She drops the blond wig and blue contacts and muscle suit on the floor and changes.
She's a ex-cop turned private eye, appalled by the injustice and unfairness of the system and wondering how the people who are supposed to know what they're doing could be so wrong. She rebels against them and plays by her own rules, because she knows they'll never change. They haven't seen the kinds of things she has.
Cut! She steps out of the black leather and the knives clatter to the floor as she shifts.
She's a drug addict, always looking for her next hit to numb the pain deep within. She's been broken by too many people and too many things, forever haunted by everyone she couldn't save. No one ever takes her seriously, believing she'd nothing more stupid junkie. And sometimes she wonders if maybe they're right.
Cut! She removes the heavy fur coat and tight pants, dropping the liquor bottle on the floor.
She's a young genius with no place to call home and no family to ground her. She's smart, too smart for her own good, and one streak of arrogance has cost her everything. Now she's running, running, running, equations and numbers racing through her mind as she tries to fix her mistake, so she can return to the makeshift family she left behind.
Cut! She tosses aside the blazer and school boy shorts, changing once again.
She's a murder victim, barely an adult and already having her life ripped from her fingertips. She lays gasping, blood blooming from her lips as the gunshot wound in her chest burns. Her vision darkens and wonders what could've been if only the world hadn't been so cruel. Everything fades black as she slips into cold nothingness.
Cut! She yanks off the hoodie and leather jacket, letting her books fall to the floor in a messy pile.
She's a young musician, escaped from an abusive household and ready to start over. She's good, but not good enough, and continues to live in others shadows. She's so starved for attention that she falls in love with the first person who'll give it to her, a twisted man who's just using her to get close to the conductor, who long ago told him he'd never be a musician.
Cut! She drops the violin on the floor, the solid white tux falling beside it.
The casting directors nod, not looking particularly impressed with her performance but saying they'll contact her once they make a decision.
I heard a rumor I got the part.
She acts like she didn't say a thing and smiles as they whisper among themselves about how hers was the best audition they'd seen all day. Acts like her life is completely normal and she's going home to a big birthday celebration with all her siblings, just like old times.
She acts like she knows exactly how they're all spending today.
She acts like she doesn't wonder if she'll ever know.
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It's his birthday.
Number Four, Klaus, drinks.
He's pawned off just enough stolen trinkets to have a fun birthday, complete with drugs and booze. He's fresh out of rehab - again - and the ghosts are being especially loud, and he needs a way to drown them all out.
He unscrews the cap of a bottle of cheap tequila and sips.
One of the ghosts is an ex-boxer, his colossus body littered with cuts and bruises. He could probably snap Klaus like a twig, but he mostly stands in the corner and sobs. He can almost hear him saying something about how he disappointed his father, but it's hard to pay attention to anything past the giant dent in his skull.
He downs another swig.
Nearby, a somber looking cop watches him wearily. He's been around a lot lately, always eyeing whatever drink or drug Klaus happens to be taking at the time with disgust. He's one of the more intense ghosts, always staring Klaus right in the eye as if trying to tell him not to go through with it. Klaus almost listens, but then he sees the stab wounds pouring blood down his chest.
He turns away and chugs.
In front of him stands a beautiful young actress in a 1920's flapper dress. Her honey blonde curls cascade down her shoulders and her pretty brown eyes twinkle with self-confidence and secrets, never told. He nearly leans over to start swapping gossip with her when he sees the slice on her neck, her mouth open in a silent scream.
He squeezes his eyes shut and starts fumbling for the plastic baggie in his pocket.
When he opens them again, he feels his breath catch in his throat as he spots a young boy not too far away, his back turned to him. He's dressed in a school boy uniform, complete with a navy blazer, long shorts, and knee high socks. His dark hair appears to be gelled to the side but is somehow still messy. The boy turns around and Klaus stops breathing, expecting to see the brother that ran away all those years ago, but sighs in relief when he sees it's not him. But he stops breathing again when he sees the bullet hole between the boy's eyes, blood pouring down his young face.
He grabs three pills and swallows them, dry.
Beside him, a young ghost in a hoodie is pleading with him. He's asking him not to take the pills, but Klaus ignores him. The boy sighs, shaking his hoodie covered head, a sarcastic comeback bubbling on his tongue. But then the high kicks in and he fades away to background noise.
He feels the numbness tingling in his head and laughs.
Finally, a young writer cries silently in the corner, ignored by the other ghosts. She's nearly too blurry to see, but her white suit seems to pop in the dim lighting of this shitty apartment, a book clutched in her small hands. She looks so dreadfully lonely and overlooked that he reaches out to her, to tell her she'd not alone. Then he sees the gunshot wound in the back of her skull, brown hair matted with blood.
He downs the rest of the pills with a shot of liquor.
The fun is over, the drugs and booze have run out. If he keeps this up he'll be back in rehab -again- but at least the ghosts have gone quiet, drowned out for the time being.
He thinks back to his teenage years: long nights sneaking liquor with his siblings on the roof. Some drank with him, others simply kept a lookout, not joining but not stopping him. Simply enjoying each other's company, drinking together and laughing.
But the apartment is silent and tonight he drinks alone.
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It's his birthday.
Number Five kills.
It's killing, not murder. Murder makes it sound like he wants and has reason to kill them. He doesn't. All he knows is that each new mark is one step closer to home, which means he's one step closer to being able to stop the apocalypse and save his family from their untimely doom.
So, he takes the list the Handler gave him, and he kills.
First on the list is a politician running for office. He's tall, blond, and ready to lead; though, Five knows his manger is the one pulling all the strings. His death will make sure Richard Nixon wins the election and history will play out as it should.
He sends the man a silent apology as he snaps his neck.
Next is a young detective, observant and quick. Clever, but sometimes lacking common sense. He uncovers a terrorist plot that, if reported, could save hundreds of thousands people from being killed. But history can't allow it.
He refuses to look at the man's face as he stabs him in the chest.
A beautiful actress steps onto the stage, confidence in her step. Her performance was absolutely breathtaking. There was just something about her that was mysterious and intriguing, her voice laced with untold secrets. But if she lived then Marilyn Monroe would never become famous and time will play out all wrong.
He pretends not to hear her scream as he slits her throat.
A solider in the Vietnam War is fighting tooth and nail for his country. He's a good man. A kind man. But if he lives then his lover will never get back to his timeline and fight the apocalypse along side his siblings.
He holds back tears as he squeezes the trigger.
A young librarian barely out of his teens is reading a novel Five recognizes from his brother's bookshelf. His eyes are kind, but there's also something haunted mixed in, demons of his past that refuse to leave his side. If he lives, then he'll witness a murder next week and report it, leading a serial killer to be caught years too early.
He swallows the bile in his throat as he wraps his hands around the man's neck and squeezes.
A musician who could beat Beethoven without a problem is his final target. She's a timid woman, who seems to fail to realize her own brilliance. She reminds of someone he used to know as he listens to her play a hauntingly sad melody that brings tears into his eyes.
He can't help but think it's not fair as he holds the gun to the back of her head and fires.
Later he stands in the bathroom of a shitty motel room, washing the blood off his hands. His targets blood. They're targets, not victims. This isn't personal, he didn't have a reason to want them dead.
All he knows is that he's one step closer to home, one step closer to stopping the damn apocalypse and saving his siblings from certain death.
He wonders what they'd say if they saw him now.
He doesn't want to know.
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It's his birthday.
Number Six, Ben, remembers.
It's really all he can do now that he's dead, seeing as Klaus is passed out on the couch of a person who's name he already forgot, sleeping off his high. He has a book -the one that was in his pocket when he was killed- but he's never been able to get past the page he was on when he died.
So, he sits in a chair in this shabby little apartment of a "friend" of his brother's, and he remembers.
He remembers a boy with blond hair, blue eyes. A boy who yearned for his father's approval, taking every word he said to heart. He remembers a young man trying so hard to prove himself - to his father, to his siblings - that he loses sight of what's really important, and it costs him everything that matters.
He called up a memory of the little boy before that who dreamed of flying his siblings to space, not knowing what the future held for him.
He remembers a different boy, the one who still dreamed of his father's approval, though a bit more silently. He was sharp as a knife, though he often came off as a dumbass because of his poor impulse control. He was fierce, protective, angry, rebellious, and so desperate to prove himself to the world that he left his family behind.
He thought about a young boy with a stutter eating smily pancakes his mother had made, not yet filled with the anger that would consume him later on.
He remembers, this time, a girl who faked enough confidence for all of her siblings and then some. Who hid the way she doubted herself from the world, instead abusing her powers to get what she wanted. A woman so obsessed with riches and fame that she didn't care what she had to lose to get it; even if it meant her family.
He thinks back to a young girl before that who used to dance around her room, singing into a hairbrush without a care in the world.
He remembers, another boy, the one who grew to be the man passed out on the couch in front of him. Who used to play dress up with his sisters and wear his mothers heels and beg to wear a skirt with his uniform instead of the horrid school boy shorts he and his brothers were forced to wear. A boy who was happy and laughed a lot, his blood clean and uncontaminated.
He recalls a boy rolling his first joint under the table, unaware of the hole he was digging for himself.
He remembers a boy genius who was small, quick, and clever. And smart. Too damn smart for his own good, and he lost himself in things he wasn't quite ready for. Forever young, he was now nothing more than a name whispered in hallways, a painting over the mantle piece, a boy lost to time.
He tries to conjure up a memory of what the boy sounded like, startled when he realized he couldn't anymore.
He remembers, lastly, a girl playing the violin, her eyes closed as she listened to the sweet harmony produced by the instrument. A girl who stayed locked up in her room, not allowed to be around the others during training. A girl who was pushed to the sidelines, time and time again, until she faded into them.
He - for some reason - thinks distantly of shattered glass, a slew of dead nannies, and a little girl who hated oatmeal.
It's early morning now, the sun rising just outside the tiny living room window of this shitty apartment. It bathes the room in oranges and golds, and he can't help but wonder if they'd feel warm against his skin if he were alive.
His brother shifts in his sleep, but he suspects it'll still be a couple hours before he wakes up on the couch of some person who's name he already forgot. He wonders what he'll do until then. He has a book -the one that was in his pocket when he was killed- but he's never been able to get past the page he was on when he died.
He sighs, leaning back in the chair as memories race through his head. Memories from before he died and his brother disappeared and the others fell apart.
He wonders if they're remembering too.
He wishes more than anything that he could ask.
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It's her birthday.
Number Seven, Vanya, plays.
She has an audition this weekend and she wants to be prepared, to blow them away with her performance. To prove that - despite what he father had told her - she was special, perhaps even extraordinary.
So, she picks up her violin, and she plays.
The first song started out sounding tough, but faded to something softer, kinder, more innocent. With soft low notes and an occasional high note that sounded sweet, like honey. The song was slow, savoring every moment as if it were the last.
She smiles softly as the melody faded to an end, something warm in her chest.
The second song is the opposite of the first, the notes quicker and more aggressive. Her bow flew across the strings, her fingers moving rapidly as she played high note after high note. It's an angrier sound, fast and threatening. Perhaps a theme for an action movie.
She releases a breath as the music finally dies down, an ache in her fingers.
The third song is a mix of the two; not too slow, not too fast. Powerful, with soaring high notes and sweet low notes. It sounds elegant, classy. Like something that might be playing at a high class party for celebrities.
She feels a tug in her heart as the violin lets out a few final notes.
For the fourth song, she decides to take a break from the more serious pieces, instead playing Brittany Spear's Toxic. It's fast and fun, reminding nights in the early 2000s spent dancing and drinking, laughing until the sun came up.
She laughs as the song hits its final note, remembering.
The fifth song reminds her a bit of the second, as both are quicker and more aggressive than the others. Though, the aggression in this one sounds a bit more mechanical, and there's an undertone of tragedy laced in, with swooping low notes that feel heavy somehow.
She blinks and it's over, gone before she had a chance to realize what was happening.
The last song is slow, with sad low notes the each dip deeper than the last. A haunting melody that threatens to follow all who hear it for a long time, a ghost forever lingering in the back of their minds. It's a tragedy, something that might be played at a funeral of someone you loved.
She feels tears stream down her cheeks as the harmony finished, leaving behind a haunted silence.
A while later she's sitting at her tiny table she bought at a thrift shop, staring down at the little cupcake she bought herself at the little bakery on the corner. She lights a little candle and blows it out, instinctively wishing for what she wishes for every year.
She wishes to pass this audition, to blow them away with her performance. To prove that -despite what she's always been told - she is special and extraordinary, just like her siblings.
She wonders if they're blowing out candles on their cakes, making silly wishes too.
She doubts it.