𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ━ five hargreeves

5│THE ROAD TO HELL

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❛ ᴡᴀsᴛᴇʟᴀɴᴅs ᴏғ ᴛɪᴍᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟʟ ꒱


❝ I'M NOT AFRAID ❞

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Five Hargreeves has never claimed to be a people person. Even growing up surrounded by six other kids, he preferred to lock himself in his room and work on equations than actually interact with them aside from what was mandatory. That didn't mean he didn't care for them— because he did, at least where Six and Seven were concerned— he just liked his space and it was in this space that he discovered his potential for time travel.

When he'd first broached the subject with his father he'd been promptly shut down which had lead to one of their many quarrels and another punishment. That was not enough— never enough— to deter him from pursuing something on his own, though. He was smart enough to figure it out without help. The boy also made sure word of it never got out to his siblings; most wouldn't care and think that he was just rubbing it in like the cocky way he usually did but Six would give him worried, warning glances and Seven would try to talk him out of it in her own shy, quiet way.

It was best to keep this to himself.

He'd been practicing his spacial jumps for years now and had advanced in leaps and bounds— literally. While he was still limited to short distances, he could do more at once than he ever had before and they were pin-point accurate (he could actually land on the head of a pin if he felt like doing something so ridiculous. He didn't.) Time travel was just another aspect of his powers, as linear as his jumps were and as straight forward as any equation usually was for him. He'd done the math and it was ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent possible that he would be successful; the point-oh-one was an unnecessary margin of error that he allowed himself just in case. Every mathematician had their occasional inaccuracies.

Five had made sure to repeat the equations over and over, too, to double and triple check his work. Now, he felt ready to present the subject again with evidence that it could be done. Distantly, he heard the robotic woman they called mother ring the bell, a tradition that signaled their meal was ready. Setting down his chalk, the boy left the room and met his siblings at the stairs, completely silent apart from their footsteps approaching the table. The recording their father liked to listen to, Herr Carlson, was already playing as they stood by their seats waiting for the man himself to arrive.

They sat in number order beginning with Reginald's seat, with Number One being on the left, Two on the right and so on until the last three: Five was on the left, Six was across from him and Seven at the head.

"Sit!" their father barked and the children followed the command without delay as they pulled out their chairs almost in sync before they sat down.

Now that the speaking part of the meal was over, they turned their attention to the various tasks that they did at the table while eating as the recording continuously played over the sounds of their activities. Five clenched his teeth slightly at the irritating repetitiveness of it all and stared down the table at the man he called his father, watching him take a drink from his cup.

Knowing he wouldn't get the man's attention if he tried talking, the boy gripped the handle of his knife and stabbed it directly into the table.

"Number Five?"

"I have a question," he said coolly.

"Knowledge is an admirable goal but you know the rules. No talking during meal times," Reginald answered, not even sparing a glance up from his plate, "you are interrupting Herr Carlson."