CHAPTER ONE
not your angel

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MOTHERS ARE LIKE robots, except instead of being programmed to follow orders, they're programmed to love their children as soon as they first lay eyes on them. This makes sense; they've been harbouring them for nine months, which is bound to let you get attached to anything. And this instinctual love is what allows the infant to get through its first years, because without its parents, it would never survive. And usually—especially in this day and age—the mother does not abandon her offspring even after they develop enough cognitive functions in order to succeed in this world. This bond mother and child have formed—developed from those crucial nine months in which she houses the infant in her womb—is stronger than any natural instinct.

Which was why Nadine was wondering if the fact that she hadn't spent nine months curled in the uterus of Louise Vidal had something to do with her mother's subsequent hollowness. She'd heard enough stories of the day she was born—right in her favourite restaurant—to know that her birth was definitely out of the ordinary, and that this crucial bond nearly every child had with their mother hadn't existed.

Louise thought that Nadine Vidal was the devil's spawn. She loved her, but she also despised her, something that was quite clear by the fact that she fled every single time Nadine did something impossible. She'd lock herself in her room every time her daughter made rainbows swirl on the ceiling, cry herself to sleep every time her miracle girl made bubbles float around the room. Nadine couldn't control her random bursts of illusions, but no matter how many times she told her mother that, Louise Vidal claimed she could certainly do so if she wanted, and that, actually, Nadine was making her shadow move to spite her. She never lay hands on her daughter, but the sheer amount of disappointment Nadine was subjected to every time she got out of control felt like being slapped anyway. A backhand that could send her flying into the wall.

"I love you, my angel," she'd often say, on the days where Nadine managed to shove her compulsive tendencies deep inside her. Those days were the worst, because she felt like a bottle of soda shaken to the max. On those days, Nadine Vidal was a volcano, and she was ready to explode and spew her magma. But they were also the best days, because on those days Nadine was sure she was loved.

Now, at nearly thirty years old, Nadine wasn't so naïve. She knew her mother was scared of her, which made the next part of the story of her birth—where Louise had stood up to Reginald Hargreeves, the eccentric billionaire who'd pleaded with her to let him purchase Nadine and take her for his own—sour. Of course, back then, Louise hadn't known she would be getting a child who could make people see things that weren't really there, but after all the stories Nadine used to hear about how much Louise had wanted a child, learning she wasn't the baby her mother had wanted stung.

Which made work really awkward.

Nadine worked in her father's hotel, La Petite Montagne. It provided her with a steady job and housing, a pool, and as many drinks as she wanted. The only downside was that Louise was there all the time. Oftentimes, when Nadine was working at the bar or eating breakfast, her mother would flaunter in, twisting the pearls she always kept around her neck and clicking her four-inch high heels. Nadine would always go and greet her, and sometimes Louise would act like she'd missed her, but other times she'd barely even speak to her. It was like Russian Roulette. Cock a gun and place it to your head. Hope the shot doesn't blow your brains out.

Nadine lay back on her bed, staring around her room. Her father let her live here, in room 234, so it was more personalized than most of the other identical rooms in this hotel. She had posters on the walls and a record player she'd spent months saving up for tucked into the corner, often playing Queen or David Bowie. Her clothes were lined up in the dresser by the old television, and she lined lavender scents in the closet that held all the towels. She'd taped the room service menu up onto her door, although most of the time she ate downstairs, where she'd get free meals. After nearly six years of living here, it was all routine now. And it was a lot more comfortable than her friend's couch.

More about Nadine: she was a doll come to life by the spell of a witch. With her rosy cheeks that looked like they'd been painted on, her high cheekbones and blue eyes, she was often thought of as a princess, dainty and delicate and unable to fend for herself. A silly little dame, with her glittery earrings and cherry-red lipstick.

That couldn't be further from the truth (and a definitely misogynistic way of thinking). Nadine Vidal's marionette limbs were not lean sticks without an ounce of fat on them—in fact, they were bulked with muscle. Her hands weren't barren of scars and calluses; they were a tapestry of them. Surprise, surprise! It was possible for a woman to both be in touch with her femininity and kick ass. Nadine was just one example of that.

Now, her eyes found the ceiling. It was plain white (she'd wanted to paint it, but that was the one thing her father had forbidden her from doing, in case she ever moved out) and popcorned, and she often thought it was the most mundane thing about her life. Luckily, she didn't need paint to spruce it up.

She splayed out her fingers, breathing deeply through her nose as she focused. This was something she'd been practicing for the past fifteen years—controlling her illusions instead of letting them slip out of her every time she daydreamed—and although occasionally she'd flub and make butterflies crash through the ceiling, small as marbles, she was proud to say it was only happening around once a year now.

As usual, she felt the hum form in the center of her forehead, just above her nose. It was a buzzing that was soon accompanied by the faint illumination of a pale blue light, and it rattled around her skull. Nadine closed her eyes and pictured a sea: crashing waves, the smell of salt in her nostrils, the seafoam spray. She had to take several more breaths to make sure her mind didn't stray to anything else, and she clenched her jaw hard to ground her.

When she opened her eyes, there was a sea on her ceiling, exactly as she pictured it. The waves crashed soundlessly, and the occasional fish could be seen swimming through the clear water. It was a paradise tucked onto a white square, and Nadine had created it.

Sanctuary. Although her strange ability mostly extended to creating mirages for others, occasionally she could create something for herself. It was like peeling a drawing off a page and making it come to life, except this drawing came straight from Nadine's noggin. It was an amplification of her own daydreams, and it was beautiful. And it was vital to her sanity at this point.

She'd discovered her ability when she was five. There had always been that faint humming itching at her forehead, but before then she hadn't known what it was. Then her teacher had tried to forbid her from going to the bathroom, and she'd imagined how good it would have been if a giant spider had appeared right on her forehead then and there.

And it had. Exactly as Nadine pictured it, a hairy tarantula, at first pale blue and incorporeal, had gained proper colour and form and landed right on her teacher's forehead, just between her bushy eyebrows. She'd gone berserk, slapping at her head and trying in vain to get the creature to die, but it hadn't. It had just stayed there until Nadine had decided she'd had enough.

Then she'd realized that none of her fellow students had seen any tarantula. They'd just seen Mme. Houde slapping at her own forehead and screeching like she'd been possessed by Satan himself.

Nadine extended a hand, beckoning to the sea on her ceiling. A string of water swirled off from the projected ocean and swirled its way towards her, disappearing right before it could touch her slender hand. She did it again, letting another string twist its way towards her, making whirlpools with her fingers. Then she sat up, and the projection faded.

As usual, her head pounded slightly. It was a lot of work, she'd realized at a young age, and even twenty-five years after realizing her strange abilities, she'd never fully gotten used to it.

She checked the time on the illuminated clock on her nightstand. Her lunch break was almost over, and she needed to get back down to the bar soon. So she stood, tucking her too-long hair (she really needed to chop it all off soon—Camille kept saying she looked like a real-life Rapunzel, and although that had used to be a compliment, their breakup had certainly soured it) into a ponytail and pulling on her uniform. As she looked down at the clothing, she thought, for the millionth time, that she'd probably be better as a magician. At least then she wouldn't be wasting her life away here.

But she didn't want to let her father down. Beau really did love her, and not only when she wasn't terrifying. He loved her even when she'd made it seem like the house had collapsed on a night she was really mad at him. He loved her even when she'd gotten suspended for punching a boy in the face. He loved her no matter what she did, no matter how many times she proved that she wasn't the miracle girl Louise had first thought she'd be when she'd squeezed her out in that restaurant.

Nadine Vidal was twenty-nine. She was as dangerous and unpredictable as a tornado. And even now, she needed that love.

She was just about to head out, back to the front desk, when the door to her room flew open abruptly. Nadine let out a sharp cry of surprise, and the immediately launched herself forward, catching the intruder by the knees and knocking them to the ground with one skillful bound. She was just preparing to crush their windpipe with her elbow when she realized who it was.

Nadine groaned, peeling herself off of Henri Pichard, who was currently inhaling deep breaths like he'd just been underwater.

"I told you to knock," she grumbled, dusting off her uniform. Her heart was still racing like she'd run a marathon, and embarrassment coloured her cheeks, heating up her face. It was humiliating how even after eleven years she still hadn't recovered from the Incident. Every unidentified creak and tap on the shoulder made her jump, and an act as simple as bursting through a door without knocking made her launch automatically into defensive mode. Which allowed for situations like this.

Henri quickly got to his feet. "Sorry, Nadine," he said in French. "I didn't know if you were in here."

"Which is why you knock," she snapped, irritated. It never took much to get her riled up—it was like she was some kind of wind-up toy. Always on the brink of her key being turned.

Henri Pichard was a coworker of Nadine's—a bellhop—and he was definitely smitten with her. Which she knew because he'd asked her out a total of seven times since his hiring last year, brought her boxes of chocolate and bouquets of roses, and always dressed up like he was going to see the Queen of England every time he thought he was going to see her. Which was... embarrassing, because Henri knew that Nadine didn't like him back. She assumed, though, that he'd taken her recent breakup with her ex-girlfriend, Camille, as a sign that meant she was open to dating him. Which she wasn't.

"Sorry," said Henri again. He shifted slightly, his cheeks slightly red. "I just came to ask if you'd heard the news."

Nadine stopped in the middle of adjusting her ponytail. "What news?"

Henri bounced on the balls of his feet. "You know that billionaire? Hargreeves, I think his name was? Well, he's dead."

Nadine blinked. "What?"

"He's dead," Henri repeated. "Apparently he kicked the bucket last night. Heart attack. Didn't he used to run that Umbrella Academy or whatever its name was?"

"Yes, he did." Nadine swallowed. Looked back into the room, to the many posters plastered on her walls. An array of masked kids grinned back at her, and she whirled back to Henri for confirmation. "He's dead?"

"It's all over the news, even here," said Henri. "That Hargreeves guy was a real hermit. He barely ever left his house. And the thing he did with those superpowered kids... the world had never seen anything like that before. Hey, did you know that I was born on the thirtieth of September, in the same year as them? So close, right? Maybe if my mother had waited a day I could've had superpowers."

Nadine ignored him, striding over to the television and turning it on. Sure enough, the first news channel she flipped to was all about the death of Reginald Hargreeves. The old man's face was plastered on the side of the screen, and so was the photos of the six children he'd adopted—the Umbrella Academy.

The kids who had abilities just like she did.

Well, except for one. Nadine had read all about Vanya Hargreeves from the woman's autobiography—Extra Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven—and knew that, although being born on the same day as all of her siblings and being birthed unexpectedly (just like Nadine had), Vanya didn't have any powers. But that was a moot point. What remained was the fact that there were four members of the Umbrella Academy still out there—Luther, Diego, Allison and Klaus Hargreeves—and that they'd most definitely be heading back home for the old man's funeral.

Which was a crucial fact. Because since the age of thirteen, Nadine Vidal had wanted to speak to the members of the Umbrella Academy.

Back then, America was too far away. Practically a whole different world. Nadine had definitely been unable to make the trip. But now...

"Holy shit," she breathed in English. "I need to get to America."

If there was anyone in the world who would know about her mysterious abilities—and how to control them—it would be the Umbrella Academy. They were the superheroes, trained their entire lives to fight off enemies and protect the public. Taught by Reginald Hargreeves like some comic book mentor. Since she was thirteen, Nadine had dreamed of going there, donning a mask and a uniform and turning into a hero. It made it worse that she'd known how close she'd been to actually doing so. If Louise Vidal—who didn't like her daughter, anyway—had agreed to the deal, Nadine would've been among them. Featured in magazines and sculpted into action figures. Stamped with a number and a nickname.

She'd be Number Seven. She'd be The Magician.

But it was better late than never. Nadine Vidal needed to get to America in time for the funeral, and she knew she could do just that.

She looked to Henri. "I'm going on vacation," she said, and then strode out of the room. A childlike excitement flittered through the pit of her belly, and a schoolgirl grin spread onto her face. She was going to meet her childhood heroes—who wouldn't be jubilant at the prospect?

Unfortunately, what Nadine Vidal didn't know was that these childhood heroes wouldn't be jumping for joy at the prospect of becoming her tutor. Which probably had to do with the fact that she was crashing their father's funeral, or maybe because, apparently, the end of the world was looming in front of them.

Luckily, Nadine wasn't asking for permission. 

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HAVEN: i am!! so nervous!! to be posting this!! but here it is anyway!! i literally put this chapter through hemingway and grammarly, so hopefully it's written okay LMFAOO. i'm really trying with this book. and yes, i know it's a cop out to say that nadine was speaking in french without actually writing it in french, but i tried to rewrite the dialogue in french and add the english translations, but i had to reword a lot and honestly, i just didn't want to change it 🙈🙈 i promise that from now on, there will be actual french 🙈🙈🙈

also, this is nadine and henri in a nutshell dhsfjshhd

anyway, welcome (officially) to ignis fatuus! prepare for weirdness, slight cringe, slowburn friendships along with a slowburn romance, slight changes to canon, plot twists, and agnes rofa basically being the uncle iroh of umbrella academy!! i am so proud of this plot, even if it is out of the ordinary for tua fics, but hopefully you'll stay along for the ride regardless! thank you for reading <3