☂︎ 𝔱𝔰𝔲 | ❛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴏᴄʟᴇ ❜

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𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐓𝐇 hour of the first day of October 1989, forty-three women around the world gave birth. This was unusual in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.

Sir Reginald Hargreeves, eccentric billionaire and adventurer, resolved to locate and adopt as many of the children as possible.

HE GOT SEVEN OF THEM.

- 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘 -

All is silent in the Icarus Theatre apart from the hum of the stage lights and the hushed voices of the crowd steadily smothering itself out. Tonight was like any other; a full house. Anything less than would come as quite a shock considering the talent.

Idle chatter was few and far between at this hour, but there was enough to notice it drown in the sound of the brass announcing the show. It honed in everyone's attention, drawing up a round of applause as the velvet curtains finally parted to reveal the St. Pluvium Chamber Orchestra.

Sat frozen at attention, perfectly poised and awaiting their cue sat the orchestra - placed front and center of Strings, bathed in the pale moonlight-like spotlight was first chair of the violins; the very person most had come to see. There was a silence that hung in the air, soon cut straight in half when the conductor began.

The music was sudden and demanding, but it built itself up in volume. At once recognizable as a rendition of Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of The Opera. Every tantalizing note spills from the man's fingertips, entrancing the audience and even some of his orchestra members. They could feel the vibrations of every note as they pulsed out of him in steady, gentle waves that kissed their skin and sang to them as they danced through the air.

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Three sharp beeps bring a large and lumbering man from a deep sleep, his bulging arm swinging limply through the air and landing on the snooze button. The time on the digital clock read 23:28. He rises from the bed with a deep groan, the lumpy mattress never was to his liking seeing as it never properly supported his weight. He squeezes his rather large build through the doorframe and into the cramped living space he had called home for the past four years. His eyes land on the small plant that sits on the counter, his calloused hand reaches up to lightly stroke its bright stems encouragingly before watering it.

He slips into his suit once more, and as he does so he can't help but think about why he is here. How many times he had done this, and there seemed to be no end in sight. The only thing keeping him going was the one thing that had been drilled into his head as a child. The only thing he could cling to; the world needed this.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏
"𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑"

Luther steps out into the desolate wasteland of the moon's surface. The titanium door closing behind him as he bounces across the dusty landscape to the trash compactor, yet another week's trash in his hands.

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The man's rhythm picks up as does the rest of the orchestra surrounding him. He can feel his heartbeat pounding with every other note, taking all in the hall with him as the breeze of music pulsing from him weaves throughout the crowd.

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A young family cowers in terror and binding, duct tape over their mouths. They watch as their father - and husband - is dragged around by his collar.

"Show me where the safe is, or your family is dead!" Roars one of the masked men responsible for their capture.

One of his accomplices points their flashlight into the family's eyes, amplifying their screams.

"Where's the safe?!"

"Just leave us alone!" The husband cries as he is dragged past the television set that was still broadcasting the Evening News.

"...little bit of rain potentially, later in the week."

Unbeknownst to everyone in the house, a shadow lurked on the back porch before quietly slipping inside. In a matter of moments, one of the masked men is pulled out of sight with a muffled yelp. He goes silent after a sharp snap and out steps a new masked figure dressed in all black and a proud smirk. His mask differs from the rest, as does he in every way. Instead of a dark bandana tied over his nose and mouth, he dawns an inky black domino mask that circles his eyes. And secured around his torso and waist are an array of paper-thin blades; His favorite choice of weapon.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐
"𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐎"

He's on the next accomplice in seconds, eliciting many shocked cries around the room.

"Who is this guy?"

Diego gives them no answer, nor does he give them time to speak another word. Already he has thrown one of the men into the glass coffee table, sending shards flying everywhere. Within moments, half the threat is eliminated. Either dead or unconscious. One was even pinned to the wall thanks to a select few of his many blades.

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A striking young woman dressed in a fine velvet gown glides into the sea of flashing lights and demanding pleas; the tail of her dress pooling behind her on the red carpet. Immediately, every eye is upon her craving her attention.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟑
"𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍"

A captivating smile paints her face, feeding into the wild cries of paparazzi as they fight for her attention like strays begging for scraps. Allison stops in the very center, her smile brightening for the cameras as one hand comes to rest on her hip, then the other. With each pose, she sends a new camera its own unique smile, the routine of it all as natural to her as breathing.

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The man can feel his muscles relax as he so effortlessly glides the song into an accompanying score, Angel of Music. The jubilant bursts of energy bouncing around the hall were lulled into a soothing, summer-like breeze that trickled its way through the audience putting them at ease. Every note he weld had the power to manipulate anyone around him, and yet all he desired was to tell a story as he did now.

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Two lanky legs in leather pants and worn-out converse sneakers swing themselves off of the top of a bunk bed. There stands a young man dressed in a long overcoat lined with faux fur over a thin net tee shirt, and plenty of jewelry. He lets out a relieved sigh, as he throws his head back accentuating his messy head of brown hair and the dark smudges of eyeliner circling his eyes.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟒
"𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐒"

Merrily he heads for the exit, by now he knows the place like the back of his hand. As he leaves he passes plenty more bunk beds and he turns his attention to one pale man laying sullenly on a top bunk.

"Hey, you," he gives him a reassuring pat on the arm as he passes. "Stay strong. I believe in you."

He passes another bunk bed, this one occupied by a scowling man seated on the bottom bunk. Klaus points to him with a chuckle.

"You? You not so much,"

He makes his way to the front desk where a rather glum, bored-looking man stands. Behind him plastered on the wall is a sign reading, Lakeshore Hills Rehabilitation. He places the ziplock bag full of his possessions on the desk, sliding it forward.

"See ya soon, Klaus," he sighs, flipping a token for Klaus to catch. "Stay sober!"

Klaus retreats down the hall, spinning around at the man's last comment. He plants a lingering kiss on the token and sends the man a wink.

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The man shifts in his seat as the music he creates sways him; the stage being the only true place he ever felt alive - ever truly felt seen. And seen he was, for as the piece bled into a crescendo, so too did he. The energy that pulsed within encapsulated him now, staining his pale skin its infamous opalescent associated only with that of The White Violin.

The sight is truly one to behold; but also a moment destined to be savored only moments. The man is trained enough to keep his focus, but he can still make out the rapidly growing number of whispers breaking out amongst the crowd like wildfire; unknowingly all starting from a man who had merely glanced at his phone for the time, only to find something he could have never bargained for.

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Luther scales the gray and dusty hill with little effort, the first of the sun's rays already sticking to his suit before he reaches the top of the gravelly mound. His shoulders slack in awe at the view before him, the way the blinding light touched everything on the moon's surface and lit it up like a star. But before he can appreciate it, a rhythmic beeping brings him from his thoughts.

"Incoming transmission," comes an automated voice.

Wearing an intrigued expression, Luther uncovers the small pad on his left cuff. He has to read the words a second time to fully register what he is being told, and even then he has trouble dealing with it. A flood of emotions wash over him as he gazes out onto the barren wasteland his father deserted him on; disbelief, grief of course, but there was something else. Something else buried down deep inside him that years of manipulation told him was wrong; could it be relief?

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Diego plucks one of many remaining bloodied knives from the carpet, hundreds of glass shards sprinkled around it. He looks to the cowering family, giving them his most sincere look to reassure them. His eyes land on the father who is huddled with his family, duct tape over his mouth but wrists had never been tied. He had gotten to the last of the men before this could be accomplished. He watched Diego wearily while he scrambles to his family's aid.

"Your family is safe now," Diego reassures.

Before he can offer assistance, his attention is pulled to the evening news. The recognizable chime dedicated only to breaking news was not quite what caught his attention, but the all too familiar scowl plastered all over the screen.

"We're going now live to a breaking story,"

His eyes widen as the colors of the screen dance across his shock-ridden face.

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Her name is scattered amongst the frantic crowd of photographers, but one rises above the rest in a demanding plea.

"Allison!" He screams, pulling her head to look at him. "Have you heard the news? When was the last time you saw your father?"

Her mind draws conclusions faster than she'd like given her environment, and quickly she shifts her attention to the next photographer.

"Have you heard from your brothers?'" The woman asks.

Allison is no longer smiling, nor can she even bother to fake it. The next, and very last comment she hears is a bit too hard to brush off. She feels lost amidst a sea of noise and she isn't even sure what is happening, though her gut seems to be telling her what she suspects is right. All doubts are cast away when her publicist pulls her along off the red carpet, wearing a sympathetic look as another voice reaches her ears confirming her suspicions.

"Allison, will you wear Valentino to the funeral?"

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Klaus strolls down the dark alleyway, his body had carried him here on muscle memory alone with his mind already in the clouds. He's pulled from his daze when he spots the familiar dark hoodie waiting for him with a baggie of an undisclosed drug. A smile flitters across his face, the money already in his hands.

Klaus tackles the dealer in a hug, giving him a swift pat on the back, and when they part he makes the exchange. An elated grin tugs at his lips as he backs away down the alley where he came from, planting a kiss on the baggie just as he had the token. He twirls around, running down the alleyway and into a jump, clicking his heels together midair showcasing his joy to the world.

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Klaus's limp and lifeless body sways with the motion of the ambulance, its sirens wailing loudly around him. No sooner does the defibrillators touch his chest does he rise with a heavy and strenuous gasp muffled by the oxygen mask still wrapped around his face. His entire body is trembling violently, still drunk from the shock and the high of the rush. His tremoring hand rises to rip off the mask, letting loose a wild yet breathless cackle. He shakes his head with a shit-eating grin before collapsing against one of the shelves.

He extends his left palm - revealing the tattoo printed across it, reading "GOODBYE" - hoping for a high five. The EMT laughs, complying and giving the man he had resuscitated far too many times a high five. Klaus whoops yet another time, himself and the EMT sharing a nod and a smile when a sudden and scratchy chime from the portable radio TV pulled their attention. Behind a thick veil of static and muted colors, Klaus made out the words 'Breaking News'.

Another picture flashed across the cramped screen, luring Klaus in. His eyes began to flutter in a haze in hopes of confirming what he was seeing on the screen was real. The garbled voice of the broadcaster fought its way through the wall of sirens and into his foggy brain. He didn't have to be sober to know the unseen figure sitting beside him was just as encapsulated by the breaking story, feeling the same odd cocktail of emotions he was.

"Moments ago, police reported the death of most eccentric and reclusive billionaire..."

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The lullaby that falls from his fingertips comes to a sudden halt, as fast as the world comes back to him. The man does not know why he stops, but something deep within him has shifted. It's a feeling he can't quite place, and evidently, nobody seems to notice. The concert had ended, and as he looks out onto the crowd, his shoulders heaving with every heavy breath, he is met with scattered applause.

His head is spinning, unable to shake the feeling that his life would never be the same. And the reactions he is met with make him fear he had caused whatever it is that makes them like this. But there are no signs of proof. Only the look of guilt and pity painted all across the crowd as they whisper to one another, discreetly pulling out their phones only to fall more grave.

It was at that moment the feeling in his gut solidified.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟕
"𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑"

The world had changed, and Viktor knew there was no denying it.

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As he walks, Viktor watches eyes trained as his feet disturb the several puddles that paint the sidewalk. Several rings sprout from around his foot, rippling out into the world just as he did and it is not the first he wonders what it would be like. What life would be like had he been a normal kid from a normal family?

But this was far from the truth.

His walk home from the bus had been taken enough times he could run it blindfolded, though strangely enough, this brought a sense of comfort to him. Not unlike the wonderings of normalcy, his mind often occupied the thought of his success as a musician. Would he be nearly as successful had it not been for his unusual upbringing? Would he still have first chair and often offered many job opportunities for his scoring, or would he be stuck in one place for the rest of his life? He did enjoy the simplicities of life, the lack of luxury which is exactly why he went out and bought himself the first apartment he could afford when he was barely seventeen, and the reason he still took the bus.

It was his taste of a normal life, and he quite enjoyed it. Every gritty aspect. And still, like a boomerang, the question kept coming back; what if... What if?

That question alone kept him occupied long enough for Viktor to find himself planted in front of the foggy window display just doors down from his apartment building. His eyes are glued to the television set that now showed him a picture of his father. Everything at the concert suddenly made sense. Below his cold glower was the headline in bold, that read, SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES IS DEAD.

"Dad..." he croaks.

As the news hits him fully, large beads of tears pool at his eyelids. They waste no time falling nor does the sudden downpour of rain that he pulls from the clouds above his head.