Chapter 2: Let's go home

[Third Person's PoV] 

When they arrived at the scene, the chaos was evident. News reporters swarmed the area, while a SWAT team had their weapons trained on the bank entrance, tense and ready for any development.

Inside the car, Number 8's fiery aura dissipated as he leaned back in his seat. "Do we even need to do all of this?" he grumbled. "I could just snap their necks from here or control their minds to commit suicide."

"Don't, Number 8," Reginald ordered firmly. "Your siblings need the combat experience."

"You're just making us work for nothing," Number 8 muttered under his breath.

"Number 8, report what's going on inside. Check if there are any safe areas for him to teleport to," Number 1 instructed.

With an eye roll, Number 8 complied. "Thirty men inside, all heavily armored with bombs, explosives, and guns. Twenty-five hostages, and they're gathering them together. The back is deserted, a perfect spot for Number 5 to teleport."

"Number 5, take Number 3 with you. The rest of us will flank through the multiple entrances," Number 1 ordered.

Number 3 and Number 5 teleported into the bank, materializing in the back. They saw a man a few feet ahead, barking orders into a walkie-talkie, directing his men to move the hostages. "Put them behind the counter with the others!" he commanded.

Number 3 approached the man with a cheerful smile. "I heard a rumor…"

"What? Go join the others behind the counter," the man dismissed her without looking up.

"That you shot your friend in the foot," Number 3 continued, unfazed.

The man's eyes whitened as he instinctively raised his gun and fired, shooting one of his own men in the foot. The injured man fell, discharging his weapon wildly in the process.

Outside, the gunshots sent everyone ducking for cover, and the news reporters pointed towards someone on the roof.

Number 1 sprinted across the rooftop and shattered the glass as he leaped inside, diving toward the counter. Bullets flew toward him, but he paid them no mind. Grabbing one of the armed men, he hurled him with such force that the man crashed through the upward windows, flying out of the building and landing among the shocked onlookers outside.

From the opposite side, Number 2 came running in. "In a gunfight, a knife always wins," he remarked, throwing a knife toward the man who had just shot his comrade. As the knife flew forward, it suddenly curved to the right, striking another man in the chest and sending him flying back.

The man, now surrounded, climbed onto the counter, waving his gun wildly. "Get away, you freaks!" he shouted in desperation.

They all smiled at him, their expressions calm. Number 5 blinked and suddenly crouched beside the man. "Careful. You could get hurt," he teased.

The man spun around, firing his gun, but Number 5 teleported to his other side. "Didn't I say to be careful?"

When the man raised his gun again, he realized it was no longer a gun but a stapler. "Ooh, that's one badass stapler," Number 5 quipped with a smirk before grabbing the man's hand and smashing the stapler into his face, knocking him out.

Just then, more men appeared, armed with rocket launchers. They fired in unison, but the rockets suddenly halted midair before exploding in place. Their weapons disassembled into multiple components, and the men collapsed to the ground, asleep.

"Don't you guys know it's bad to fall asleep on the job?" Number 8 remarked, floating above them with his legs crossed, his face resting on one hand as he descended.

The others looked up at him with smiles, gathering by the vault. Number 6 sighed. "Do I really need to do this…"

"Yes, you know that most of them are inside the vault," Number 1 insisted.

"No, he doesn't need to do this if he doesn't want to. I can very well do it myself," Number 8 interjected, his expression serious.

"He'll never grow used to his power if you keep on babysitting him," Number 1 retorted.

"I don't give two shits about his power. I'm more worried about his well-being," Number 8 snapped, grabbing Number 1 by the collar. "You might be our leader, but we're his brothers before anything else."

As they argued, Number 6 sighed again and entered the vault. Through the window, they saw tentacles flying everywhere, blood splattering against the glass, and bodies being torn apart amid wild screams and the roar of a monster.

The hostages fled the bank in terror, screaming, while Number 6 emerged slowly, covered in blood. Number 8 clicked his tongue in annoyance and used his telekinesis to pull the blood away, cleaning Number 6.

"Give me your hand," Number 8 ordered. When Number 6 complied, Number 8 used his empathic abilities to soothe his brother's emotions.

"Thank you…" Number 6 murmured, his voice calmer.

Number 8 then walked past him, and the others watched through the window as flames rose inside, burning the bodies to ashes.

Number 6 let out a relieved breath. "Can we just go home?"

8 just put an arm around 6's shoulder, "Yeah let's just go…" 

…

Reginald Hargreaves observed the scene from a distance, using a small telescope to watch as his children exited the bank. The press swarmed them, snapping pictures furiously. Once satisfied with what he saw, Reginald closed the telescope and turned his attention to Number 7, who stood beside him, leaning against the edge of the building.

"So why can't I join them on the missions, Father?" Number 7 asked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Reginald didn't pause as he began to walk away. "I believe we've had this discussion more than once, Number 7. You are simply not special."

His words were blunt and harsh, leaving Number 7 crestfallen. She watched as he moved ahead to stand before the others, who were lined up in front of the gathered press. Cameras flashed in his face as he prepared to address the crowd.

"Our world is changing! Has changed," Reginald began, his voice authoritative and commanding. "There are those among us gifted with extraordinary abilities, far beyond what is considered the norm. I have adopted seven children with such abilities…"

He paused for dramatic effect before continuing, "I give you the inaugural class of the Umbrella Academy."

Immediately, reporters surged forward, shouting questions at him. One managed to be heard over the rest, "Mr. Hargreaves! Mr. Hargreaves! Reporter for Channel 9 News here! What happened to their parents?"

"They were suitably compensated," Reginald replied coolly, his tone dismissive.

Another reporter shouted, "Are you concerned for the welfare of the children?"

"But of course," Reginald answered, his face betraying no emotion.

That was too much for Number 8. He barely managed to stifle a laugh, quickly turning away to avoid being seen. His shoulders shook with suppressed amusement, and the others around him struggled to maintain their composure, their lips twitching as they tried to hold back their laughter.

Reginald's eyebrow twitched in annoyance at the subtle disruption, but he pressed on. "As I am to the fate of the world," he declared, his voice filled with gravitas.

*'Then we're all doomed,'* came Number 8's voice, echoing in the minds of his siblings.

It took every ounce of their self-control to keep from bursting into laughter. Some turned red in the face, their expressions strained as they fought to maintain a straight face. The atmosphere grew increasingly tense, with the barely contained hilarity just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment.