A girl sat at a table in a kitchen reading the last chapter of Vanya's novel (Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven) that she had 'borrowed' from her father's shelf earlier that morning.

She sighed, recollecting every last thought of her dead father.

Yes, dead.

The man inexplicably died yesterday. Due to this, her family would be visiting the academy later on for his funeral. Well, maybe just Luther and her as expected. It wasn't like she had much of a choice though.

But she didn't really mind the fact that her father was deceased. He was an awful, despicable man, Reginald Hargreeves. She never liked calling him a father - her father. The word always left a distasteful sensation when it was spoken out of her mouth.

"Breakfast is ready, dear!" Grace, her mother, exclaimed, "Remember, it's the most important meal of the day, so eat up."

"Thank you, Mum." she answered kindly.

The robotic woman gently set down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her that had been formed into a smiling face.

"So when will they be arriving for the funeral?" the girl asked, picking up her cutlery as she struggled to keep the book open.

"What funeral?" her mother questioned, seemingly confused.

"Father's funeral?.." she responded, turning to face her, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, right.." the woman replied solemnly, "Half an hour or so, hopefully."

The girl muttered an 'okay' before taking a mouthful of bacon as she watched her mother walk out with a blank expression plastered on her face. She pondered upon her mother's state. Was Grace feeling okay?

She turned her head away from where Grace left and focused on the book. "Quite the page turner. Am I right, Vanya?" the girl asked no-one in particular.

She was slightly displeased that Vanya would include such statements about the academy - along with the students itself - in the book, but decided not to hold it against her. It was only fair, seeing as Vanya wasn't treated like the rest of the Academy and she most likely needed a way to express her feelings. And the girl was going to see Vanya soon, anyway. But she wondered if any of her siblings had read it and thought any differently.

The young female readjusted her black tie, taking in her young frame for the millionth time.

"That man really had to experiment on his 'Number Eight', huh?" she grumbled, dropping the novel, "Pathetic, if you ask me! I'd much rather enjoy being my physical age.. Instead of this."

"What was that, Miss Y/n?"

She watched Pogo enter the room using his cane for support.

"Nothing," Y/n scoffed, "Nothing at all! It's not like that asshole had trapped me in this body!"

"Language." he warned, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"I'm glad I had the intelligence to finally formulate a way to begin aging again," the girl continued on, ignoring Pogo purposely as she twirled her fork on the table in boredom.

"Even if it took 13 years," she continued, "The old man didn't even give a damn. I don't understand why you remained loyal."

"He gave me a chance at a good life." Pogo retaliated.

Y/n clicked her tongue in denial. "'Good' is a debatable word used for the rest of us."

"Miss Y/n, why don't you go find something suitable to wear for the funeral?" Pogo asked the her, changing the topic.

"No, no," she waved him off, "The uniform is absolutely fine. I mean, isn't it 'honouring' his academy?"

"I-.. Suppose.." he scratched his head in annoyance.

The girl then carefully whisked away her plate into kitchen sink with Pogo's shadow that slithered across the flooring, which then stretched out in the air as a long, slender tentacle, and wrapped itself around the ceramic that was held out by her right hand.

"Well, enjoy 'honouring' our academy," Pogo joked, attempting to lighten the tense atmosphere, "Now, I'm going to go get some umbrellas. I heard it's going to be raining."

Y/n shrugged, but gave a small wave and exited the kitchen.

Well, not before making sandwich consisting of peanut butter and marshmallows, setting it on a plastic plate, and placing it down by an all-too-familiar room she had grown accustomed to, continuing the tradition Vanya and herself had invented long ago.

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