Ten of us.
I've been counting them on this train, which is something I haven't done in years — run through the full list, all ten, the way you used to be able to recite them in order without thinking. It took me longer than it should have. Some of them I had to reach for.
We had numbers before we had anything else. Before we had the training or the missions or the particular shape of what each of us became, we had a sequence. An order. I used to think the numbers were neutral — administrative, practical, a way of managing a large household without confusion. I don't think that anymore. A number is a position. A position implies a hierarchy. A hierarchy implies that some positions are better than others, and children are very good at working out which ones those are.
I am Five.
The middle. Not the failures, not the stars — the exact centre of whatever he thought we were. I've spent most of this journey trying to decide if that's better or worse than I expected, and I keep arriving at the same place: neither. It's just accurate. Five, with a note in brackets that I was unstable. As if the number needed a caveat. As if the position itself wasn't already a verdict and the qualifier was the part that really needed saying.
Here is what Five actually means, if you look at the full sequence: he thought my ceiling was higher than half the household. Higher than the dragon. Higher than the empath. Higher than the popstar and the spy and whatever Bayangan was supposed to become. He ranked me above five of his own children and then spent three years suppressing the mechanism that would have proved him right, and then erased me from the roster entirely, and then wrote *(unstable)* next to my name like a footnote.
I've been sitting with that for four hours and I still don't have clean feelings about it. I'm not sure I'm supposed to.
Five. Harrison Hargreeves. Twenty-four years old on a train back to the place that made me, carrying a number I was given before I could speak and a surname I chose myself, and the gap between those two facts is basically the whole story.
I keep arriving at myself in this count and not knowing what to write. The others I can do — I have observations, memories, seven years of thinking about them from a distance. For myself I just have the number, and the name, and this journal, and whatever I am now that the house is done with me.
Five. Harrison Hargreeves. That'll have to be enough to start with.
The individual entries on each sibling are linked below for convenience.