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They didn’t get names until after Five went missing. Grace, this was when she was still Grace to them, not yet Mom, had given them to the children of the Umbrella Academy. They sat around the table eating pancakes complete with fruit smiley faces on a chilly morning in March, as they often did. Two had always assumed that family breakfasts were part of Grace’s programming to be a good mother for the children. It was Grace who broke the silence on this particular morning, “Children, I had a thought!” What programming could this have been? What update to her software had given her an idea? Number Two was skeptical of whatever this idea was. Skepticism that was probably part of his own programming, but still. “I thought perhaps I could give you names!” The silence was eerie, broken only by the clatter of Four’s fork against his plate. “What would you name us?” asked Three. “I thought I could talk it over with each of you, make sure you have names you all like!” said Grace. Two furrowed his brow. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that normal kids had names, but it had never occurred to him to want one of his own. Two was how he was referred to, and at the end of the day, wasn’t that all names were for? Number One had talked to Grace first, holed up in the kitchen with her after breakfast. Two practiced throwing knifes, the steady thunk of the blades finding their targets was a welcome distraction from whatever was to come. The sweat was dripping down the back of his neck and beginning to soak into his collar when One came to get him. “So, what’s your name?” asked Two. One wouldn’t meet his eyes, “She said I shouldn’t tell you yet. That I should wait until we all have names so we can tell each other together.” Two shrugged and brushed past the brother that after this, he would no longer call One. Grace was standing at the sink, elbow deep in the soapy water. When Two opened the door, she removed her arms and dried them on a towel. She took a seat next to Two at the old wooden table. “So, do you have any thoughts about what you’d like to be called?” “I don’t need a name,” Two told her, “You can just keep calling me Two, I don’t care.” “Nonsense!” she said in the high voice of hers, “A boy needs a name. Do you want to hear what I had thought of for you?” Two jerked his head, a suggestion of a nod. “Diego,” said Grace. When Two threw knifes, there was a moment when the knife went from flying straight to curving in midair, when he concentrated hard and changed the laws of physics. This moment felt a bit like the moment when a knife turned. Diego. He could be Diego Hargreeves. Normal children got their names from their parents, he was pretty sure of it. And now he had a name given to him by a parent, never mind that it was a few years later than most children were named. “D-d-d-diego is good,” he said, tears stinging his eyes. Why was he crying? He wasn’t Seven, wasn’t prone to these childish outbursts like she still was. “Are you sure?” she asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I chose it because there’s a Mexican artist named Diego Rivera, and he painted beautiful things. I thought you could share his name. But if you don’t like it, we can find something else!” Diego wondered if she was programmed to like that artist or if she had formed her own opinion. It didn’t matter to him, it was a name, one that she had thought about and picked specifically for him. He had expected this to be like having a number, something stamped on you and nothing else, but it was so much more. This was something given to him and him alone. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, leaning over to hug her. The same day that Two became Diego, Grace became Mom. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, pulling him close to her chest. “Do you want me to go get Three?” Diego asked, and Mom nodded at him, still smiling. It took the rest of the day for his brothers and sisters to get their names. Three and Four both took a long time talking to Mom, although to this day Diego wasn’t sure took so long. Six and Seven were quicker, it had probably taken even less time than it did for Diego himself. They had ice cream together that night and Mom had them go around the dinner table and introduce themselves. Vanya, Klaus, Ben, Luther, Allison, and then— “I’m Diego,” he said, without stuttering. “I like it!” announced Four, no, Klaus. “It suits you,” Vanya said. Ben, Luther, and Allison had all given his new name their stamps of approval as well. It had taken Diego a long time to call himself Diego, instead of Two. Even as he got taller and broad shouldered, became a man instead of a just a little boy with a number, he still fought the impulse to introduce himself as Two. He’s a grown man now, and one morning laying in bed with Eudora he tells her, “Sometimes I still feel like Number Two. Like Diego Hargreeves is just the label someone slapped on me to make me seem normal.” Eudora is running her fingers through Diego’s hair, short nails scratching at his scalp, “Diego,” she says, “Diego, Diego, Diego. Your mom knew you weren’t just a number, she knew that you all were special.” “Yeah, well, Dad thought we were special too,” he’s looking out the window instead of at her. “Your dad thought you were tools, your mom always knew you were people,” Eudora says, giving his hair a playful tug. And maybe that’s the truth of it. It took Diego’s cyborg mother to give him and his siblings names, to make them into people instead of just weapons. Even though sometimes he still feels like Number Two, he’s always preferred being Diego.