2 April 1914

The gale force winds howled throughout the nondescript back alley of Dallas, Texas and rain poured down upon the people in sheets of icy needles that beat against the concrete & surrounding cars like liquid bullets. The occasional streetlamp pierced the dark of night, but the one at the mouth of this particular alley flickered dangerously, like it was threatening to blow out. So, of course, there was barely anyone stupid enough to brave the streets at this time; save for the occasional drunk or hobo who trudged down the street in equal arrays of dishevelment. When Theodore N. Hargreeves landed in the alley behind Commerce & Knox, the place was littered with soaked leaves, shards of broken bottles and soggy cigarette butts. But most of all, he was alone.

One minute he had been slung across Don Luther's arms as they huddled together in that burnt warehouse and gripped tightly to each other; dark dots dancing around the edges of his vision and tears trickling from his sockets as he teetered on the edge of consciousness, sleep and grief. With one last Hail Mary, Don Fën tore open a hole in time and space that was just large enough for all of them (sans Vera, whose cold & lifeless body had to be left behind) to disappear through. The next minute, the temporal force that surrounded them was tearing them apart; pushing Theodore from strong arms and spitting him out in this strange place where he landed roughly on the cold, wet ground and smacked his chin against the concrete with a groan. Though, part of him swore he was let go; tossed from those strong arms without rhyme or reason, completely of Don Luther's own violation.

A stuffy, aching pain lanced itself through his head, making Theodore feel like someone had taken an entire box of cotton balls and shoved them up his nose & into his brain with far more force than was necessary. (He had an absent thought that maybe this is what being drunk must feel like, but if that were the case, how could Don Klaus and Don Fën be so happy when they felt like this?) But it wasn't the only thing that was wrong, oh no, that irritating stuffy-head feeling was also accompanied by a horrid itch that seemed to crawl across every single inch of his battered body and begged to be scratched. It reminded him of that one time he had gotten chicken pox and had spent Thanksgiving just scratching himself raw.

Discombobulated from the impromptu trip, Theodore shakily pushed himself up onto his knees with a throaty groan that tore at his already inflamed vocal cords and looked around at the alley in which he had landed in. Which seemed to be a feat in of itself thanks to the dark spots that threatened to pull him under and the nausea that roiled in his gut like a little dingy on the open sea. He was tired; so, very very tired and drained beyond belief. The shock of his vera's death had yet to fully sink in and he kept expecting her to walk around the corner or pop out from behind the dumpster, wondering where he had gone.

It was a difficult thing to swallow, her being gone, but then again, so was the end of the world and that had happened too. So suffice to say, Theodore was left feeling a little out of sorts as he tried to comprehend all that had happened in the last few hours; it wasn't working as well as he had hoped. Instead, a deep sense of aching pulled at his chest whenever he thought back and as he tried to blink back the tears that blurred his vision (there was no way he could reasonably deny them as raindrops), he tried to figure out just where the hell he was because he was sure as hell it wasn't the burnt warehouse of Shed Number Seven.

Taking care not to pass out as he scrambled to his feet, the newly-minted teen leant against the closest brick wall, scratching absently at one of his knees as he did so (though it did nothing to relieve the itch). One hand did its best to prop himself upright and the party hat which had somehow miraculously survived, did little to protect him from the rain that pelted down sideways, soaking him to the bone. "D-Don?" Theodore croaked, unsure for which don he was actually calling for as he tried to find any familiar face nearby. But he was alone. "V-Ven?"

Glancing about at his surroundings, Theodore found that the alleyway was lined with a series of soggy black bags that stank of rubbish—some of which had split in the torrential rain and some which had spilt over from the dumpster—general litter filled the gutters and a couple of old television sets which had been left out to fester in the rain. All-in-all, it was a rather quaint little hideaway, but nothing that was out of the ordinary. Unless you counted the blue vortex which swirled above his head like a furious whirlpool; the same one that had ejected him from its innards only moments ago.

Dizzy eyes searched the violently pulsating vortex above him as it swirled in twisting clouds of blue as he fought the urge to scratch at his skin now aware that it would not bring the relief he so desired. But up above, there was little to found in the shrinking vortex aside from the faint scent of death and burning ash. "V-Ven? Don? VERA!" Theodore tried to call upwards through cupped hands, but it was of no use, the storm just swallowed his words up as soon as they left his lips.

WHOOSH!

Almost as if to spite him, the blue vortex fluctuated once more in reply and then disappeared with a whoosh, as if it had never even been there to begin with. The strong winds which had accompanied the rip in time & space vanished alongside the portal and the far away streetlamps flickered once or twice before it spat out its sparking light onto the ground, fizzling away to nothing and dousing the alley in the dark once more.

Out of habit more than anything, Theodore's gaze became illuminated in lumen that allowed him to still see the alleyway around him. Cast in a blue glow, the alley seemed to take on an eerier tone as he drunkenly stumbled towards the mouth of the alley. It was slow going but eventually he made it there only to find himself staring gobsmacked at the scene before him. It was dark—quiet—as most nights were, save for the occasional party-goer and a movie theatre across the street whose billboard proudly displayed the titles PHONE CALL FROM A STRANGER and SINGIN' IN THE RAIN in big block letters.

"Wha—? Where the hell am I? Better yet when am I?" Theodore murmured as he watched an old Packard car (in pretty good condition despite the revolting colour) trundle down the road. Dread pooled in his veins and his stomach threatened to upheave itself as his gaze caught sight of a rather soggy poster glued to the wall nearby. There were several posted there, but only one in particular had caught his attention thanks to the big bold letters which were scrawled across the paper. His gaze skimmed over the bright-eyed children who appeared to be acting out each of the dos and don't listed there; all of them garbed in vintage wear and all of them looking far too out of date to be fake.

SAVE YOURSELF

FROM INFLUENZA AND:

PNEUMONIA, BAD COLDS, MEASLES, TUBERCULOSIS, DIPHTHERIA, SCARLET FEVER, WHOOPING COUGH, MENINGITIS AND MUMPS

FOLLOW FOUR SIMPLE RULES:

RULE 1: Use a handkerchief when you cough or sneeze, or bend your head towards the ground.
RULE 2: Don't put pencils or fingers or anything else that does not belong there.
RULE 3: Don't use common drinking cups.
RULE 4: Don't cough or sneeze into the air towards others.

The germs of these diseases are spread throughout the secretions of the mouth and nose, of sick people and carriers.

RECOMMENDED BY THE DALLAS STATE BOARD OF HEALTH

Theodore blinked dumbly at that, hesitant fingers caressed the edge of the soggy paper as if unsure that it was even real. "No way…! 1914? That can't be right!" He gasped, brows furrowed in confusion as he read and reread the words with a fervency that he hoped would reveal some sort of secret or explanation that would tell him exactly what was going on. "But it is—! But it can't be—! How can I be in 1914?!"

Water-wrinkled fingers gripped tight to his wet curls in panic, heart stuttering in his chest at the severity of the new situation. No way back, no way out, no way home; stuck all alone in the Lore-forsaken past with absolutely no clue of where anyone was or of what to do. He knew that Don Fën had intended to taken them back, back far enough that they wouldn't succumb to the end of the world (an event that had come about thanks to his grief over his vera's death), but even he didn't think that the time traveller meant to do this.

"…Speaking of which, where are the others? I mean, not here, obviously. I know Fën said he would take us back, but surely he didn't mean to do this?" Theodore spoke aloud, his voice crackling like thunder in the quiet of the night. Despite his sarcastic remarks and endless questions, there was no one to answer and his thoughts spiralled as he came up with several different reasons as to what had happened to them & where his family had gone. They could be all together someplace else, he could be the only one who had made it, they could be in another time altogether or worst of all, they could be dead. The thought made his legs buckle like jelly beneath him. "And now, I'm arguing with myself…!"

But the turmoil was understandable. Theodore had just narrowly escaped the end of the world, he had discovered his vera dead on the morn of his thirteenth birthday, he was separated from the rest of his (extended) family and yet there he was, stuck in the past alone with the world on the cusp of war and arguing with himself over the validity of the situation. Back in 2019, he had had at least some sort of presence. People knew him, they missed him when he was gone, they talked to him and they knew his story (or as much as he deigned to share with them); but here in the past? He was a nobody, a ghost, invisible. Which might have of been nice given any other situation but as it stood, there was no way he would be able to pass of as just another teenager; there was just too many holes in his story.

It was times like this that Theodore wished that he was like other kids; maybe then he could have of lived a life devoid of alien bounty hunters, impending apocalypses, superpowered family members and time travelling assassins. Maybe then, he would have of had a normal life. It was like his life had turned into a bad soap opera. Twisting to the side, Theodore promptly lost his stomach contents. Hunched over at the waist and eyes screwed shut, he tried to think of anything other than the acidic burn in his mouth as the remnants of his last meal—the stolen slice of birthday cake—deposited itself onto the alleyway floor. Sickly sweet liquid splashed up against the concrete at his feet and stained the adjoining the brick wall like a poor man's Jackson Pollock painting.

Soon enough, he was able to push himself away from the puddle of sick on the ground, but it was once again a slow process and as he stumbled away from the mouth of the alley with bile dribbling down his chin, he found that it had taken a lot out of him. More than he expected as another vintage car rattled passed with its headlights winking in the rain, startling his shaky form and knocking him off of his feet. Clad in naught but a pair of tattered school shorts, a ratty military vest that was two sizes too big, his rumpled school shirt, a soggy birthday party hat and a pair of scotched bowling shoes, Theodore ever so gracefully, passed out; winking from reality just like the rain-splattered headlights on the passing cars at his feet.