April 1st, 2019 - 08h14 pm
I hate bowling. Once the bowling ball is thrown, there's nothing left to do but watch it roll: the score, from that moment on, is basically already determined. I hate the noise in those places, the neon lights, the smell of the poorly ventilated lanes, of the cheap hot dogs. The stupid birthdays like the one the group next to us is about to celebrate. The balls that take forever to come back, and the incomprehensible scoring system. I don't usually like going there and I never play, and - tonight - it seems even more absurd to me. Besides, nobody's been playing for fifteen minutes.
We're all stunned, but I'm even more so. If there's one thing the Hargreeves have been trained for, it's their ability to keep their heads above water when the worst happens. Even when the realization that their brother is about to trigger an apocalypse has just hit them. But why has Luther chosen Super Star Lanes Bowling as a gathering place to brainstorm out of the rubble of Hargreeves Mansion? On that subject, Klaus could enlighten me.
Less than a minute from Rainshade Square, this now rather vintage bowling alley was historically the only "social" place they were allowed to go "as a family". Because the surveillance cameras were directly connected to the Academy's security system, allowing a close monitoring even of the scores. All of this undoubtedly scheduled on a carefully laid-out yearly agenda, to regularly reinject the siblings with a little endorphins linked to a seemingly futile activity. A competitive game, in reality. But tonight, the aim is not really to compete.
Sitting on the floor against the bar table on which Ben is perched, I think of Grace, I think of Pogo, and the feeling of having missed a step seizes me again. I try to dispel it, because I too refuse to feel incapacitated. And while Klaus opens the newspaper reporting on Viktor's recital tonight at the Icarus Theatre, I glance at the Bolwing employee, who I see approaching with the look of someone with bad news to deliver.
"Hello," she says with an awkward smile, and I notice her name, on her bage. Ironically, her name is 'Midge'.
"I hate to intrude, but my manager says if you're not gonna bowl, you gotta leave".
Actually, she's just the emissary of the bald-headed cerberus at the shoe rental desk, who's slapping a pair of shoes on the counter a little vehemently, because Diego refused to wear them to avoid mycosis.
"Whose turn is it?", he asks, and I look up at the screen.
The third frame was in progress, and even though I really don't like this game, I have to admit that bowling says more about people than I thought.
Diego, by the way, is quite average for someone whose power lies in manipulating trajectories. Maybe it's because he's reluctant to stick his fingers into the dirty holes of the collective balls. But more likely - and it's a good surprise - because he's honest when he plays. Five, whose name has been written in digit by the employee, is average, and Luther is actually pretty bad. Allison's 48 in three frames is not even worth mentioning. And you won't be surprised to hear that, with his lamentable movement coordination, Klaus has a low 2 points score, but - with dignity - refuses to have the bumpers pulled up.
It was actually his turn, but with a swearword in front of the woman called Midge, Luther sends his ball across the lanes, making it bounce like a basketball, and getting a strike for another team by the most perfect of coincidences. I sigh. And since I'm definitely not playing, I get up and make my way a little painfully towards the toilets. I don't want to have to turn invisible. And anyway, I need a bit of silence to focus.
Bathrooms are often said to be a good indicator of the quality of an establishment, and - believe me - Super Star Lanes must be very far down the Lonely Planet rankings. Fortunately, there's still running water, and I wash my face with clear water to untangle my thoughts.
Now there's no doubt that the apocalypse can still happen. That it ~will~ happen. And that Viktor is almost certainly the one to trigger it. This situation is far worse than any I could have imagined: because the end of the world is being hatched from within the very nests of those who are supposed to prevent it, because I understand perfectly the suffering that's about to make it happen, because this outcome seems to me almost the right conclusion to the line of destiny that Reginald Hargreeves has drawn. I can't make up my mind. Did he want to prevent it, or on the contrary, did he instigate it? I'm still running water over my face. I'll probably never know.
What saddens me most? It's what Klaus told me as we ran to this absurd refuge. That Viktor had sought help at Hargreeves Mansion, and that Luther's response had been to lock him up, to listen to no one, not even Allison, who was the one primarily concerned. Viktor was possibly on the verge of imploding, but perhaps an act of compassion instead of yet another ego trip would have stopped the whole thing. I grumble inwardly. I regret telling Luther that I thought he'd changed.
I felt Viktor's power all around me, in the collapsing hall and all the way down to my own nerve fibers. His sonic power resonating with the energy of mine. Immediately making me realize that I couldn't imagine - even for a second - trying to contain him. He's like billions of tons of water from a broken dam, crashing down a valley. At this point in the control of my own abilities, I could only be swept away. Would Hargreeves have been right to want to rush us all?
I look up at myself in the chipped mirror and wonder if Viktor is really going to play at the Icarus Theatre tonight. It was so important to him. Yes. Probably, if we're looking for him, that's where we'll find him. I turn off the water, grab a miserable disposable towel with the feel of tracing paper. And as I clumsily try to dry myself, in the mirror I see a familiar figure enter the bathroom. Allison looks furious, above the bandage that straps her neck, her attitude still stiff from the constant pain. Furious? The word is weak. She rants and raves, unable to express herself. Outside the ladies' bathroom, I hear Luther calling her name. She completely ignores him, and leans against the sink next to the one I'm using. I look at her, she looks at me.
"Is something wrong?"
I just asked this spontaneously, because that's what I'd usually have done, if she'd been able to talk to me. And she sighs angrily, sore and frustrated. I watch as she reaches into her pocket, pulls out her notepad, and in a few quick strokes, she gives me a clear, unequivocal, compelling answer:
[Luther is an asshole]
I arch an eyebrow. Well, that's a pretty good summary of my thoughts, for someone with diminished elocution. And I stand there, blinking in the stormy aura she's radiating.
"I... Klaus told me, yes. That he'd locked Viktor up. That otherwise all this might not be..."
But I see her scribbling furiously again, and brandishing at me:
[Fucked while stoned]
I'm even more stunned now, as she holds her notepad under my nose, her hand trembling with rage. What? Is ~that~ what's causing her to freak out like that? Hasn't she ever had to pick up Klaus at 2 a.m. or what? I blink three times. And since I don't think Luther would have spilled the beans, I can easily guess who did.
"It was an acoustic nightmare, allright", I tell her, even though deep down I'm seriously annoyed. And I see her eyes literally pop out of her head when she realizes that I too have witnessed this. It's amazing how much can be read in people's expressions without the need for a voice.
"I think he had a bad day...", I say. "We've all had some this week..."
Damn, I hate to defend him, but it's got to be objectively true. I understood that he'd found a whole unopened 'correspondence' with their father, and that he'd felt like he'd been sent to the moon just to get off the floor. For once, I fully understand that Reginald Hargreeves did that. Allison surely knows, and I squint an eye, wondering why this affects her ~so much~.
"It was pathetic, but in the end quite funny," I tell her with a form of kindness, to see what my words stir up in her.
And I can tell that - far from making her laugh - the thoughts that come to her are about to make her cry. For a moment, I wonder if she feels some kind of betrayal in what Luther has done, and if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that at this moment I already know enough. Still, I feel a little sorry for her, for the conflicting feelings I see jostling around her. I'm in no position to judge people's emotional and sexual situations. And just as I'm about to say something encouraging and sympathetic to her, she writes:
[Klaus's fault]
Without even a question mark, just like that. As an obvious assertion, just because Alcohol, Drugs, Klaus and Sex happen to be in the alphabetical order of the universe. And I'm sorry, but this time it's really me who's freaking out, as much as the electric hand dryer next to us, which starts screaming its lungs out, making the toilet paper scraps scattered on the warped old linoleum fly.
"Are you talking about the Klaus who tried to dissuade him?", I say coldly. "About the one who looked for him for hours in every creepy corner of The City, while he was puking his guts out in his own withdrawal? Or the one who got his head smashed in trying to get him out of a brawl?"
My eyes are burning, because enough is enough: I, too, am sick of the way he's being treated. And if the world ends in two hours, then I have absolutely no problem telling Allison what I think of her prejudices and navel-gazing, if I have to. She doesn't write anything this time, but I can see she's hesitating, so I stare at her marker.
"Don't you think what Luther did by locking Viktor up is worse? I swear I prefer him to use his ass rather than his brain".
She writes something down, and just when I feel I've gone a bit too far, I concede at the same time as she shows me her notepad:
"Sorry"
[Sorry]
Our words collide, and I think it's the first time either of us have heard or read each other say that. And I sigh as the hand dryer falls silent. The toilet paper scraps fall down, almost gracefully, and I pass my hand over my eyes.
"Don't you think there are better things to do, with the world possibly two hours from ending? Don't you rather have your daughter's voice to hear?"
I know these words will hit her even harder, but it doesn't matter. Several times in the course of this week, she has packed her suitcase to go home, never managing to get on the plane back to Los Angeles and Claire. She has no words, but I can clearly see the path her thoughts are taking: the return to reality, beyond any teenage feelings she may have had in the past. I see her posture change, back to the sad but more dignified mother she is.
[You go home?], she writes, and I look down to the floor. She can't know that - in a way - my farewell to Granny is already done.
"I have a role to play here and now".
I've struggled with this, she knows I have. But I made a promise to Five, which I'm not going to say. We have a backup plan, an ultimate recourse, which unfortunately seems more relevant than ever. Allison nods, with a kind of confidence in me that I hadn't suspected. My relationship with her is one of extreme ambivalence: I think she annoys me as much as she pushes me forward. She turns her eyes to the now inert hand dryer, then back to me. And she scrutinizes me, as if to give me one last appraisal or approval. Her expression becomes serious, even grave, and she writes again before turning her notepad towards me.
[Don't kill Viktor]
Reading this makes my blood run cold. Because I realize that this eventuality is something real, yet to be dismissed. The stark reality of what lies ahead is right there on the paper, laid out in black letters, and I can't help but read it over and over again.
"Of course not," I say, almost horrified, but before I can say anything more, she adds, no doubt because she knows how much less scrupulous Viktor could be, in the state he's in:
[Be careful]
What will happen tonight is uncertain, but it's bound to be a major event in our lives. I'm not afraid anymore, as I said. The ball is rolling, time will tell where it will strike: possibly off the track. Now I'm almost eager to get it over with once and for all. Allison stares at me as I nod, and in a final gesture, she writes one last note that just might change everything:
[Familly matters]
Notes:
Despite serious considerations, there are also lighter moments in this chapter. It's also a kind of nonsensical respiration, as The Umbrella Academy knows how to provide.
Really, the scoreboard in that bowling scene was a goldmine for inspiration. The attention to detail is always so appreciable in the series, I was so eager to exploit it.
I really enjoyed imagining a "conversation" with Allison... given that she can't speak. And I'm amazed at what came out of it, with an economy of words that was fun to play with!
Any comments will make my day!