April 1, 1914
The gale force winds howled throughout that nondescript Texan alleyway in the backend of central Dallas, wherein the rain poured down upon the people in sheets of icy needles. They beat against the cracked concrete path and the surrounding automobiles like liquid bullets that were intent on piercing through their steel shells. Further out, the occasional street lamp did its best to pierce the dark of night, but the one that bordered the entrance to Commerce & Knox flickered dangerously, like it was threatening to blow out but it still stubbornly held on.
So, of course, there was no one there who was stupid or drunk enough to brave the weather at this time of night; save for the occasional nightlife who poked their head out of the safety of their nest to see what was going on. When Theodore N. Hargreeves landed in that particular alleyway 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, where they had mourned the sudden and unexpected loss of his vera. A mixture of dark and blue dots danced across his vision as tears trickled freely from his sockets—both the empty one and the full one—as he teetered on the edge of consciousness; walking the razor's edge between sleep and grief.
Unbelievable pain wracked the poor boy as webbing—much like his vera's—crept across his deathly pale skin. The Garde boy had never known true love, himself (for, he was far too young for such things) but—much like the legends of old—his suffering was enough to develop the Lien du Lorne, nonetheless. The Lore-forsaken Lien du Lorne; the Bond of the Forsaken. To say that it hurt was understating the obvious to nth degree and that was without the side effects of time travel added atop all of that. It also pained him to think that his vera had gone through this, alone and afraid, right before she had died. It wasn't fair.
Absently, he recalled how—with one last Hail Mary—Don Fën had torn open a hole in time & space, a portal that was just large enough for all of them (sans Vera, whose cold & lifeless body had been left to rot alongside the other billions of people burning at the end of the world), to disappear through. And then they were falling through the blue-stained void, where temporal forces surrounded them on all sides and threatened—and succeeded—in tearing them apart.
Theodore was pushed—or tossed, depending on who you asked (he swore that Don Luther had tossed him aside, completely of his own violation, but he couldn't be sure)—from strong arms as the forces got too strong to hold on. And then, before he knew it, he was being spat out in this strange place where he landed roughly on the muddy ground that coated his already dirty limbs and squeaked when he came in contact with it, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop. When he finally came to a stop, a low groan fell from the newly-minted teenager's lips as he smacked his head against the wet ground and shaky hands came up to cradle the blossoming bruise upon his crown.
It certainly didn't help the headache that had taken root once the spinning and the rolling had eventually stopped. A stuffy, aching pain that lanced itself through his head, making Theodore feel like someone had taken an entire box of cotton balls and shoved them up his nose and into his brain with far more force that was entirely necessary. He had the absent though that maybe this was what being drunk must feel like, but if that were the case, how could Don Klaus and Don Fën chase so relentlessly after this sensation? 'Cause it sucked.
But it wasn't the only thing that was wrong, oh no, that irritating stuffy-head feeling that was also accompanied by a horrid itch that seemed to crawl across every single inch of his battered body and begged to be scratched raw. Even if it meant making himself bleed to do so. It reminded him of that one time he had gotten the chicken pox and had spent Thanksgiving just scratching himself raw. Vera had eventually had to tape gloves over his hands, to get him to stop itching and to give his body a chance to heal itself.
Discombobulated from the impromptu time travel trip, Theodore shakily pushed himself up onto his elbows with a throaty groan that tore at his already inflamed vocal cords, and looked around the alley he had landed in. Which seemed to be a fear in of itself, thanks to the dark spots that threatened to pull him back under and the nausea the roiled within his gut like a little dingy lost out on the wild open sea. He was tired; oh so 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 a 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 freaking world and that had happened too. So, suffice to say, Theodore was feeling a little bit out of sorts as he tried to comprehend all that had happened in the last few hours; but it wasn't working out 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 that roaring tears that blurred his vision (there was no way he could reasonably deny them as raindrops or sweat), as he tried to figure out just where in the nine hells he was because this certainly wasn't the burnt warehouse of Shed Number Seven, out in the ports of Brooklyn.
Taking care not to pass out again as he heaved himself up into a sitting position, the newly-minted teenager braced himself against the dizziness that made his head swim. Scratching absently at one of his knees as he did so, but it did little to relieve the itch that burned there. It was only when the sickening sensation had abated that he moved again, rolling forward up onto his hands and knees because he didn't trust himself not to stand on his own just yet. His fingers clenched around the slick strands of soggy cigarettes, nails digging into the recesses of nicotine as his half-singed party hat—which had somehow miraculously survived the whole ordeal—slipped further down his crown, as it fell victim to the heavy rain.
"D-Don?" Theodore croaked, unsure for which don he was actually calling for as he tried to find any familiar face nearby. But all he found was the dark shadows of the alleyway which cast monstrous shapes in the dark. He was all alone in an unforgiving place and time, where his only company was the rain-slicked dumpster and its stinking contents. Frantically searching his surroundings with eyes narrowed against the dying light, Theodore found that the alleyway he occupied was lined by brick walls from the buildings on either side and a scattering of doggy black garbage bags that had been left to rot until pick-up day.
They stank of rubbish & other such horrors—some of which had split in the torrential rain and some which had spilt over from the nearby dumpster—general litter had filled the gutters and a couple of old radio sets which had been left to fester in the rain. There was the general clutter of city accoutrement and the shadow of the large buildings that stood on either side, looming over him in the dark. It was terrifying, like it was the monster under the bed.
All-in-all, it was a rather normal little hideaway and there was—annoyingly—nothing out of the ordinary. Unless, you know, you counted the blue vortex which above his head like furious whirlpool; the same one, mind you, 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 and he fought the urge to scratch at his skin, now aware that it would not bring the relief that he so desired.
But there it was, high up above the world so high, with very little sanctuary to be found inside the ever-shrinking portal. Well, aside from the faint but cloying scent of death and burning ash. "V-Ven? Don? VERA!" Theodore tried to call upwards, tossing his head back as far as it could go in an effort to throw his voice, but it was no use. The storm just swallowed up his words as soon as they left his lips. "Please don't leave me…!" He pitifully whimpered, uselessly falling back on his haunches.
WHOOSH!
And then almost as if to spite him, the temporal vortex fluctuated once more in reply and then it disappeared with a succinct whoosh, as if it had never been there to begin with. The strong winds which had accompanied the rip in time & space, vanished alongside the portal. And far across the alleyway, at the end of the street and beyond, the streetlamps flickered once or twice before they finally spat out its sparkling light. The bulbs at the end of the alley fizzled away to nothing as the landscape was doused back into darkness once more.
Despite his desperate pleas, there was no one there to answer his endless questions and, as a result, his thoughts spiralled downwards. There were only so many reasons that they could have ended up…wherever this was and several confounding scenarios that could have of happened to them all; the problem was, knowing which one was the right one. His ven & dons could all be together someplace else, he could be the only one who made it, they could be dead or, worst of all, he could be the one who was dead and this was just some sick sense of purgatory. The thought alone made his legs buckle like jelly beneath him.
But the turmoil was understandable. Theodore had just narrowly escaped the end of the world, he had recently discovered his vera dead on the morn of his thirteenth birthday (of all things) and he was separated from the rest of his (extended) family. Yet there he was, stuck in this place alone within this strange world that looked so much like his and yet so, so different. Theodore felt hopeless. Back in 2019, at least he was somebody; at least he had some sort of presence. Okay, yes, the LANE Keepers wanted his head but at least people knew who he was. There would have of been people who missed him when he left, there were people who talked to him and there were people who knew his story (or as much as he deigned to share with them). But here? In this place? 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 whichever story he cooked up. It was at times like this that Theodore wished that he was like the other kids; maybe—just 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 somewhat normal life. It was like his life had turned into a bad soap opera, or had it always been like that?
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 bile raced up his oesophagus and splashed across the concrete at his side. The multicoloured confetti-splattered bile stained the concrete like a poor man's Jackson Pollock painting.
Soon enough, he was done and with much effort, was able to push himself away from the stinking puddle of sick on the ground, but it was once again a slow process and as he slumped down against the wall of the closest dumpster. Bile dribbled down his chin like drool, closing his eyes in exhaustion he leant back against the garbage receptacle like he was nothing more than a ragdoll and just let his limbs go loose. It had taken a lot more out of him than he had realised; definitely more than he expected.
At the end of the street—mindless of his breakdown—a vintage car rattled down the road with its headlights winking in the rain, startling him from his reverie. Jerking in his seat, Theodore became dislodged from his position and slowly collapsed towards the floor, fingers grazing at the puddle he'd created. 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 party hat and a pair of scorched bowling shoes, Theodore ever so gracefully passed out. Brown curls became glued to his forehead by rain and sweat as he winked out from reality, just as the rain-splattered headlights on the cars passing by the alley.