January 07, 1961 - 08:52 pm
Life is tough for street cats. Big cities - with their increasing density of cars - are far from being hospitable habitats. Luckily, there are rats, even if they're dirtier than those in the countryside. Winter - here in the South - is not as biting as in other places. And fortunately, their eyes are able to pick up even the faintest glimmer of light. So - ragged but resilient - they rummage through the garbage cans, even in the corners of this alleyway that the street lamps struggle to light. Between the high brick walls, they scatter garbage, rolling a few foul-smelling cans. No doubt they'll be chased away, and maybe even pelted with stones. For the moment, they are still eating, undisturbed, in the silence of this January evening. But suddenly...
*Wooshhhh*
Their dilated pupils open even wider, shining like lasers below the aberration that has just ripped open above their heads. First a crack, then a blindingly blue well of pure energy, huge, crackling with electric arcs. A light the likes of which - as far as cats can remember - has only been seen once before. "Again?" the cats probably wonder. And without a second thought, they leave their meager supper in the lurch and start to scurry away.
A thud and a clatter of bottles accompanies my fall to the cold, rough floor, scratching my wrist. The time vortex dumps me, I roll against the garbage can and the lid falls off, nearly knocking me out. I have the reflex to pull myself away, so as not to stay beneath the energy breach. To avoid being crushed by Klaus or - even worse - by Luther. I grab my calf, which has just painfully recalled itself to me. I curl up on myself, waiting for other bodies to tumble, not far from where I fell myself.
But nothing comes and...
*Swwwwwwwwip*
The bend in space-time is now closing in.
Suddenly, the sounds of the city take over. The irritated hiss of a particularly bold cat staring at me from the wall, the sound of car engines at the end of the alley, even noisier than Hermes's. Muffled retro music, footsteps of passers-by and cries of children. God, my head aches, even more than my calf. I'd forgotten how unpleasant time-travel sickness could be. My side itches, my thigh...
"Damn it".
Painfully, panting a little, I sit down against the garbage can and try to clear my vision. At the end of the street, the neon lights on the blue façade of the Avon movie theater force me to squint again. On the bill is "The Marriage-Go-Round", an adaptation of an old Broadway classic, white panels proclaiming the names of Susan Hayward and James Mason. I blink a few times, trying to get rid of the headache. I pull myself to my feet using the garbage can, trying to breathe.
I'm alone. No Klaus, no Ben, even if our matter and energy were still merging two minutes ago. No Five, even if our wills were fully combined on this goddamn vortex. No Diego, no Allison. No Luther... and no Viktor. I run my hand over my eyes, as if this whole horrible day was gliding over me again. I try to take a step, fully tensed: I'll have to grit my teeth, but I should be able to walk. Hobbling, but to hell with dignity.
I quickly realize that I'm going to be stared at. As soon as I reach the end of the alley, I'm met with intrigued, if not downright frightened glances. Wage earners in trench coats and hats, mothers in heels and flared wool coats. Pastel colors that contrast with the blackness of my jeans with their half-ripped leg. With my oversized leather perfecto, right up to my tousled haircut. Here, I'm a timeless anomaly, myself.
The music becomes clearer, coming from the half-open door of a second-hand store labeled 'Rosati and sons swap', still open in the evening. 'Are You Lonesome Tonight?' Dear Elvis Presley does have a sense of irony. Behind the window, there's a Ouija board, and it almost makes me want to cry. And one thing is certain: if the Plan B Five had in mind to save us from the apocalyptic flames was to send us back in time, then our attempt kind of worked.
Kind of. We knew there was a risk of ending up scattered. Because we were two people, combining our efforts to take us all away, and more so after having used so much energy to fight. It was a theoretical risk. But now that I'm here alone, in the middle of this street in the early '60s, reality hits me hard. The truth is, I'm not used to being alone. Not at home, not at work, certainly not at Hargreeves Mansion: I've never really been. Where are they? And I know the question isn't as much ~where~ they are, as ~when~. My head still hurts, and my chest weighs a ton, just like an overwhelming jetlag. I gasp. I...
"Dang! This sidewalk's already taken, kiddo".
Kiddo? I'm almost thirty. But what a Texan accent. I turn around, scratching my forearm until it almost bleeds. There, against the wall of the Dallas Southern Bank, closed at this hour, a miserable guy is downing a bottle of hooch in shabby clothes. A balding forehead, scaly skin, stringy gray hair... and the look of someone who just stayed here when he didn't know where else to go. I've always attracted bums. But I think it's mostly because of my tendency to legitimately see them as people.
My leg's killing me, really, so I crash on the floor next to him, and never mind if he wants to charge me a fee for occupying his private corner of the sidewalk. He looks at me as if I'm an alien, or as if he's deciding whether my facial features are acceptable or not. But eventually he shrugs. After all: he's an outcast too.
"What year is it, dude?", I ask him.
This question makes him burst out laughing into his bottle. Exaggeratedly, as if he wanted the whole street to enjoy it.
"I've known a lot of weirdos, but you're a corn-fed one."
"Answer me. Then you can decide if I'm mad as a hatter."
He shrugs and takes a swig.
"1961. And in an hour, you'll feel it's January."
"It's not cold. I'm from up north, you know."
My accent betrays me as well.
"East coast, huh? Y'all are really not like us, up there. I like your airship shirt by the way".
I look at what his cataract-white eyes are looking at. I'm sure he's not even that old, but his life must have been hard and it shows.
"Oh. That's Led Zeppelin."
"They stopped making those in the '40s."
He's talking about the airship. That makes me smile through my exhaustion. Actually, it'll be '68 before the band comes together, but he doesn't need to know that. And it's fine with me, if he thinks that - if I'm weird - it's because I'm following fashion from the other side of the country. I rub my leg over the bandage Klaus put on me, which has already partly torn off. The guy whistles.
"Say, did you clean up that shit?"
It's obvious that he's already had a bunch of wounds, some of which must have festered.
"Let's Git-R-Done".
With a flick of his wrist, he turns his bottle upside down and sends a shot of bad whiskey to lick the wound inflicted by the Icarus Theater gunmen. In another time, another world, now pulverized. I hold back a scream, let the pain fade away. But I'm grateful to him, because I know what it's like to sacrifice a little of that expensive liquor when your hard-earned fortune has been drained to pay for it.
"Thanks, man," I say.
"Mark."
"Rin."
"You're a strange bird, aren't you. What'd you come for, from up north?"
I sigh.
"I just... escaped here."
That's not such a lie, and he takes it at face value, starting to booze again.
"Bless your heart. Well, Rin, you'll still have to get a spot of your own. Because this place is already busy, see, and this isn't my first rodeo, so if you know what I mean, you're going to get the hell out and... Shit, the cops."
I look toward the end of the street, which a car is crisscrossing.
"They don't like me hanging around. Shit. Shit."
All of a sudden, he's on his feet, packing up all his stuff, in a matter of seconds, as if he were used to doing it in a hurry on a daily basis. Probably even several times a day, before letting a little time go by and coming back to hang out once the patrol's over. He points a finger at me.
"This is my spot, get it?"
I struggle to my feet. My leg like my head keeps hammering at me.
"Okay, okay. I never intended to take it from you, you know."
He takes a step towards the crossroads, and the unlit shopfront of a butcher's, overlooked by a huge bovine figure standing out against the dark night. The cops sound their siren, and Mark mimics it with a demented laugh, before staring at me one last time... and then flying off. I make myself discreet, pretend to walk normally, and I blend into the shadows of the closed shops. The police car passes by. I might still be able to make myself invisible as a last resort, but I'm really exhausted. I should sleep. I really should. I've never felt the need so strong.
Sleep... As if the universe had heard this wish and didn't care, a fine drizzle begins to fall. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and cross the street. I'm still wondering where everyone is. If any of them got there before me, or others will do so afterwards. I walk a little further along the sidewalk, eventually turning into the neighborhood, some of whose houses are lit up. I notice the atmosphere of Dallas, almost intimate in this neighborhood, at this time, so different from the immensity of The City in 2019. But it's not wonder, no. It's a kind of painful awe, and my stomach is somewhat knotted.
I hobble around the block, arriving right at the back of what I identify as the Avon cinema. The Rocky Horror Picture Show won't be released until fifteen years from now, I just can't believe it. I don't even know if Klaus is breathing at the same time as I do or not, in this year. What a weird feeling. I sigh. And then, a movement catches my eye. That of a cat - another one - escaping from a black window barred by boards and bricks intended to wall it off.
It's a small house with decrepit walls, certainly abandoned for some years. With a few vines invading a fence that's never been closed. I don't really have the strength to think. Even though I've bragged to Mark, the man from the South, I'm starting to shiver from the cold. I shake my head. Squats used to feel better when there were two of us crowding in, with a shamelessly pilfered dairy-free pizza. I don't even try to remove the firmly nailed boards, I gather all the strength I have left.
*Crack!*
Within a second, I collapse on a musty old mattress, where I close my eyes and let myself be carried away again. By sleep this time. Heavy, thick. Until the dreams seized me. Troubled dreams, like nothing I've ever had.
I see the street where I've wandered so much this evening: Rosati and sons, the butcher's shop which cow has fallen to the ground. The bank, and the Avon movie theater, devastated by tank fire marked with a red star. The dust of brick and bodies, the wrenching shrieks of fighter aircrafts flying low over the rooftops.
And in the midst of this chaos Viktor, sonically disintegrating the T-62 missiles. Klaus, who raises and materializes a dozen soldiers and civilians - who just happened to fall under the bullets. Just while bringing me back once more, and materializing Ben and the Horror in their deadly ambush. Luther, parrying flames from his bare skin, Five, wandering aimlessly. Allison, blowing brains with her own voice. Diego, tossing back bullets with a single salto. I have blood on my conscience as much as on my hands, and I'm turning myself invisible and intangible again, sabotaging bodies as much as machines.
Until I see them tear through the sky. The deadly warheads, the toys of Oppenheimer, the Destroyer of Worlds. A rain - again - even more destructive than that of Moon rocks: that of nuclear fire. *Crack!* I teleport away in the distance, where I can try to prevent the terrible chain reactions of fissions at the heart of matter. Maybe I can do it for one of those bombs. For two, who knows. But for so many? I teleport again, I exhaust myself, and the first nuke hits the ground. The second. Once again, the umbrella is useless.
And so I wake up gasping for air, I roll over on the cold mattress... and I fall painfully back to sleep. For many hours this time, eyelids and fists clenched, frightened and torn. Then and there, never and nowhere, for the first night I spend even before I'm born.
Notes :
And we're back in our bowling shoes, my friends, for the start of 'A bend in space-time' (and The Umbrella Academy) season 2. This is 1961 in Dallas, with all its inequalities and a situation that might seem distressing... Come on. It's already satisfying to be alive!
Remember the homeless guy who yells "Allisooooon" with Luther in episode 1? I've always thought he should be given more space. Since he's only credited as "homeless man", I allowed myself to name him. And I had to learn a bit of a Texan accent...
So what's Rin going to do now, once she's had a bit of a rest? We'll soon find out! And just like in the good old days of season 1...
Any comment will make my day!