Friday, November 22 1963, 11:21 am
'Hargreevism'. A neologism-like noun for any unlikely - and usually stressful, dangerous or even lethal - situation, involving one of the Hargreeves. Any of them. A well-documented phenomenon (by me and, unfortunately, their father), whose devastating potency tends to increase exponentially as they grow in number. In the presence of three of them or more, you're in serious trouble. With four of them, you need to activate anxiety management mechanisms. With five of them, the very integrity of the fabric of reality begins to be threatened, and with six of them (or seven, if you count that the afterlife is also blessed with one of those troublemakers), then the Apocalypse is near, if not unavoidable. At least metaphorically.
I couldn't imagine - yesterday - that the puddle of vomit in the alley behind Commerce & Knox could end up being insignificant, compared to what awaited me for the evening, after finally dropping by the Mansion to change into something other than my gardening overalls. Simple, high-waisted jeans and a blouse definitely still too hippy for my taste. Believe it or not, I'd barely finished putting my shoes back on when the phone rang and Jill called me.
It was Klaus. And - in an utterly suspicious voice - he asked if I could come over to Allison's to help them 'rectify the living room's interior decoration'.
It's a gift, to seem to say completely off-the-wall things and yet be so factual and accurate. Klaus excels in this field: his bullshit almost always makes sense, especially when the background reality beyond is terrible. This was demonstrated to me again - last night - during the most formidable 'Hargreevism' known since the 2019 Apocalypse.
I arrived by taxi. Quite late. And there, on the sofa of the Chestnut's cozy little living room, the corpse of a tall, blond behemoth was quietly stiffening.
I learned that Allison and Raymond had been attacked in their own home, for reasons that are unclear to me, but which I assume were again related to Five's doings. I found out that Allison had used a Rumor and induced one of the assailants to kill his own brother. She's not feeling very well, and neither am I, I admit. And while Klaus bragged for a while about his alleged ability to get rid of such 'bulky waste', you should know that he didn't do any better than the rest of us: namely, standing there all evening, slumped over the table. In shock, unable to decide what to do.
So why did Klaus ask me to come? He figured I could teleport the guy to a place that would make all the evidence disappear: directly above a landfill incinerator, or under the foundations of a skyscraper under construction. Nothing but logic in his brain. But I just can't get anywhere near that motionless man, his eyes staring into space, his expression frozen in pain, surprise and bewilderment. I couldn't do it. And I slept in the front porch veranda, unable to set foot inside again, even to go upstairs.
Now sitting on the sidewalk beside the pretty lawn bathed in the amber late morning light, I pass a hand over my eyes. The truth is, I've never seen a dead body, with two exceptions: the snipers at the Icarus Theater, dehumanized under their huge ant-like masks, and sadly my mother, in a past I'd rather not remember. Seeing ghosts through spectral energy is something else. Paradoxically, they inspire me with nothing but a terrible, violent impulse to live, whereas such inert bodies are just nothingness.
I hug my knees to my chest and watch the locals come and go. I've spent a large part of my morning watching the families walking around, oblivious to what's going on inside their neighbors' cozy house. Some are wearing their Sunday best, even though it's Friday: they're on their way to the Grassy Knoll to see Kennedy, something my mind can't even think about.
Listening carefully, I can hear that the endless chatter has resumed inside the living room. I just heard furniture sliding and the carpet being lifted. I hope they're not planning to roll the guy up in it so they can move him more easily. Behind my back, however, I hear the now-familiar creak of the veranda door, and the sound of three footsteps coming down the small stairs. Then a deep, beautiful voice, yet disturbed at the moment, says to me:
"Still don't want anything to eat?"
I shake my head and look quickly over my shoulder at the man I finally and formally met last night in the midst of this dramatic situation. The one who smells of cedar wood and carries a charming erudition, under the name of Raymond. Ray, whom we helped out of jail a few days ago, and whom I would have liked to get to know in other circumstances.
"I'm not very hungry," I answer honestly. And I can tell by the look on his face that he's no more used to this kind of situation than I am.
In fact, it could be a terrible situation for them, for him especially, with his previous history of incarceration. The body of a man killed in his own home, white as a Nordic iceberg moreover. I shudder for him and for Allison, and I regret being so unable to help.
"I'm so sorry, Ray... that I can't do more."
He comes and sits next to me on the sidewalk, and his presence somewhat soothes me. He exudes a kind of dignified phlegm that I can't quite describe, but which I understand Allison liked. He's in shock at what's happening, too. And he says to me:
"None of this makes any sense. I wouldn't have expected you could... carry him away in the blink of an eye."
I stare at him, even though he's gazing out at his neighbors' house. I'm guessing he didn't know about Allison's past life until recently, and that the realization has been harsh, in recent days, being forced to deal with the very idea of 'power' for the first time. He seems to me to be struggling with an inner turmoil even worse than my own. And I suppose that when a 'Hargreevism' of this kind shatters everything you thought you knew about your marriage, it's even less easy to cope with. And he asks me, half-heartedly:
"How many of you are there, exactly? There always seems to come more..."
I chuckle faintly, realizing that he's associating me with Allison, Klaus and - I imagine - Luther, without making the disctinction I've always made. But I'm also guessing that he knows nothing about where we've come from, nor anything about the Umbrella Academy. And it's not mine to tell him all that.
"Allison has six brothers," I tell him. "There's one you won't see."
And this dead one is precisely one of those now in his living room, but I can't tell him that so casually, sitting on his lawn. He doesn't need that.
"So you're not part of the family?" he asks me over his now-crumpled brick-colored shirt, and I purse my lips.
"No. At least not in the sense in which the word 'family' is conventionally used."
The truth is, the very essence of who we are is becoming increasingly unclear to me, especially now that I know that Reginald Hargreeves deliberately chose to have me 'grow' in an external, but nonetheless carefully selected, soil. And inevitably, even if I never mention it, I'm also asking myself a question to which I doubt I'll ever be able to find an answer, but which Ray immediately expresses aloud:
"What are you all, exactly?"
I hug my knees a little tighter, rest my chin on top of them. And as three young men walk by waving little flags printed with Kennedy's face, I shrug helplessly.
"I don't know. I don't think any of us have the slightest idea. I can only sense..."
It's hard for me to put it to anyone other than Five.
"...that we're made differently".
And he asks, in a way that makes me realize how disturbing this whole situation is, for someone just thrown into it:
"You're not using those abilities for ill purposes, are you?"
"No, of course not...", I reply.
Yet I'm still staring at him, because the answer isn't actually that trivial, especially now that a guy has died from one of Allison's Rumors. It was in clear self-defense, of course, but this echoes so many things that have already happened, including an Apocalypse that wiped out humanity. Without even going that far, I'm thinking of my past illicit jobs, and of a specific cult. And really, I sometimes wonder where the line is drawn in whether our existences are beneficial or not. I sigh.
"We're doing everything we can to try to right the wrongs we're causing, at least. But..."
I'm going to make a confession to him, and I don't make it easily:
"... none of us chose to be born this way, and it's mostly a lot of trouble, not to say suffering."
After having spoken with Luther, I'm certain that none of the Hargreeves were spared. In hindsight: even I wasn't. But what Ray needs to know above all is:
"For Allison, too."
Ray looks up at the clear blue Dallas sky, then back down at me. He's a smart man, amazingly so, and I immediately sense empathy in his penetrating gaze, even if it hurts him to realize that his Allison might have had a life quite different from what he'd thought. He nods slowly, aware of how much he doesn't know about her, outside the reality she's built for herself here from scratch. Without Rumors, by the sweat of her brow and soul, but once again on quicksand. He takes a deep breath.
"At least you're all together," he says. "Whoever suffers alone suffers the most. But when grief is shared with friends and companions, the mind can rise above suffering."
This quote - for once quite different from Beyonce's lyrics - sounds to me like something from Shakespeare. It does me both good and bad, because it also ties in with Reginald Hargreeves's questioning during the 'light supper', namely 'why don't you band together?', to which I reply, with all the kindness I can muster:
"It often seems to me that we're just a gathering of lonely people".
Just at that moment, the living room window opens, and Klaus's shaggy head peeks through the gap in the orange cotton curtains.
"Ray... Hey, my favorite brother-in-law, can you come take over? I need to sit for five minutes on this lovely sofa..."
Raymond stands up and places his hands back in the pockets of his well-cut pants, while I return his discreet smile. I rest my chin on my knees again, and focus back on my breath and the daily life of the neighborhood. Now, the historic events will take place in less than an hour, and the Dallas air almost carries the clamor of the crowd waiting for JFK. I'm exhausted from my bad night, and I close my eyes for a moment.
Five minutes, maybe ten. Until the sound of the door being forcefully opened behind me suddenly snaps me back to myself.
"Rin-Rin, off we go!" Klaus chirps, pulling me out of my torpor and onto my feet like a sack. "We've got an apocalypse brewing for real."
"An apocalypse brewing..."
My gaze lays on Diego. Did he arrive while I was asleep? And he resolutely says, his eyes almost blazing:
"Viktor is about to blow up an FBI building on Dealy Plaza. Wrong place, wrong timing."
Klaus flails his hand while opening the car door where Allison has already settled behind the wheel.
"And execrable geopolitical context. Diego, how long does it take intercontinental nukes to get here from Eurasia?"
As the latter quickly slips into the passenger seat, sleep is instantly swept from my mind, and the causal chain that I had been missing to explain the vision I had two years ago through Five's eyes is now much clearer. If anything of Viktor's power has indeed aroused the attention of the FBI - especially here in Dallas in '63 - then the consequences for him will possibly be terrible. And whenever terrible things happen to Viktor...
"The car's too slow," I say, closing the door once Klaus is seated in the back.
He looks at me through the open window with questioning eyes, only to meet my determined expression. I step back and look around me, my mind already reviewing the space-jumping possibilities available to me for teleporting there.
The blood pulses at my temples, as fast as my heart beats and the car engine hums. I bend over at the window again, I glance at the three of them, and as I take a step to leave, I say:
"I'll try to buy you some time".
11:42 am
I arrived there in barely one hundred and twenty seconds, as far as I was able to count. I teleported seven times, covering the entire distance between Allison's little house and the FBI building on Dealy Plaza. I'm out of breath, as if I'd been running even though I haven't, and I hide between two dumpsters on the other side of the street. All around me, the crowd cheers as they wait for the presidential motorcade to pass: a sound that covered the cracking of the air when I arrived.
The building Diego mentioned is towering above me, with no sign that Viktor is in there, possibly being interrogated, with methods of pressure I don't want to think about. A massive white façade with square black windows. I must waste no time: I make myself invisible and intangible before anyone can catch a glimpse of me on the premises. Breaking into a federal building? To think I'd promised myself I'd never do that again...
As casually as you'd walk through the doors of a convenience store, I pass through those on the first floor, arriving in a hallway where employees walk around, carrying files, without seeing me. An ordinary office building, with faded furniture, even for the time. Everyone is going about their normal business, and nothing seems to catch their attention. And yet, I can sense it, this stirring of the surrounding energy. Like a faint but continuous sound from a tuning fork, on the edge of the audible spectrum. Pulsating - sometimes - like a sob. I don't know what's happening to Viktor right now, but the very energy of this place is carrying his suffering to me.
I need to locate him. I close my eyes and focus. I search around me for those unique energy signals I've sometimes mentioned with Five: those bright, golden particles, clear to my senses when I'm close to the Hargreeves. The ones I also possess. And I can feel them: up there, above my head, upstairs. On the fourth floor. No. The fifth floor. *Crack!*
Teleporting without having already physically been to the place you're aiming for is a huge risk, which I remember mentioning to Five when we first met, the day we realized that I was, after all, 'not another him'. And yet, that's what I've just done, because I can't lose time. I just assumed the corridors would always be central and identical on every floor of the building. The one in which I appear under invisibility is quite wide, opening onto several rooms, with a section bordered by a small counter. It takes me only a few seconds to locate Viktor again, in the room at the end of the hallway, where the neon lights flicker in an unpleasantly familiar way. I lurk in my immateriality and invisibility, sneaking across a lead-painted wall.
And I immediately freeze.
Here, in this small room with its caulked windows, Viktor is faced with an interrogator in a suit and a woman dressed in white, carefully putting away a bottle of LSD. His feet are bathed in a saline solution, while he is strapped into an electric chair that seems designed to deliver shocks. His face is one of suffering, behind his closed eyes. And both sound and energy are crying out around him, in what seems to be a struggle with himself more than with the people trying to make him talk.
"Let's give him some more motivation," the woman in the white lab coat suggests, while her colleague fiddles with a control console, immediately causing a shock that makes Viktor jolt. My eyes widen in horror as he inflicts him with a second one.
"We'll stop as soon as you give us the name of your handler".
I can feel the sound waves stiring around Viktor, followed by a terrifying accumulation of potential energy. Completely undetectable for the moment by the two federal agents, who don't know what they're exposing the world to by their actions. Yet to the naked eye, the world around us would still seem completely still.
I can see him shaking in the chair, and have no idea what's going on inside of his terrified mind. But as much as I can, I try to counterbalance the energy vibrations he's causing. I just close my eyes. I try to cancel them out, to silence them, for several long minutes: a time that seems endless.
"I don't wanna keep doing this to you," the agent utters, with a calmness that makes me squint in pain as I crouch behind the electric chair. The convections of energy subside slightly, and I allow myself a little rest too. But I know the man won't stop there, and he goes on:
"But I have a responsibility to the public, and I need to know who you are..."
Does he think Viktor is a Soviet spy? If so, I suspect he'll go to extremes to make him talk. What I do know is that Viktor's emotional state must be that of a torn partition, by now. And the man adds, his hand on the control button again:
"Who. Are. You?"
As if this question had a terrible echo with whatever Viktor is currently fighting inside, I instantly feel a new surge of sound waves, this time bigger. His seat is now jerking sharply, almost as if he were convulsing. I don't have time to think. Instinctively, I jam the electrical machine, then cling again to the energy raised by Viktor's sounds, desperately trying to dam them up again. I must earn time, even just seconds. I have to do everything in my power to delay the moment when he will cause an explosion, because unfortunately I won't be able to prevent it.
"What the hell is happening?" the woman asks, startled, as the neon lights flicker, as much from Viktor's suffering as from my efforts now. And she invectives her colleague:
"You're going to have to terminate."
"I'm trying! I'm trying!"
But the neon lights flicker even brighter, and a halo seems to emanate from everything in the room, of which Viktor is the epicenter. If I could speak, I'd call out his name, while I try one last time to contain the oncoming surge. Growing, again and again, sound waves swirling beyond the audible spectrum, rubbing against matter that finally cracks all over in the form of radiant energy. Now it radiates throughout the room, shining like the glow that had once flooded the beautiful velvets of the Icarus theater. And Viktor's body is shaking uncontrollably, without me being able to do anything to help him.
"How is he still alive?"
It's a derisory question, coming from a man who is in all likelihood about to lose his own life. For suddenly, something changes again. A sudden burst of pure energy rises up from what was just a pulse, shattering the flimsy dikes I'd managed to erect. Shaking up my soul along with everything around.
"I remember," Viktor whispers amid the chaos of white light he's unleashing, and I recoil helplessly.
Suddenly, the energy spreads, and I can feel it flooding the entire hallway, blindingly bright. The clash of matter and energy, set in motion by the sound waves, is almost unbearable for my own being, as my power echoes with it. If I'd been tangible, I'd undoubtedly have suffered the same fate as the two federal employees, thrown like exsanguinated puppets to the ceiling. And yet, I find myself reduced to a vibratory flux, tossed around in this storm like a useless buoy on the surface of a raging ocean. Stunned and powerless, all I can do is contemplate what I've only postponed for a few minutes.
Unless...
In a final effort, a last hope, I try to raise around Viktor a sphere of energy similar to the one I've sometimes created in recent years, including to protect myself. Barely perceptible, amidst the raging torrents he pours out, in new convulsive movements. Now I have to fight to maintain my energetic integrity. And I'm aware that I won't be able to maintain both this sphere and my homeostasis in the face of this hurricane.
I wobble, I struggle. But I need to hold on as long as I can. Until the others arrive. To prevent any explosion that might be noticed from the outside. Until the others are here to take over, even if I don't know what they'll do. If I weren't intangible, my teeth would be clenched so tightly they'd split. But it's within my own energy that the struggle takes place now, as I try to prevent my being from disintegrating in these ethereal whirlwinds.
I don't know how many minutes pass, how long I resist in a state akin to the meditation Klaus so often urged me to practice, back in the days of the 'Children's' travels. I think I've just realized what he uses his damn mantras for: to ground himself, to let the world flow around him, unaffected. To hold out longer under the relentless assaults, as unbearable as the ones I'm enduring now. I need to tough it out for a few more moments, just a few...
There, at the other end of the corridor, beyond the closed doors of the small interrogation room, I just detected the faint electrical and mechanical movement indicating the arrival of the elevator. Other golden particules. Diego. Klaus. Allison. It can only be them: who'd be crazy enough to go up into this inferno of crackling light?
I'm still holding on, my whole being vibrant with a form of rage. But a new surge erupts from Viktor's convulsions, his chest shaking at the heart of my energy sphere, which is splintering. Another wave, stronger than all the others that I was already struggling to contain. My eyes close. I let out a soundless scream.
No doubt, one more deflagration would be one too m-
Notes:
A cliffhanger, halfway through a word? I hope you won't hate me for this...
Any comments will make my day