Chronological markers: this scene fits in as a deleted scene from The Umbrella Academy, season 3, episode 2, around 06:00 (while Viktor gets a haircut, and Klaus wakes up before leaving for Pennsylvania).

Suggested soundtrack: Caravan Palace - Miracle ; Yom - Ancestors Dance.

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April 3 2019, 09:31 am

I still remember my first night in the sixties. Troubled, lonely, anxious. Marked by the pain of the gunshot wound I got at the Icarus Theater, by the apocalyptic nightmares glimpsed through Five's eyes, but even more by the fear of having lost Klaus and the other Hargreeves.

This first night, now back in 2019, was nothing like it.

Of course, I felt the familiar burning sensation on my forearm after the tattoo I got last night: a mix of tingling and burning, which isn't unpleasant in itself because I know it comes with a sense of accomplishment and relief. Sure, there was that strange feeling after the power outage that hit the neighborhood. But I told myself that my heightened senses might just be due to tiredness, and I chose to ignore it.

Clearly, on my first night here, I had nothing to worry about losing Klaus. Until 2:15 in the morning, he meowed at my door for me to let him in, lamenting about Five's squeaky mattress and Luther's flatulence. I begged him to let me sleep alone, just this once, and he gave in. I'm sorry, but - sometimes - I have to think a little about myself too: that's also one of the lessons the hippies and Dallas taught me.

I had a decent night's sleep, even though the bed isn't as comfortable as one might expect for a high-end suite. I was a bit bothered by the neon lights from the large sign, as well as a strange continuous humming resonating in my chest—maybe the mini fridge from the bar corner, though the sound seemed to come from everywhere. But I eventually drifted off. And I think that - this morning - my strength has returned.

I feel filled with a kind of euphoria, as I climb the stairs leading to the mezzanine where Diego is already playing pool. As Five said: we may never find a better landing spot in time than this one. So, we might as well feel at home here and embrace who we are now. Thus, I naturally head toward the barbershop housed within the small row of shops in the hotel, its retro glass door displaying the name 'Enrico's, timeless styles for all occasions'. Given the request I'm about to make, this poor guy might just choke.

The little bell on the door tinkles as I let myself in. The man named Enrico is already styling someone's hair, and it only takes me a second to recognize who, despite the radical change in hair length. Viktor, under the towel draped over his shoulders, smiles at me in a calmer way than he ever has before.

"I'll finish up and be right with you," the barber says to me professionally, though somewhat mechanically. His dexterity with the scissors is, however, extremely precise, and I can see that he does his job with dedication.

I nod: I'm not in a hurry. So, I sit down in the chair right next to Viktor's, looking in the same direction as him.

"Cool tattoo," he says, having immediately noticed it on my left forearm.

And I know how sensitive a topic tattoos are for him. Despite his desire to belong to that complicated family of his, I know he still often feels like an outsider. And despite all the pain associated with that symbol, the absence of an umbrella on his arm has been harder on him in the past than it ever was on me.

"Thanks. Nice haircut."

More than the compliment I give, it's the energy I briefly stir that speaks for me, and Viktor might be able to sense it even in the inaudible spectrum of sounds. I have admiration for him, for his strength of will, for his life journey. For the steps he has managed to take, while others remain in an in-between, like me somehow.

Perhaps it's easy to sense, if you spend a little time with me: I've never particularly identified as a woman, and the male gender wouldn't make me feel that goog either. The question of transitioning has never arisen for me. Maybe because I have this option: to become invisible, intangible, which certainly says a lot. The pronoun you use for me doesn't matter much. I guess I have a tolerable relationship with my own dysphorias today, and I owe a lot of that to Klaus. Because he, being near me, literally doesn't give a shit about the shell that surrounds people's essence.

Yet, Viktor's calm presence stirs something in me, ever since the day I met him above his music case. Something between sympathy and admiration. And I can't help but wonder if - in a different context, a different upbringing, a different life - my path might not have followed his. Enrico brushes off the small hairs from his neck.

"What are you going to do?"

His question brings me back to the present moment, my train of thought almost making me wonder what he means, but I blink.

"With my hair. Oh. I'd like to chase away the hippies and the sixties a bit and go for something more rock."
"Punk?"

I laugh softly. Viktor knows about the crest I met Klaus at the Argyle Central police station, behind the bars of the holding cell.

"I'm going to take it step by step," I tell him. "And even though it's extremely cool, it's a pain to maintain, you know."

He nods.

"I can believe that. Especially if you were dyeing your hair."

I shrug, pressing my lips together, but not regretting it.

"Turquoise, pink, purple... Anything that could really piss off my mother, to be honest."

Except for the orange: I would never do that again. And we laugh, while in the mirror, I see the 'film noir couple' coming up the grand staircase. They already have cocktails in hand, even though they've barely finished breakfast. Viktor chuckles softly at the mention of my mother and murmurs:

"Parenting is never a smooth ride."

Our smiles fade for a moment. Because, like him, I think of Sissy. I think of Harlan. I think about the feelings rising in Viktor at this moment. And also...

"Has Allison come back?"

Viktor sighs as Enrico sweeps the hair off the floor, and he looks at me. And while reading the expectation of painful news on my face, he says quietly:

"Yes. It seems that in this new situation of ours, her daughter doesn't exist. I mean..."
My eyes squint with pain as I complete the sentence:
"...that she never existed."
We both nod.
"She must be devastated," I murmur, and Viktor remains silent for a moment.
"I don't even think there's a word to describe her state. I'm trying to take care of her. I want to at least keep her mind occupied."

I hate kids, even Diego's new son, whose very existence nearly made me choke this morning. But I can easily understand how those who have any can become attached to them as part of themselves. Even when they aren't biologically their own, as Viktor was with Harlan. I can only imagine the pain Allison must feel as a mother, but I extrapolate from the sense of emptiness I felt yesterday looking through the windows of what was once my home. That feeling of void, of erasure, with a pain that must be only amplified when it's a child that has been lost, not just a Metallica poster.

What remains of us here? At this moment, as Viktor and I look at each other, I feel like our identity whirlpools are destined to never stop.

"I found a trace of my grandmother here in The City," I murmur towards Viktor, who quickly turns his eyes to me.
"Are you going to see her?"
Suddenly, I see worry flash in his brown eyes, and I have to admit it to him.
"Yes. I'm having lunch with her later on Crescent Boulevard."
"Rin!"
I sit up with some surprise at his vehemence, as Enrico removes the towel from Viktor's shoulders, his work completed.
"I'm negotiating with the Number One of the Sparrows to get our briefcase back. I think it would be wiser to stay here until it's sorted out."

I open my eyes wider. I'm glad to see that Viktor has taken charge, especially when Five seems intent on drinking Tequila Sunrises and doing crosswords. And that Viktor - Number Seven - is confidently facing a Number One. In his life, Viktor has suffered a lot from his numerical position, and I'm so happy to see him once again overcoming it.

"I'll be careful, Viktor, but..."

I look at him sincerely.

"It's important for me to find Granny after all these years, no matter what she has become. And to... to work for my former boss: to find a foothold in this life. Imagine if we end up having to stay here."

Enrico gestures for him to stand up to free the chair and fills the shampoo basin so I can take my place. Viktor almost trembles.

"I'm doing everything I can to make sure we can go back home. For you. For Allison too, so she can get Claire back."
As Enrico wraps the towel around me, I raise my eyes with a pained expression.
"And for you to return to Sissy..."

It's not even a question, because I know it's his intention, and I can almost feel his regrets. But if the changes in the timeline we're facing here are already so disturbing, who knows what else could get tangled up by making such 'jumps'. I've never been confident in the consequences of time travel, as paradoxical as that may seem. And I add:

"I don't believe those briefcases have ever brought anything good."

Viktor sighs.

"Is Klaus coming with you? I really think it wouldn't be wise to draw attention."
I shake my head. It's both sad and clear-sighted that he sees his brother as a threat to public order.
"I'm going alone. He has things to take care of on his end."
He eventually sighs and says:
"I fear you're not the most difficult one to manage."

-

10h14 am

At the buffet of the Obsidian Bar nestled beneath the mezzanine, there aren't many people left at this mid-morning hour. Bellboys come and go, the old Australian soldier limps, and Chet - the Concierge - searches in vain for his dog. I learned that Five had agreed to go to Pennsylvania with Klaus, and I'm relieved.

For my part, I treat myself to a late coffee after my morning hair changes. Next to me, the lobster tank is now empty, and I glance at my reflection for a moment. I have to admit that Enrico did a great job. I asked him to give me a textured bob, which he managed to infuse with my favorite punk touches. I didn't dye it like I used to. I might revisit that later. But there's another reason why I feel like a new person.

I've just removed the temporary bandage applied last night at Ink Empire. The mere sight of this new tattoo soothes me, even though I don't fully understand why. It's as if there's a promise of balance in this cryptic geometry. Sebastian has accented some of the black ink lines with a bluish tint, giving it an almost metallic effect. I love the way it looks: it almost resembles a circuit board, standing out so perfectly in the golden and blue light filtered through the tall pillars of the lobby.

I admire it now as I take a sip of my favorite black nectar. Iggy is nearby again, smoking some sort of pipe. I've thought about him often while browsing through the Native American wisdom booklet in my room. And not only.

"Good morning," I say to him, and he glances over his shoulder without stopping the circles of smoke he's making with his pipe. He's wearing the same leather jacket as yesterday, just like Hemingway is still in his corduroy pants. The cat ladies pass by in the hallway heading toward the elevators. Already, all these hotel residents feel like old friends.
"Háu," he replies, and I smile, as for once, I understand this greeting.
"I'd like to ask you..."

I hope my question won't be out of place, considering I've only barely crossed paths with him. But he seemed open yesterday and inclined to share the knowledge and traditions of the Lakota.

"The bracelet you're wearing... I noticed it has a white buffalo head on it."

At this, he adjusts his glasses while turning on his bar stool to face me. He leans on his elbow, letting the smoke drift above his hat. I can see that my question pleases him, so I venture to elaborate, making sure not to break the rules of a successful squat as outlined by Klaus.

"I noticed that a suite in this hotel bears its name."

He tilts his head slightly back and looks at me through his smoky glasses, with eyes I can't see.

"I know," he tells me, taking another draw from his stylized pipe. "I had the honor of decorating that suite, as well as a few others in this building."

My brows furrow, as I imagine these places have been this way for a long time. But after all, Iggy did tell me he's been walking these hallways for an infinite amount of time. I now understand better why I found the small Lakota sayings book in that suite. I won't comment on the interior decor, partly because it would reveal that I've been inside if I were to say it.

"Does this white buffalo have any particular symbolism for Native Americans?"

Iggy lets a faint smile pass on his knife-edged face, amid the smoke that envelops him.

"It belongs to one of the most sacred stories of those who walk the Great Plains. The story of Ptesáŋwiŋ, the White Buffalo Woman, who entrusted a sacred calumet to the People as a 'bridge' to Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka: the Great Mystery."

I widen my eyes, marveling at this, so tempted to let myself be carried away by his words. I've known since the first day: Iggy is not ordinary man.

"The Great Mystery..." I repeat. And I finally venture to ask, "What is it?"
He uncrosses his legs, which end in cowboy boots, then crosses them again differently.
"Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka... is a creative life force that permeates and connects all things. It manifests in you, in me, from the rocks to the sky, and in every living being. Everything—even the tiniest thing—holds a part of Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka and should be respected, as it is also a part of us."

I no longer drink. Suddenly, my coffee seems forgotten.

"Is it a god?"
I try to grasp these foundations of Lakota sacredness, and he gently shakes his head.
"No. The Great Mystery is not a personal entity, yet it is Everything. It is the Grand Machinery of the universe."

Just hearing him speak gives me chills and makes me clutch my brand-new tattoo tightly against me, above my coffee. I already found the large buffalo head paradoxically mesmerizing in the suite I'm staying in. But now that I know it symbolizes such a bridge to the infinite, I'll look at it differently. And Iggy blows a few rings of smoke above him, which rise along the retro-lit blue pillars.

"The birth of a white buffalo is both a sacred and terrible event. It signifies that the world is feverish, but it assures us that Ptesáŋwiŋ will return in her buffalo form. The day when the balance and harmony of this world need to be restored."
My eyes rest on his wrist and the buffalo bead in the middle of his bracelet.
"Are you awaiting for it?"

Suddenly, I feel as if Hemingway is watching me for asking that question. And the 'film noir' couple. And the cat ladies. For the first time, Iggy lowers his glasses to look at me, with eyes the color of serpent scales:

"Yes. You have no idea."

-

Notes :

As you know, from the beginning of this story, I've chosen not to use Viktor's deadname. However, it can be inferred between the lines here that his transition likely took place at an earlier stage in the timeline, as I certainly have no intention of ignoring it in his life journey. This chapter provides an opportunity for identity reflection for Rin as well. It's a chance to finally give herself some time and self-love after two long seasons.

Rin's gender questioning was never at the heart of 'A bend in space-time', although you may have understood that between the lines. Now, it plays a part in that arc of connexions and identity, and I'm grateful to my mate Sonder for encouraging me not to opt for a plan B.

I also wanted to address shortly Allison's pain here, which is understandable and immeasurable, even though it does not justify any of her forthcoming actions.

This chapter was both delicate and peaceful to write. I hope I've done my best and respected everyone involved. Including Iggy, and the hotel's mysterious guests, whose nature will soon be revealed.

Any feedback would make my day!