Chronological markers: this scene fits in as a deleted scene from The Umbrella Academy, season 3, episode 7 (around 08:20, while Allison smokes on the stairs, shortly before Luther comes to talk to her).

Suggested soundtrack: Lady Gaga - Highway Unicorn ; Imagine Dragons - Smoke and mirrors. TW: reflections on death, revenge and the loss of loved ones.

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April 06 2019, 01:39 pm

While coming back up from Chris's psykronic alcove, I stood dazed for a moment in the elevator, watching stripes of light pass through the scissor gate. Mechanically, I returned to the giant thermos of coffee on the living room bar and poured myself another cup of black nectar, even larger than the first.

Even though I know Chris is right to attempt one last action to contain the Kugelblitz, I am mortified today at the thought that it could go terribly wrong. For the first time in my life, strangely, I began to form a lasting attachment to a part of myself. And, ironically, it's that insufferable cube.

Today, Chris also did something immense for me, at least as significant as when I allowed him to meet Granny: he made me realize that he has no more legitimacy to exist in this timeline than I do. This, along with Klaus's words yesterday, convinced me. Yes, I belong wherever I find myself, no matter what part of space-time that may be. As long as space-time itslef continues to exist.

But as if to immediately thwart this newfound confidence... a voice suddenly rises in the pseudo-Moorish living room, resonating against the unique patterns of circles and lines from Makȟá Zuȟéča.

"In the end, it's a relief Chris ditched that look."

The voice comes from behind one of the living room's pillars, which support the gallery. But before me, perched on the back of a couch, there is a crow, staring at me with its black eyes.

My face hardens. I can't tell if Fei is referring to Chris's transition or his cubification, but either way, it's offensive. I never expected much kindness from her anyway, only that she'd leave me alone.

"Keep your sarcasm for your brother, Fei. Leave me out of your squabbles."

She finally appears in the living room, arms crossed, her long fingers posed in her peculiar way. Her glasses do little to hide the fact that she no longer has eyes but sutures instead. It's not hard to guess that her own crows ate them, likely during childhood when she hadn't yet mastered her power. Now, she sees through them as clearly as I see her.

Her birds are perfectly material, a tangible extension of her own body, connected to her nervous system. Tied to matter and physical energy, her power is - in some ways - not so different from mine compared to the abilities of Sloane, Diego, or Luther, which relate to forces and trajectories. Still, I feel more distant from her than anyone else, as she seems utterly devoid of empathy.

"Chris hasn't been himself since you arrived."

She's standing on the carpet, slightly turned with a sly smile. I feel an overwhelming urge to chase her bird away, but I know that wouldn't lead to anything good.

"It's a form of attenuated paradox psychosis. We should already consider ourselves lucky-"
"No. He's softening. You're turning him into a damn fledgling."
Her tone is aggressive, but I choose to take it as a compliment.
"Maybe that's what he is deep inside his cube, and he never developed it because he grew up in a nest of obnoxious assholes."

Except for Sloane. Yeah. Sloane is different from that lot. But I know I shouldn't engage in the verbal sparring Fei is trying to provoke. That's exactly what she wants. She shrugs anyway.

"One of the oobnoxious assholes just came to tell you that the phone rang, and it's for you. In the hallway by the bedrooms."

One of her long fingers unfolds, pointing toward the hall and the red staircase. Fei's way of making her voice suave while being simultaneously helpful and insufferable is disconcerting. Truly, I pity Chris for having had to share missions and a bathroom with her all these years. But the phone? For me? Unfortunately, I can only think of one possibility. I sigh.

"Okay. Thanks."

I take a step to leave the living room with my huge coffee mug, but her crow swoops down in a perfectly aerodynamic dive, landing right in my path. I stop short, turning around cautiously, eyes narrowed.

"I also know that this lousy idea of collaborating comes from you, after you cost us Jayme, Alphonso, and, in a way, Marcus."

I take another step, but the crow caws and flaps its wings, its claws grazing my arm. I can confirm they are tangible and sharp: not the kind of birds you want to cross. Fei... is literally a weapon. And generally, most of the Sparrows have powers particularly suited for defense and combat situations: much more so than the Umbrellas, as if that were intentional. As if that were the very point Hargreeves designed them to complement.

"That's not true. Chris wants it too. Sloane and Luther took the same path on their end, and now Ben is calling a meeting: that means he's been convinced."

By their father, obviously, but it's not useful to mention that here. Fei grits her teeth. I can feel how much Ben irritates her in every fiber of her being. It's as if her entire matter and energy bristle like a cat's fur simply at the mention of her brother. The power dynamics within the Sparrows are intense. Yes. They were only united and effective by reputation.

"Thanks for being my switchboard", I say a bit provocatively, certainly as Chris would have, and she releases two more birds as a knee-jerk reaction. So I laugh softly, become intangible, and simply let her creatures pass through me, cawing in frustrated anger.

With a small wave, I disappear into the hall.

*Crack!*
I visualize this big house so vividly that teleporting anywhere inside it is second nature.

"Hello?"

The bakelite receiver feels heavy in my hand as my eyes wander over the hallway lined with bedrooms, half of which are now unoccupied. Last night, I couldn't bring myself to squat in Marcus's or anyone else's room: I still have some sense of respect. Only erratic breathing answers me, so I repeat:

"Hello? Klaus. Klaus, did you spin the phone dial at random again, or is this intentional?"

I'm joking of course. You wouldn't believe how many calls like this I've gotten, usually made from some run-down payphone in the middle of the night with a begged-for coin. But today feels different. I'm both much less... and much more worried. Because I have no idea what Klaus is actually up to with his father out in the sticks.

"Rin-Rin, this is the worst lunch break of my life."
I roll my eyes and lean against the red staircase wall where the phone is mounted.
"Why? Did you stop at a cheese shop?"

Klaus exhales theatrically on the other end, and I'm no fool: I know his lactose intolerance has nothing to do with his current mood.

"No. Dad is HORRIBLE, after all. You were right about him. He seems nicer than the other one, but he-"

He abruptly falls silent, and I guess Reginald Hargreeves is nearby, perhaps at the roadside gas station judging by the ambient noise behind him. I picture Klaus flashing him a syrupy smile until he walks away, and I chuckle softly.

"...he's been killing you since last night, I know. I felt your energy switch flick on and off again and again until late into the night."

The day before, Klaus worried about what he was putting me through with each new occurrence of his deaths. Since last night, he's experienced as many as he had in thirteen years. I suspect Hargreeves has finally wandered off - likely to the snack aisle - because Klaus mutters into the receiver, half-spitting his words:

"He's making me play 'bus-ball' on Highway 112. I've been roadkill seven times since this morning, and he still complains, saying I'd better shave more time off my record after lunch."

It's not funny - really, it's not - but the urge to laugh is irresistible in this moment. I hold it back, though, because I can tell from his breathing that Klaus is both exhausted and frustrated. And a caffeinated thought pops into my mind.

"Seven times? And not a single vehicle stopped?"
I already knew the drivers of the transcontinental routes were heartless.
"Not one! They sped up, like I was a family of opossums or some shaggy raccoon! My legs broke three times, my hip twice. And my fringe leather jacket - you know, my favorite? - it's completely ruined. RUINED. What am I supposed to wear to a country festival now?"

This is not the moment to tell him the Kugelblitz has already made festivals irrelevant, considering the city is literally collapsing around us. But if his jacket is ruined, I doubt I can cheer him up quickly.

"Well, at least you're learning more about how you work, which is what you came to ask him for..."
Let's not forget Klaus was the one who initially requested all this. I admired his courage until recently, but now he seems deflated, like a worn-out inner tube.

"I heal fast, that's for sure. Even faster than when I broke my wrist playing Twister on Oxycodone."

It's true, this aspect of Klaus's power has grown dramatically over the years. Of course, I'd noticed he healed faster than anyone else, his fractures reset themselves, he was practically immune to STDs - thank goodness - and he couldn't catch the flu even when it wiped out the entire rehab dorms. Apart from odd rashes and his lactose intolerance, Klaus has always dominated the health game, no matter what he put himself through. And of course, I know why.

"But you? Do you want to improve your time?"

This is the only question that matters. I have no objection to Klaus using Hargreeves's relentless involvement if it helps him better understand and control his abilities. He hesitates before finally sighing, Lady Gaga blaring on the gas station's radio in the background.

"Yeah. I want to. I want to."
I blink, still leaning against the red staircase wall.
"You can't figure out how?"
"No. My oppositional defiance disorder is in peak form."
I smile because I think he's getting closer to the heart of the issue.
"You reject your deaths, Klaus. What if you tried accepting them instead?"

He goes quiet for a long moment, too long by his standards. I know I've struck a chord inside the out-of-tune ukulele that is his mind, but I suspect his father has returned, possibly chatting with the cashier whose scanner beeps faintly in the background.

"I have to go back," he says reluctantly.
"And I'll head back to the Hotel, if you need me again."

There's one last pause, an unspoken agreement between us. Then, after whispering, "Thanks, Rin-Rin", he hangs up, leaving nothing but the continuous beep of the disconnected line.

Slowly, I hang up the receiver too and shove my hands into my pockets. Then, I walk through the hallway of bedrooms toward the other staircase: the one not painted red but a sickly green. It leads to the back exit, opening onto Rigel Street instead of Rainshade Square. The same door that was always triple-locked in our version of 2019, but through which the Sparrows - unlike us - are allowed to come and go freely.

Under my steps, the worn stairs creak in dim light. But soon, a smell hits me: a rich, slightly sweet, not-too-harsh luxurious tobacco scent. That of Davidoff cigarettes, the ones Allison used to smoke in our former version of 2019.

"Shit", I mutter to myself.

I'm tempted to teleport outside. Running into Allison isn't on my agenda today, let alone talking to her. But there she is, sitting at the bottom of the stairs on the last few steps, blowing thick smoke rings into the stale air. The swirling tendrils rise briefly before dissipating.

I haven't spoken to her since we arrived in 1963: we've merely crossed paths. Yet every part of her seems to have changed, culminating in the revelation last night of what she did to Harlan: a gesture beyond comprehension, a pure and simple act of murder.

I know the Hargreeves view death differently than I do, shaped by the missions they were forced to carry out at a young age. I know this especially through Klaus, who, in contrast, developed such a rejection of death that he can't even kill mosquitoes in the summer. I don't underestimate the trial his months in Vietnam were, and I'm grateful Dave helped him through it. But Klaus, by nature, lacks the anger and bitterness that Allison accumulates relentlessly, against herself and the world around her.

I descend a few more steps, reaching her level, my body language clearly signaling I intend to continue past her. Without even looking up, she says:

"You can just turn intangible and walk through me if you want to get by."

What's this? A challenge? Insolence for the sake of chaos? I once held Allison in relatively high regard. Now, I feel only sadness seeing her like this. As always, even when she could only express herself through a notebook, I choose to be straightforward with her.

"Allison, you're spiraling, and it's not good."

I'm not the type to judge people. I always try to understand their reasons for acting as they do: I can even do this with Reginald Hargreeves, in some way. But Allison is sinking into darkness that I can't fathom.

"You don't know anything", she replies without retracting her legs, taking another drag from her cigarette. "You don't know what it's like to have given up everything to find your daughter, only to discover she doesn't even exist because some random guy 'didn't mean to'".
I frown.
"Some random guy?"

She laughs, but there's no humor in her voice. Perfect smoke rings rise higher, twisting along the green staircase railing.

"Almost random. A guy Viktor made capable of wiping out our mothers before we were even born. Just from a tantrum, like a child throwing themselves on the ground and screaming."

I close my eyes, piecing together what happened. Harlan. Harlan caused their mothers' deaths—and others too. Allison held him responsible, and in a way, Viktor as well. She acted purely out of vengeance, and her eyes gleam when she finally looks at me, and adds:

"So no, you don't know this emptiness. You don't know what it's like to have a happy marriage. You don't know what it's like to hold your own flesh and blood in your arms, only to see her erased from existence."

Allison knows I have no interest in marriages or children. The idea of having offspring makes my skin crawl. At this moment, she's just trying to hurt me, as if my inability to feel her pain is unbearable for her. But she couldn't be more wrong.

"No, I don't know about husbands and kids. But I've lost people too, and I'm still losing them. You don't know anything either."

She knows nothing of what happened to Granny, for instance, but I won't bring it up. Allison has never been willing to listen to anyone. She only knows how to talk about herself. And I realize, once again, that I'm foolish enough to try helping her. I crouch on the stairs, still blocked by her, sitting on the step just above hers. I murmur, even though I know it's harsh and she'll hate hearing it:

"Allison, you had already lost your daughter."
I've said it gently, by my standards, but she almost hisses:
"I can't believe that. There has to be a way to go back. If only Five's damn briefcase still worked."
I shake my head slowly.
"Everyone we loved perished in the 2019 apocalypse timeline. Even if Claire had existed here, she would've been the daughter of another version of you, with a different trajectory. She wouldn't have been the Claire you raised."

Just as Chris didn't become me. Just as the old Dave - who may already have been swallowed by the Kugelblitz in Cleveland - didn't live the life of the Dave Klaus knew. We have to accept that space-time is about new encounters and opportunities now, and we will never truly 'go home'. But Allison rejects this entirely, with every fiber of her being.

"I'm sure there's a way."

I understand that her mind cannot resign itself to losing anyone. It might have been admirable if she didn't express it so violently and dangerously. Allison lived a life where her desires rarely went unmet, with or without rumors. Hargreeves nurtured that in her, just as he encouraged Sloane's romanticism or my empathy. She has always shaped reality to her will: now, she's discovering that the world can resist her, making her even more dangerous.

Today, I feel she's ready to do anything - truly anything - to regain control over reality. To find Claire. To see Ray again. And now that I've seen the list of plug-ins for the Oblivion machine in Reginald Hargreeves's notebook, I'm terrified. One of them is tied to her ability to rewrite reality itself.

"You have to move forward, Allison. And we're still here for you."

I don't know why I try. She's closed off, brooding, and not listening to me.

"That's bullshit, Rin. Everything we're living is an illusion, a mirage. One blink, and none of this exists anymore, or it exists differently. None of this is real."
I frown.
"What I did to Harlan doesn't matter either. There are probably hundreds of other realities where he's fine, listening to his stupid tapes of stomach gurgles or annoying insects."

I realize she's suffering from a form of timeline sickness, falling into a relativism where nothing feels real or significant - not even killing or abusing someone - because alternate realities exist somewhere. A desperate form of madness born from her depression.

"You're wrong, but you need to figure that out for yourself", I say, rising again and finally turning intangible to pass through her, as she won't move. I can't help her anymore: no one can, I think. She'll need to reach the end of her madness, her ultimate whim, to understand. At whose expense this time?

"Save your dime-store psychoanalysis for your dear Klausie, will you?"

I shrug, not even sighing. And - without a goodbye - I turn toward the door that will lead me out onto the street.

-

Notes:

I had truly anticipated writing this chapter because writing Allison in season 3 is not something I feel at ease with. And yet, there were several analyses I needed to explore regarding her development and how it impacts the season finale... and season 4.

Thankfully, Klaus provided a bit of levity in this chapter. The encounter with Fei wasn't exactly a walk in the park either!

Any comments will make my day!