A bend in space-time (Season 2) - The Umbrella Academy

Chapter 2: Hello, Goodbye

Chronological markers: this scene fits like a deleted scene from season 2 episode 1, following the previous chapter.

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January 08, 1961 - 12:23 pm

I slept for fourteen hours, interspersed with nightmares. But how long had it been since I'd slept for so long? Possibly since I was a teenager. It's as if my body's energy needed recharging. My leg still hurts, but I think I've got used to it. The time-travel sickness has faded too: all that's left is a nagging headache. It took me a while to remember where I was. When I was. And now, as I finally open my eyes in the rays of light filtering through the gaps between the window planks, I can finally behold the place where I took refuge last night, in haste.

It's a humble house. A small kitchen inside a square living room with an old sofa, a single bedroom with a shower room and toilet. The furniture is from the forties, and it's covered in dust. The place is carefully walled off to repel people like me. Clearly, I wouldn't have been able to enter if I hadn't teleported in, and no one will probably know I'm there. There's no running water or electricity. All of that was certainly cut off long ago. Nevertheless, I use the toilets: it's something often left out of the story, but it's part of reality. I notice that the mattress was that of a single bed: someone used to live here alone.

In the living room, I let my eyes wander. There are horticultural books in the shaky bookcases, chipped crockery including a single mug, and a pretty black-handled leather satchel. And most of all... numerous pots of houseplants and flowers, withered long ago. In the dim light streaming in, I stand for a moment on the dust of what was once a carpet, contemplating the story told to me by the objects. Tiny air dusts dance in the clear rays, and my stomach rumbles: I haven't eaten anything since the popcorn and bad hot dog from the 2019 bowling alley.

So I try to make myself look decent. My jeans are beyond repair, but I make cuffs under both my knees, to at least hide the fact they're torn. I find a toothless comb, which allows me to untangle my hair a little, and I zip up my perfecto: that way, the zeppelin won't raise any more questions. I adjust my bowling shoes and take a deep breath, as if I'm about to enter the fray.

"Brace yourself, Rin," I say to myself.

And *Crack !*
So here I am outside, in this residential street now bathed in the Texas January sun. There are a few houses, low-rise buildings and the smell of roasted corn. The air is calm, and you can hear the humming of the nearby shopping avenue. It's an outlying district of Dallas, far from the picture you'd expect.

I reach into my pockets and find a dollar bill. Certainly the equivalent of twelve or thirteen, in the purchasing power of my own era. It's stamped "series 2017": I hope the person I'll be giving it to won't look at it too closely. But I soon realize that's not my main problem. At Stadler's, the only restaurant in the area, I could have eaten a whole menu in exchange for this bill. But I spot a rectangular sign claiming 'White only', and I renounce pushing the door open. I pass on my way, shoving back my hands into my pockets.

Being 'mixed race', as they say, I've already attracted curious looks in more clement times. Because depending on the angle, on the way I tie my hair up or not, on a make-up line that changes everything, I disturb the senses, and people don't really know where I come from anymore. Back in my platinum-blond days, no-one could figure it out. But one thing's for sure: I'm not going to risk being thrown out now.

I opt for a small local grocery store, run by an old man, almost blind anyway. First, I buy a drink, because I can't take it anymore. A soda for 10 cents and an apple for 2, can you believe it? Anything that fizzes and refreshes is called a 'coke', here. I buy a few slices of Kraft brand sandwich bread for another 20 cents, the first of which I share with a street pigeon. The rest of my change is spent on Bayer aspirin. And here I am, as broke as a church mouse, but a little fuller at least.