Snippets of Memory - The Umbrella Academy

A ray of sunshine

This story is a one-shot, part of the recollections of Rin and Klaus' younger years, both of whom appear in the story "A Bend in Space Time" ( taking place over the seasons of The Umbrella Academy - links in my profile). TW: References to drug use - Homophobic insult - Evocation of suicidal thoughts.

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It was 2008. And I remember it was December, because the police officer had an ugly little plastic Christmas tree on his desk, flashing next to his kids' picture. I was mathematically 19, born in October. And - people like me - he clearly didn't see that often.

Oh, he was constantly putting punks behind bars, and my hair wasn't helping him think any better of me. I think I had it shaved on the left, and tousled into a crest on the other side. Were the ends fuschia? Or turquoise blue, I can't tell. I think I had as much studs as leather on my pants, boots as heavy as half my body weight, and a patch-covered perfecto I'm still wearing today. But no, that wasn't the reason he was staring dumbfounded at his typewriter.

I'd been caught inside the patent repository of the industrial giant SodaCola, I think. A room that can only be accessed by passing through six high-security doors, the last of which is similar to a safe. You know what I mean? With a big wheel that opens only from the outside. Well, it was gently closed, and I was inside, looking for a recipe that rival PezziCola wanted. I'd made sure I was invisible to the security cameras, and I'd remained intangible for a long time, to get this far. But to rummage through documents, you have to materialize, and the infrared surveillance didn't miss me. I managed to teleport three times, but I my luck ran out. A tazzer shot finally knocked the wind out of me.

Oh, I should make that clear right now if you haven't figured it out. Some people are born with ginger hair, or a spot on their arm. I, on the other hand, was born with the ability to make myself invisible, intangible, or both. And teleportation, okay. This may seem incredible, but you'll see it's actually a lot of trouble, especially when you use it to make ends meet. And you'll also learn that - in this story - it's not that crucial after all.

"We'll wait for the PezziCola execs' response," said the cop, and I think I shrugged fatalistically.

I always snitched on my employers when caught. They wouldn't hire me again anyway. I have been lucky: it could have got me into more trouble than that. And as for Pezzi, it was a desperate attempt: SodaCola was and will always do everything to keep its recipe unique, until an Apocalypse comes and sweeps it all away. There'll be no harm in spoiling the ending for you: they bailed me out, and handsomely enough to ensure that no one - especially the media - would ever mention it again. But the officer didn't know that yet, and was simply following his procedure.

"In the meantime, Miss Porcupine, you're going to get a nice, warm night's sleep".

I didn't say anything, and I didn't consider escaping, even though I could have. It's never a good idea to escape from police custody: you could get worse than you were caught for. A colleague of the officer's took over and grabbed me by the arm. He circled it easily, lifting me as if I were a bundle of wood. I didn't struggle, it wasn't worth it. I just let an insolent black look slide over both of them. And as he dragged me into the detention cells aisle, he told me with a smirk:

"At least you won't get bored."

After removing my handcuffs, he threw me into one of the dozen barred cells at the end of the corridor. A gray, worn, waxed concrete floor peeling in many spots, a bunk so hard that a plank would have been better, a disgusting sink, and literally a hole to serve as toilet. This, and no privacy with the cells next door. At Argyle Central police station in The City, I swear everything is done to dissuade you from doing anything again. And yet, there seemed to be other people in the aisle with consistent subscriptions. After locking my door, my pleasant guard addressed my neighbor, as if talking to a regular 'customer':