[at the commission–time unknown]
"You're telling me that not only Number Five and the rest of his–his squabbling siblings escaped, but they escaped into the past to prevent the apocalypse from there?"
"Y-Yes ma'am, that's exactly what we're saying," Dot stammered. She was uncomfortable; The Handler seemed increasingly calm. It was very unsettling.
"So...what are we to do about it?" The Handler said, smiling sweetly. Carefully, she picked up a small candy made to be the 1970s. "It's very lovely being off that liquid diet." She smiled wider and tilted her head. Her jaw chewed delicately, eyes twinkling with a small secret.
Dot blinked. Why the fuck had she signed up for this job? "Uh...normally, I would recommend sending in assassins and killing the doubles that are the Umbrella Academy of the Future, leaving the Past to take care of itself and send the apocalypse down its path,"
The Handler arched an eyebrow. "Normally?"
"Yes, normally," Dot said, hesitant. She started to tap her nails on the folder. "Except, see, something strange happened with Five's time-travel. It seems like, instead of there being replicas—the Past Umbrella Academy living their lives as they should, with the Future Umbrella Academy in their time—it seems like the Past...became the Future."
"What exactly are you saying, Dot?" The Handler asked, pursing her lips.
"It's...the time-travelers seem to have absorbed their past selves, so that they are the only ones in the time line."
Silent. Dot wanted to cry or scream or leave. It was almost lunch; Gwendolyn would be there, and Gwendolyn always shared her cigarettes. Fuck, could Dot use a cigarette.
"Solve it." The Handler said. "The apocalypse will come around anyways, whether or not Vanya Hargreeves is there to seal the deal. She was merely the easiest option. Now, go to lunch. Figure out a way to take care of the Umbrella Academy."
Dot nodded, and scrambled out of the office.
Sighing, The Handler lit her cigarette and leaned back in her chair. Picking up Hitler's pistol, she tilted it at a taped up picture of Five.
She fired it, the bullet piercing through his left eye.
God, did she hate that man.
[jordans house—2002]
"Ron!" Jordan turned on his heel, a frantic (and fake) smile on his face. "Hey, brother!"
"Sister," Margaret said as she passed. She reached out and smacked Jordan, the sound satisfactory. He winced, but didn't do anything. Instead, he grabbed his mothers heels when she kicked them off and ran downstairs to greet Ron. He cast one last, worried look over his shoulder at the attic door.
~
"So? How was school?" Jordan asked as he made dinner—ranch chicken, rice, and salad. (He felt distinctly proud of his choices; now, maybe, he could loose some of that pudge around his hips.)
Ron shrugged, flipping through the textbook. "Honestly, it's just getting more and more ridiculous," he said. Pausing, he turned it around and pointed to an image of a girl.
She had long, curly chocolate locks, smooth, hairless creamy legs, full breasts, curves, plump lips, round green eyes, and was wearing a frilly pink dress.
"They think this is what we should be like," Ron tapped the girls face. "Some chick outta a porno."
"Ron!"
"It's true!"
Jordan scoffed. "Since when have you seen a porno?"
Ron shrugged, cheeks flaring red.
"Lets not go there, then," Jordan laughed, and he glanced at the clock. The Umbrella Academy had been upstairs for three hours. Not a peep had been made. He wondered what was happening.
"Chickens burning," Ron said nonchalantly.
"Shit!" Jordan yelped. He managed to salvage the meat, and returned to the salad.
"So..." Ron said, carefully filling in a worksheet. "Why d'you keep looking at the clock?"
Jordan felt his heart skip a beat, but he didn't turn around from the lettuce. "What do you mean?"
"Have you got a date?"
"No!"
"Yes! You do! Who is it? Is it Dawson Lillard? He always struck me as a bit gay,"
"Ron! I do not have a date, and even if I did, it wouldn't be with Dawson Lillard." Jordan could feel his cheeks burn almost as hot as the chicken. His mind fled to Five, locked up in his attic.
Fuck, that made him sound like a serial killer.
"Well, than what're you waiting for?"
"For you to get yourself a boyfriend," Jordan teased. "If that's ever gonna happen."
"You know it won't."
"Well, I figured I'd attempt to make you feel loved."
Ron laughed, and Jordan set the plate down. The two went over to the TV and sat.
"Can we find anything on the Umbrella Academy? It's been a week." Ron asked. Jordan's heart skipped a beat (again. Heart failure was probably foreseeable in the near future; whether from the teenagers hiding in his attic or his fat, who knew?).
"Yeah, of course."
"You're the best."
"You're the worst."
"Aw, love you too Jordan."
Jordan chuckled and started flipping through the channels.
"Woah!" Ron dropped his fork, eyes a light at the footage of Two (Diego, his mind whispered) and One (Luther). They where fighting, knives thrown at full speed and Luthers anger taken out on these men. Poor things didn't know what was coming.
Three (Allison) and Four (Klaus! his mind shouted) where in the background, fighting side by side; from outside, a shadow of a monster.
They watched the recorded footage of the fight for another forty minutes, and then Jordan declared it time for bed. After all, Tate was coming to visit while Mom was out. Why wouldn't he want a good nights sleep?
Jordan thought that was a good excuse to have Ron in bed by nine instead of ten.
Now, how was he supposed to feed the Academy?
Running a hand through his curls, he silently closed his mothers door (she was passed out, the aroma of liquor surrounding her like a black cloud) before going downstairs. He had a lot of food to scrounge up.
~{}~
Ron frowned and turned in the mirror. Chewing his bottom lip, he slowly pulled his shirt off, revealing the plain black bra.
God, he hated his boobs.
He knew he should stop staring. He should stop looking at the long brown hair that spilled over his thin shoulders, at the small fucking breasts that poked out from his chest, at the cheap boxers Jordan had gotten him for his fucking birthday. Because the boxers didn't have a fucking dick in them.
He pinched his arm, in between two yellow bruises and a few small slices from a razor. He'd seen a few kids at the camp do it—one of them was his best friend Luca, who was transgender like him—and wondered if it would help. (It hadn't. All it'd done was make him embarrassed to show his arms).
Sighing again, he pinched himself harder. Then, he pinched his thighs. Carefully, he pinched his stomach.
Finally, he tore his eyes away from his reflection and grabbed the baggy tee-shirt he wore to bed.
As he stepped forwards, something soft crunched beneath his feet.
Ron looked and then scrunched up his nose. "Yuck," he said. Where his left foot had been, a dead butterfly now lay.
It was rather ugly, he decided, and went down to the bathroom to wash its guts off his foot.
~
Far far away, a teenager opened their eyes: "Fuck. I lost it. Some kid stepped on it."
"Damn it." The girl scowled. "Send another."
They said nothing, eyes already closed.