Rainy Days

Chapter Six: Ron Steps On a Butterfly

[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.