The Witness Protection Program.
Their job: to help those in need, those threatened, to flawlessly leave one life for another.
Vincent Nigel-Murrey.
A "squint", an occasional intern, for forensic archeology, moved to the United States from the United Kingdom.
An Alpha, with the ability to tap into various electromagnetic wavelengths.
Previously employed by Jeffersonian Institute, thought to be deceased.
Gary Bell.
20 years old, American.
Autistic.
Living with his mother Sandra Bell in the suburbs of New York.
Non-existent until the day Vincent Nigel-Murray ceased to be.

BUBUMP.
Vincent Nigel-Murrey flinched slightly as the SUV hit a pothole, sitting as far back in the soft car seat as he possible could. He was on edge. That was no secret. There were evident bags under his eyes, his hair a mess, his clothes rumpled.
His clothes.
To be quite honest, he missed the familiar feel of the proper button down shirt and tie. He missed dressing up a bit for his job and /God/ the lab coat.
He'd never see that lab coat... never wear it... all those years studying forensics and overnight he left it behind.
Left the Jeffersonian Institute behind.
He knew what was going to happen. He knew he would leave and enter the "program" due to his recently discovered... superpower?... and his accidental tapping into a government file. They gave him a warning. It was for his own good. However, he had made the incorrect assumption that he'd be able to say goodbye. To Hodgins, Bones, Booth, anyone really.
The day was a whirl which turned into a nightmare.
He had only stepped out of the lab for a moment to use the restroom when the sound of glass shattering and calls for an ambulance rang in the hallway. That was Bones' voice!
He had gone to investigate only for a large man to grab him by the elbow and pull him along in the opposite direction. He stopped protesting after only a few feet. He wasn't exactly prided on his physical strength…
"From here on, Mr. Bell, Vicent Nigel-Murrey is dead."
Those words sent his world spiraling downwards and he no longer had the power to struggle. He was more or less dragged out of the building. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, his knees weak, his body shaking.
As Gary Bell left the Institute to the sound of horrifying silence, Vincent Nigel-Murray lay on the floor bleeding and motionless, pale white, and dead.
To the day he didn't know how they managed it. To literally kill him off.
He was shot. Right through the heart. Bones would figure out that it wasn't really him. Eventually, she would have to.
Maybe.
He had read the report. Granted, he wasn't /supposed/ to see it, but he had read it. It was on the computer and he can do that now.
Yes, the electromagnetic wavelengths that he could see. /Only/ he could see. As a child, it was an occasional thing; quick flashes of light that left during his teen years but recently returned now during his young adulthood. Stronger. They were consistent. They stayed with him constantly and he learned to ignore them. At work anyway. At home, when alone, he practiced and learned and studied. Now they were his to control and manage. It's what led him to this position in the first place.
It led to his death.
He wanted to phone the Institute. Tell them he's fine, alive, but don't look for him. God he'll miss them and he'd wish them luck. He'd...
He'd never be able to leave if they let him say goodbye.
If he were to call them he'd go straight back.
Perhaps that's why it happened this way.
Vincent Nigel-Murrey was dead and Gary Bell stood in his place.
No phone calls were placed.

The SUV pulled up in front of a small two story house in the suburbs of New York.
His thoughts were interrupted at the sound of the driver door shutting and his door opening, so he unbuckled his seat belt. He blinked a few times in the sun.
"Is this it th-"
It's a good thing he had thought to unbuckle his seat belt because he was practically pulled from the car, causing him to stumble a few steps into the middle of the street, which in turn caused him to jump back as a car passed, honking.
New York alright.
Even in the suburbs.
He stood near the SUV. "Did you know that the Witness Protection Program has assisted-"
Once more he was cut off as the driver shoved his bag in his hands. He might be Gary Bell, but he refused to give up facts. They were as constant as the signals.
Looking down, he frowned at the bundle in his arms. He didn't need a bag. The only thing inside were socks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hairbrush. He wasn't permitted to bring anything else. No pictures. Those were tossed when they searched his bag.
His cell phone was tossed as well, no one would call the dead.
His papers destroyed.
Vincent Nigel-Murrey was buried six feet under.
Gary Bell stood looking uncertainly at the quiet suburban house.

Sandra Bell had been assigned to be the handler for the newest member of the Witness Protection Program. A house ready to use for the program was left empty and waiting, and so it was she moved and so it was she waited for Gary Bell, her now "son" as far as anyone is concerned.
At the sound of the SUV pulling up she opened the door and pushed open the screen door, going to stand on the porch. A proper mother she looked, wearing a skirt and simple blouse. This would be her life now and she couldn't complain. Not really anyway. The driver had met her eyes and she gave a small nod, no smile. The moment was tense and serious, the day a new life officially began. The car drove off, causing the boy… er, young adult, /man/ near the car to startle and hurry out of the way. There was no goodbye. No "good luck, here's hoping no one hunts you down". Sandra Bell wiped her hands on the apron around her waist, embracing her cover quite completely.
Gary Bell glared at the SUV as it drove off. What were they trying to do? Run him over? Kill him twice? Reluctantly, he walked up the short cement path to the house, looking towards the woman standing on the porch.
"You must be Sand-"
For the third time this day, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last, he was cut off. She cleared her throat, looking at him pointingly, as if she were waiting for something.
Ahh. That's right...
He spoke slowly, slipping into an American accent. The result had him sounding younger than he truly was. "Y-You... must be Sand... ra."
He's left Britain behind now too. /Bloody/ brilliant. Perhaps the delays between words, the stuttering, and nearly monotonous speech pattern would further influence other to think him autistic.
As if he couldn't get farther away from Vincent, his cover was an /autistic/. An autistic American.
The Witness Protection Program certainly threw him under a bus here.
It was practically a joke! It's as if they wanted him to screw up.
Some people were sent to live in the middle of no where, others got better than they had.
Not him. Not here.

So he stood now, weeks later in a small office with Sandra Bell by his side, a hand on his arm carefully, as if she were to touch her son any tighter he'd lose it. Which... sadly, he would have to do. Sandra and Gary had practiced multiple times his meltdowns, his recovery time, his reactions, his quarks. His autism.
His eyes carefully slid off the older man in front of him and focused on the wall besides him. Simple. Don't make eye contact. He had that down.
They were here because Sandra Bell had been looking for doctors to help her son. To find answers to his strange hand movements, talk of colors and shapes, of lights, annoying buzzing, the panicking during thunderstorms and occasionally turning off anything electrical when things got too much.
All a cover story of course.
"Can you tell me about yourself?" The older man requested. He seemed kind.
A therapist and psychologist who studies Alphas. That's what he was. An "Alpha" and his abilities were apparently somewhat of neurological difference. He had learned that much when the Doctor had granted Sandra Bell with the reassurance that he'd be able to help her son.
Clutching one hand with the other, rubbing at his knuckles, he spoke slowly. "My name is Gary. I'm autistic. 32 on the CARs scale."