The Theory of Three
Chapter 1
Saturday, May 1 - 10:31pm - Boston, Mass.
Walter hadn't been lying. For weeks after the attack by the Rogue operative, the scar made by Olivia's had was not only still visible but also quite painful to the touch.
On the night of May 1st, Peter stood before the bathroom mirror, his shirt strewn on the floor like he had always done when he was about to get into the shower as a kid. But before he turned away from the mirror, his eyes lingered upon his bare chest and the pinkish-white handprint just opposite his heart. It was her hand, Olivia's, and it had saved his life. He was never one to get squeamish over blood or an injury, nothing like that; but as he gently placed a hand upon the scar, he could almost hear something beginning to buzz in his head, like static from an old television set. When he traced a finger along the edges of the handprint, he could have sworn he felt a wave of heat radiating out from it.
He couldn't remember much immediately after the attack except for Olivia's cool tears falling on him and the searing heat of her hand. Looking down at the mark on his own chest, he tilted his head awkwardly as though giving up trying to make sense of something that simply could not be thoroughly explained—even by Walter. Maybe his life was saved by an act of God.
Peter slipped off the rest of his clothes, adding them to the pile on the ground with his shirt, and opened the blue ocean themed shower curtain with white Nautilus seashells and seahorses printed throughout. Reaching in, he tilted the spigot as far toward the capital C as it would go. As water poured into the tub, he pushed the rusty button that activated the shower and stepped into the icy cold water without the slightest flinch, as though indifferent to the cold. He let the water stream over his shoulders for a minute or so before bending his head down to wet his hair. But then as he slicked his hair back out of his eyes and sighed, he felt as though he had just drunk a half bottle of whisky. With the inside of the shower suddenly spiraling in his eyes, he grabbed the bar on the wall to help keep his balance, the water sloshing at his feet not helping matters. The odd feeling made every inch of his skin feel as though it were on fire even though he stood in a stream of icy water. And the weirdness didn't stop there; he also tasted something sweet in his mouth…like Kailua and milk…
Reaching for the faucet, Peter turned off the water and leaned with both hands out straight against the wall in front of him. He stood there, the water dripping down his body that he imagined steamed like he were sitting in an outdoor hot tub during the winter. He pushed aside the shower curtain and grabbed the towel he put next to the pile of clothes on the floor. Before stepping out of the tub and completely giving up on finishing his shower until the awkward feeling left him, he took the towel and draped it across his shoulders behind him, pulling it one way and then the next to dry his back. He quickly patted his legs down next before stepping from the tub while wrapping the towel snugly around his waist.
Again he set his sights on his reflection in the mirror. If he had taken a normal warm or even hot shower, the mirror would have been fogged by now, but it was still crystal clear. As Peter stepped closer to it, resting his hands on the sink countertop, Peter starred first at the scar on the right side of his chest and then glanced up to look himself in the eyes as though unsure exactly who he was looking at. Is this really me? he thought. Has everything changed because of that one day?
It was a day from hell, as he remembered it. He had been exhausted from a cross-country trip with his father—sitting next to him for any length of time in a confined space is enough for anyone to go a little insane. But Olivia had been there, too, so she at least helped to make the time go by a little faster.
But all of that seemed petty compared to the hell that took place after, and it all started with that phone call.
"Your father's been lying to you," said the anonymous caller. "Go to Mt. Auburn Cemetery."
Maybe it had been foolish to listen to an unknown caller, and with all honesty, he did try to fight back the curiosity. He had failed. He went to that cemetery, found his own grave there and assuming it was some horrible joke, went to ask Walter about it…only to find the truth. It was a truth that laughed and spat in his face, a truth that ripped and tore at whatever security he had rebuilt in his life in Boston—a life with his father, a life in this world—to nothing. And that truth almost consequentially killed him.
She had been there then, too—Olivia. It was because of her that he was still alive today. It was her hand of fire that saved him.
If he didn't touch it, the scar didn't hurt at all, but there was something about it that compelled him to touch it now with his left hand. He opened his hand and covered the handprint which was a bit smaller than his own. He had the feeling that Olivia's hand was still there, willing the flames—commanding them—to save his life. And it burned. With his fingers fanned out, he kept his palm firmly planted over the scar as though wanting to feel that burning, piercing pain again, something to fill the gap in his empty heart. It was proof that he was still alive.
Then he was jolted to his senses by a knock at the door.
"Son, are you all right in there?"
It was Walter. He had been beyond protective of Peter after the attack for multiple reasons: because Peter nearly died from the extent of his injuries was the main one, but the other was because Peter now knew the truth…and still chose to stay.
How betrayed he had felt, not only by his father but also Olivia, who had known for weeks and refused to tell him herself. And it didn't make things any easier to have found out that unbelievable truth from an outside party, a stranger. Maybe none of their relationships would never be the same, forever changed and scarred; but there was a bigger picture, a bigger purpose to these horrific chains of events. If he left now, reverted to the universe of his birth, what would that say about the past 30 years of his life? That it was all a meaningless waste of time? That his life and the people he had met—and come to care for—meant nothing? Maybe he would have thought that way if he was still a teenager or maybe even in the early 20s, but he wasn't a child any more. He was an adult with responsibilities. He had to stay if only to give his life purpose.
"Yeah, Walter," he said at last. "I'm fine."
"Were you feeling lightheaded again? Maybe if you—"
Peter opened the door before Walter had a heart attack from worry alone. "I'm fine, Walter. See?"
"Ah, yes," Walter said awkwardly, his eyes falling sorrowfully to the scar on Peter's chest as though he had caused it himself. "Peter, you should take it easy," he added, "Perhaps we should delay the trip tomorrow."
"We're not cancelling the trip tomorrow, Walter. You know how difficult it was for Olivia to get that time off."
"But son, if you're not feeling well—"
"—I never said that," Peter said agitatedly. "Look, I know you're worried about me, but I'm fine. Really. I need this trip more than anything, Walter. Just a little time away from Boston—I thought you were looking forward to going, too."
"I was, Peter, but…" He suddenly sighed and cut off his own words. Walter's pale blue eyes fell again to the scar. "Does it still…?"
"No," Peter lied. "How many times are you going to make me say it? Maybe I'm the one who should be worried. You're starting to get obsessive." Changing the topic might just work, Peter thought.
"I'm not obsessing, I'm just…" he paused. Quickly giving up the argument, he placed both hands on Peter's bare shoulders and smiled like a proud father, which Peter answered with a slight smile of his own as though proud of himself. "Peter…" Walter said, nodding. "We will have a good time tomorrow."
"Yeah, it'll be great," Peter said, grinning sweetly. There was a genuine flash of light in those green eyes.
Little did he know, however, what would be waiting for them in Niagara…
Sunday, May 2 - 12:37am - Buffalo, NY
In the basement level of an abandoned warehouse, three men stood in a circle at equal distances from each other. They were clad in the same sort of black, leather suit resembling a full-body wetsuit and tight-fitting, cotton hats that completely covered their hair. In that dark basement only lit by the three handheld lanterns each man held, the three gathered in a circle as equals.
A man with deep, black eyes spoke first. "Is it set?"
"Yes, it will be operational within the week," the man with blue eyes said, "within the next couple days if everything synchronizes properly."
"Excellent," a man with green eyes said. "And what of the key?"
"We are working on the final adjustments to utilize its power source as we speak," the black-eyed man said.
"What of the transmissions?" the blue-eyed man said. "We have to watch them closely or else all of this will be for nothing."
"We are aware of that," the black-eyed man replied, somewhat agitated. "So far all the counter measures have proven successful. We will be alerted to their presence long before they have a chance to attack us again."
The man with green eyes nodded his approval. "Fine, then shall we meet this time tomorrow? Or shall we wait for the key to arrive?"
The man with black eyes turned and glared expressionlessly at the green-eyed man. "I thought it was decided that you would deal with them."
"I was under that impression as well," the blue-eyed man added.
The man with green eyes blinked rapidly as though caught off guard or perhaps shocked at the sudden double-team effort. "Fine. I will attend to the key. Who will be our eyes, then?"
"I will," the blue-eyed man said, his pale eyes glowing in the darkness, almost as though lit within.
"And the machine will fall under my supervision," the black-eyed man said flatly. "Set your COMS to frequency 95.5 to await further instructions. Let's hope the first good news will arrive tomorrow." He glanced at the blue-eyed man who replied with little more than a nod.
The meeting was over as quickly as it had begun. Each man in unison switched off their lights and their soft footsteps leading out of the building were eaten by the darkness. Only one of them remained in place, contemplating his next move. He anxiously rapped his fingers on the top of the lantern. With little he could do now, he cursed under his breath and quickly walked toward the stairs up and out of the warehouse.