Spectrum Volume III: Refugees

Note: Heroes is owned by NBC Universal, and Fringe is owned by 20th Century Fox, not me. I didn't really want to put this up on because "Spectrum Volume II: Resistance" still has not received any reviews, and I thought this might be similarly ignored. However, the fansite where I was posting this has been having problems for several days now, and I'm not entirely sure if it exists anymore, but I still have to share what's on my mind.

So, let me explain a few things first. You have to read the past two volumes of my Heroes fanfiction to really know what's going on, and you need to be familiar with the "Fugitives" volume of Heroes. A few Fringe tidbits and spoilers will also be thrown in occasionally, but I'm really following that specific storyline. I'm doing something kinda different in telling most of the story through first person. When there's a change to third person, that's a signal that I am changing perspective. The pronouns are intentionally vague, but if you're familiar enough with the series, you should pretty much tell who's talking. Finally, I recognize the rating is kinda bold, but really there was only one way I could rationalize something later on in the story, and it's rather awful. I'm not sure if I can say right out what it is, but it could probably be figured out rather easily.

Chapter 1: Eugenics

You probably wonder why we call ourselves "refugees" and not "fugitives," as the Petrellis and the other heroes outside the circle called themselves. I suppose we may have shared that synonym. By my understanding, ours fit our situation better. A fugitive is defined as one who flees, usually from an oppressive government. A refugee also flees for the same reason, but it is defined as one who seeks shelter. That is what makes us different. We had shelter, and it saved us, though it also confined us. The shelter we found was a sanctuary, but it was also our prison.

There is a reason I am so specific about such words, and it starts with my own name. My name is Gabriel Paul Bonhomme. For almost twenty years, I refused to go by any other name. Hearing a nickname of any kind was almost painful. Yet now, I must insist that people call me Gabe. It is still such a major adjustment, but it must be done. The name "Gabriel" sends a chill down my spine.

I used to be proud that I shared my name with an angel. Now, I am ashamed that I share my name with a murderer.

But I was not taking refuge from him. Non, I was surrounded by murderers. We all were. They pressed in so close, we couldn't breathe.

Perhaps I should go back to when this all started. At the beginning of this year, after I graduated from my father's university, I took a job with a research team employed by Massive Dynamic. This group was actually part of the American FBI. I still remember my first day. I was sitting in a bare room with a long table along with Nina Sharp, the woman who interviewed and hired me, sitting across from me and Agent Phillip Broyles, my new boss, sitting at the end beside me. Agent Broyles intimidated me some. He has a very powerful voice and an expression that suggested that he was not one to be trifled with. So I didn't make eye contact with him as he read my responsibilities and benefits. I only quietly listened, until he got to one detail.

"As a member of the FBI, you are an unofficial American citizen and are entitled to full amnesty and privileges of citizenship as well as–"

"Excuse me," I interrupted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Broyles, but I don't understand. What does that word mean, amnesty?"

Both of them looked at me strangely. "Did that word not translate, dear?" Madame Sharp asked.

I probably should explain what she means by this if you do not know. Part of my ability involves translation. I am from France, and whatever speech I hear, no matter what language, I hear in French. Yet whenever I speak, I speak in whatever language of my listener's origin, complete with an accent from his/her region. Madame Sharp knew about this because my Great Aunt Angela Petrelli was her school friend. I don't know if Agent Broyles knew it.

"Yes, it translated. I heard 'la amnistie,' but I am not familiar with this word even in my language."

"Well," Madame Sharp answered, "amnesty basically means safety. As a member of this group, you are going to be considered one of the most important people in the country, and we have to keep up with you. So, if you are ever in trouble with the law in this country or with your country, you won't have to go to jail. If some problem comes up and France says you have to be extradited back to France, you don't have to. Does that make more sense?"

"No, I am still not sure I understand. I am not going to get in trouble with the law, so why would I need it?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe when something like that will come in handy. Keep it in your back pocket. You might need it."

I contemplated for a moment what to do if I did not have a back pocket. There's something else I should probably mention. I have Asperger's Syndrome, a high functioning form of autism. One of the things my disorder complicates is my understanding of idioms like that because I tend to take things literally. I am learning to not ask these questions aloud because I usually end up looking like an idiot.

Anyway, I learned I did need it. In fact, it was amnesty that saved me.

Agent Broyles continued, and I continued to listen. At the end, though, he purposely made eye contact with me and said, "Now, this is very important, Gabriel. The FBI is a top secret organization. Therefore, under no circumstances are you to divulge the nature of your work to anyone, including friends and family."

"Yes sir. I have seen a few episodes of The X-Files, and I expected this. I will do my best."

"That's not good enough. One small leak, and you will be terminated, no exceptions."

"Very well." That detail panicked me more than once during this whole ordeal.

Then, Agent Broyles took me to meet the rest of my group. Of course, I already had met them before, when a friend teleported me four years in the future, but they didn't know that. I was very surprised that the woman I met as Madame Bishop in the future was not married. When I addressed her by that name, she awkwardly told me her name was Mademoiselle Dunham. Everyone else had the same name. All of them were just as I remembered. Peter Bishop was still very impatient, probably every chance he got, he asked me why I was there. Astrid was very kind and understanding. And Dr. Bishop was brilliant, eccentric, and altogether delightful . . . most of the time. As I came to know him better, I learned her had rather lax morals. I once slapped him for suggesting that I am a drug user. He never brought up the subject in my presence again.

My job consisted mostly of assisting him, or assisting Astrid as she assisted him. They were mostly small jobs, getting together ingredients, plugging things in, that sort of thing. Dr. Bishop had a fixation on certain foods, and I was usually the one sent out to retrieve them for him. Astrid also wanted me to take care of Gene, the cow. That consisted of giving her shots, bathing her, and cleaning her stall. It wasn't really what I envisioned, but a Nobel laureate must start somewhere. I was mostly pleased to be part of this group. The things I saw there changed my life. I wish I could describe them to you, but I must not. The only requirement for sharing my experience is that I maintain my confidentiality agreement.

Occasionally, Broyles would question me about my experiences as one with superbilities. That's a term I coined, in a matter of speaking. At least, I am the only one who uses it. Papa and I got the idea when we traveled to the future and there was a hierarchy of people--the disabled, the abled (normal, if there is such a thing), and the superabled (those who have evolved abilities as listed in Chandra Suresh's book). Anyway, I told Broyles everything I could remember, all the people I have met. That actually helped me sometimes. I once mentioned my wish for the superbility I saw my like-named foe perform when he could tell when someone is lying. Agent Dunham told me that there was a way to learn how to do that without superbilities. She told me about a consultant with the CIA named Dr. Cal Lightman who spent his career learning the meaning behind facial expressions and body language, and he published them all in a number of books. Certainly, I wanted to learn everything I could, so I got all the books I could find from him from the library.

Everything was going fine until the day I was arrested.

I still remember that terrifying day. It started innocently enough. It was my day off from the lab. I was walking across campus talking to one of my best friends with superbilities. Then I was surrounded. I was so shocked, I dropped my cellphone, and it broke on the pavement. I kept trying to tell them that I worked for the government and had amnesty, but they didn't seem to care. One moved closer to me. "SHUT UP!" he yelled as he pointed his rifle right at my temple. He pulled off his mask and looked straight at me. His skin was very pale. I wondered if he was an albino. His face was filled with hate. "Down on the ground!" he ordered coldly.

There was only one witness. I saw him just past this soldier's shoulder. It was the man with no hair. I had seen him several times staring at me in the cafeteria, and he was still staring at me. I just wished he would do something, call for help, fight them, something! But he just watched.

I thought I was done for until I heard Agent Dunham's voice. "Freeze! FBI!" I looked up as she and other agents surrounded the men with their own guns.

"You're wasting your time," the albino soldier said. "I have direct orders from the President to take him in."

"He's protected by the President! Let him go!" Broyles was there, and he got into an argument with the albino man. As they argued, Peter Bishop gestured for me, and we made a run for it.

I hid in the lab for quite a while after that. Despite Peter's protests, his father found a good place to hide me until the heat was off, which involved another experience I wish I could describe, but I can't. After a few hours, Agents Broyles and Dunham came to talk to me.

"We negotiated with the heads of this operation," Broyles explained. "It was not easy. They agreed to recognize your amnesty, but if you want my opinion, they aren't going to let this go."

"Wait, the heads? There's not just one?"

"Yes, we spoke to two, Danko and Bennet."

"Bennet? Did he have horned-rimmed glasses?"

"Yes, he did," Agent Dunham said. "Do you know him?"

I nodded. "I usually call him the spy. That's . . . that's a long story. He spoke on my behalf, did he?"

"Well, Danko seemed more eager to take you in."

"What do they want with me? What did I do wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong!" Agent Dunham smiled sympathetically at me.

I looked past her to Broyles. "What's going on?"

Broyles looked straight at me in that intimidating way he always does. "There is a nationwide movement supported by the President to arrest and relocate people in your situation."

"What do you mean, autistic?"

"No, people . . . on the helix."

That's sometimes his shorthand way of saying those of us who have superbilities, or abilities, powers, or those who have further evolved. I couldn't believe that! "The president, the American president? Why would he . . . ?"

"Bennet mentioned a New York Senator, Nathan Petrelli."

"Nathan Petrelli?! But . . . but he's my cousin, and he's . . . why would he do that?!"

"I only know what I've been told."

"We'll look into it more if you wish," Agent Dunham offered.

"But as I said, Gabe, they're not going to let this go. They may try to find a loophole and attack again, and you need to be on your guard."

"Yes sir," I nodded. "Incidently, how did you find me so fast?"

"We got your text message," Agent Dunham answered. She showed me a cellphone screen that had a message from my number, asking for help.

"How is that possible?" I said as I held up what remained of my phone.

The only rational explanation I could devise was that the hairless man did it somehow. He was the only witness, and he gave me the impression that he could do something incredible like that. But how did he know about my secret work? How could he contact Agent Dunham? I wasn't sure if there was any way I could ever know; even if I asked him, he probably wouldn't tell me.

I tried to learn more about what was going on with this abduction program. Of course, I didn't learn anything directly, but I heard rumors. I watched some of Nathan's speeches online, and they infuriated me. I could hear this movement implied when he talked about change. The more I learned, even though it was sparse, was shocking and provoking. All I could think about as I heard of it was how history was repeating a horrible era.

About a week later, as I was in the middle of an experiment with Dr. Bishop, I heard Agent Dunham at the door say, "I am sorry, Senator, but this area is classified."

"Yes, Agent Dunham." The voice made me stop what I was doing. It was Nathan. I wanted to turn back and look at him, but I didn't want me to see me. "But it is my understanding that a Gabriel Bonhomme works here."

"I cannot confirm or deny that."

"Please. He's my second cousin. I nearly became his guardian. I am not here to inquire about his classified activities; I just request a moment of his time to talk to him as a caring family member."

"Wait one minute." She closed the door and approached me. "Nathan Petrelli is here. He wants to talk to you."

"Oui, I heard," I answered. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Gabe, if I were you, I would give him a chance. He's the only one who can explain to you what's going on."

"Tell him I am busy."

"No," Dr. Bishop suddenly spoke up. "This can wait."

"Dr. Bishop!"

"Gavin–"

"Gabe!"

"Yes, you should never shut out a family member in his time of need, especially to pursue your work. Take it from someone who has lived with such a regret for longer than you have been alive."

"You never had a family member hunt you down like an animal!"

"His intentions may be more noble than you realize. Give him a chance."

I still didn't want to, but I had a feeling that they weren't going to give me another option. I went outside. He was smiling when he saw me. He greeted me warmly in French, "Bonjour, Gabriel. Comment t'allez vous?" which is to say, "Hello, Gabriel. How are you?"

I didn't smile back but answered, "Bien, aucuns merci a vous," or "Fine, no thanks to you."

His smile only faded a little. "Let's take a walk," he said.

So we strolled the grounds in uncomfortable silence for a while. Nathan looked at the buildings with an expression that said he was impressed. "Harvard, huh?" he finally said aloud. "So, you're going to school here now. And it's really been paid in full?"

"That is so," I answered in monotone.

"Wow, I'm envious. Really, you're very fortunate to have such an opportunity."

"More fortunate than most, as I understand."

Nathan sighed. "Alright, let's get into it. Sit down." We sat on a bench, and he turned to me, his face filled with concern that I was not sure was genuine. "I need you to try to understand and appreciate what I'm doing. See . . . if you were able to cure autism, wouldn't you?"

"NON! JAMAIS!" I answered boldly, which means, "No, never!"

He knelt his head down and looked at me closer. "Don't you think that's a bit selfish?"

I was shocked that he would make such an accusation. It felt like a punch in the stomach.

"I mean, sure, I understand why you don't want to be cured. You can support yourself, and you're doing fine, and it may have even led to some benefits. But what about autistic people who are more severe, like Harmony? People who can't communicate or function, people who really need help. You're telling me you won't cure them?"

"They can still benefit from better resources and people with enough patience to get on their level and teach them some things."

"Well, that's easier said than done."

"But it has been done! I'll tell you what's selfish–forcing people to change who don't want to change, just so they can be more like you!"

"Gabriel–"

"And don't call me Gabriel! I don't want to share Sylar's name. Call me Gabe!"

"I'm sorry, Gabe, these abilities are dangerous. You just brought Sylar up. How would you like it if the world was full of Sylars?"

"But it isn't!"

"It could be. There's no telling what's going to happen. They have to be stopped."

"Listen, you can rationalize all you want. I know exactly what's going on. It happened before a hundred ago, all around the world. It was a period called eugenics. And what happened during this era was everyone who didn't fit the norm, mostly people with disabilities, had their rights restricted. They weren't allowed to marry. They weren't allowed to have children. They weren't allowed to go to institution of higher learning like this. They were basically pushed to the side, rounded up in asylums. Family members would disown them, throw them in the streets because they were ashamed. But it was at its worst in Germany. Do you really want me to tell you what they did to disabled people there?"

Nathan shook his head. "This is nothing like that. Look, I respect the humanity of everyone. I'm not going to restrict rights, and nobody is going to die." He bit his lip when he said that, which Dr. Lightman said is an indication that the speaker doesn't believe in what he's saying. "I just want to make everything better and go back to the way it used to be–safe, consistent, normal."

No, no, not that word! He just doesn't get it. "That's not what you're after. That's what you think you're after, but it's not. You want something unobtainable. You want . . . an Aryan race!"

"Hey, I resent that. You take it back."

"No! Hitler wanted a race that he thought was perfect–white, blond haired, and blue eyed. But he was a hypocrite. He didn't have blond hair and blue eyes. His hair was dark, his eyes were brown, and he was HALF-JEWISH! And you, sir, you are also a hypocrite! You are the very thing you despise, and yet you begin eugenics again, this neo-eugenics! I am glad I didn't come to America all those years ago, for what propaganda would you raise me under, Hitler?"

Nathan stood. "Well, I see I am not going to convince you. I am very sorry you feel this way. Have a good night."

He got up and started walking away, but I stood and yelled at him, "Hitler! Hitler! HEIL EUGENE HITLER!"

I returned to the lab, shut the door behind me, and buried my head into my hands. I just felt tired, maybe a little sad. Everyone was staring at me, so I explained exactly what happened. "I thought . . . I thought we were better than this. In this day and age, I thought we were more . . . accepting."

"Some things are hard to change," Astrid said sadly. I am sure she knew what she was talking about; she is of African descent.

"All the same," Dr. Bishop spoke up, "I think you were being too hard on him. After all, let us not forget the discoveries in medical science the Holocaust brought us, discoveries we may not have found otherwise."

I looked at Dr. Bishop in shock. "Are you actually defending him?"

"Not at all. It is true that the thirties and forties in Germany were atrocious and unforgivable, yet one must acknowledge that some important things came of it. Science often comes with suffering, sometimes with sacrifice. Please keep this in mind."

I still admire Dr. Bishop, but when he says things like this, he greatly troubles me. Sometimes, I am not sure if I can call him my friend. There are even some times when I think he only sees me as a test subject, a lab rat. I wonder if he even sees me as a person at all. Does he see anyone as a person, for that matter? Peter Bishop, his son, tells me to ignore him in such cases, like he doesn't know what he is saying. But since I am not convinced that Dr. Bishop is crazy, I think he knows what he's saying full well.

Weeks passed by, and I kept my ear to the ground. That means I watched the Internet very closely to see if anyone was abducted by my cousin's plan. Of course, I saw, and heard, nothing. Every chance I got, I asked the FBI agents, like Monsieur Broyles and Mademoiselle Dunham, if they had any information about this atrocity. They did not say anything but urged me to concentrate on my own tasks. It was so hard, because I was worried. My best friends were in danger, and worse . . . my papa.

I had been worried about him for a long time, but this made it worse. You see, he came with me on the plane. After we landed, I asked him, "So, Papa, what are you going to be studying at Harvard? Do they have a new collection on an American poet?"

Papa shook his head. "Son, I'm not going to Harvard."

"But I thought that was why you were coming with me, to do research."

"I never told you that."

"Why else would you be coming with me? Oh, has the spy got you doing another assignment?"

"No, this has nothing to do with him." We stepped onto the moving sidewalk. "I wasn't sure about the best way to tell you. Gabriel, I'm going on a sabbatical."

"A sabbatical? You were on a sabbatical for four years!"

"Yes, but during this time, everyone thought I was dead. This time, it's completely voluntary."

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"I'm taking a pilgrimage."

"To where?"

"I don't know."

"How can you take a pilgrimage and not know where you're going? I thought that was the definition of a pilgrimage–a journey with a definite destination, usually for religious reasons."

"It's not the destination I am concerned with, son. I'm pursuing a person."

"Who?"

"Uh, me!"

"You? Why would you need to pursue you?"

"I need to change, Gabriel. You know how challenging I have found life since I came out of Northpoint. I need to become an individual who is more loving, caring, and most of all forgiving, more like what God wants me to be."

"But you are loving and caring and all that stuff."

"But I could be more. I can learn more."

"But why did you come here to do it?"

"I have my reasons." We went to the place with our luggage. Papa took his suitcase off the conveyor belt. "This is going to be a very bare bones trip for me. I've decided, I'm going to go without knowing what's going on in the world. No television, radio, newspaper, computer, or cellphone." He pulled his phone out of the suitcase and tossed it to me.

"Will you use your powers?"

"Of course I will. This is how God has blessed me. He intended me to use them."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know that either. When I know I'm ready, I'll come back to Harvard and find you."

"Papa, how will I know if you're OK? Anything could happen to you!"

"That's why it's important for you to pray for me."

I got my suitcase and asked, "Papa, does this have anything to do with Sylar?" But when I looked up, he was gone. That was months ago.

What troubled me all this time was that he had not been completely truthful. The murderer who shares my name, I thought I saw him die, burned alive. I felt safe, but just a few hours later, Papa told me that he saved his life. He was convinced that this killer, who went by the name Sylar, had changed, even that he was close to being a Christian. I was not. After all, just a few minutes before he supposedly died, Sylar tried to kill me again, as well as my great aunt. I feared for the longest time that Sylar would find him and murder him with a quick swipe across the forehead. Now, I was afraid of so much more. I feared he might go back to Northpoint, the research group that kidnaped him for four years and played with his autism and his superbilities until he escaped. Only this time, I may never see him again.

"Now, please leave."

He wanted to kill him. He deserved it for deserting him all those years ago and for lying that he was his father. His finger moved to commit the fatal stroke, but he stopped. That buzz, that tingle in the back of his brain came back out of nowhere. Why? He had already established that this man was telling the truth. Then, it occurred to him. Someone was deceiving him without a word, right before his eyes.

He walked briskly out of the watch shop and looked all around. "I know you're here," he said aloud. "Show yourself." But nothing moved. "I said show yourself! Come out! Are you a coward? Why are you even here? Why bother yourself with me?" He couldn't believe it. There was still not a bit of movement. He started to pace around, trying to find some clue what form he took, but the lying ability offered no help. It just kept going off, not getting any stronger or weaker. He tore at his hair and yelled out, "WHERE ARE YOU, MICHAEL?" Still nothing. Well, he couldn't do this all day. He had to find his real father, so he followed the address. He thought maybe the feeling would follow him, but it didn't seem to.

It was actually a while that I heard anything about this again. And again, there was nearly an arrest. I was helping a classmate of mine, who I will call Wiki. He was in a government class with me. I helped him with a paper. We had to write about an American senator, and I suggested that he write about Nathan Petrelli. Wiki was just as appalled about Nathan; I had to tell him because he also had Asperger's, and I suspected he had a superbility. We ended up discovering it the hard way.

Wiki had to attend a plagiarism hearing. Our professor did not believe what he said regarding neo-eugenics, so he ran it through plagiarism software and was astonished to find that there was a 100% match to a wikipedia article on Nathan Petrelli. I knew it couldn't be plagiarized because I helped Wiki write it. Luckily, the night before the hearing, we found the truth. The time signature on the wikipedia article from when it was last modified matched the time that Wiki saved his final draft to the second! We began to understand from that–his mind was connected to the world wide web, especially to places like wikipedia, Google, and Yahoo. I always wondered because every time I inquired Wiki about something, he would tell me an incredible amount of information on it. We weren't sure if the professor would really believe something like that, but when we showed them the evidence, they were convinced that Wiki could not have possibly copied and pasted the whole article in less than a second. So they let him go.

We walked across campus. I offered that we get a milkshake to celebrate, but Wiki still felt off about it. He couldn't explain why. He suggested maybe it was because we didn't tell them the whole truth. I stopped and turned to him to answer, but then we were suddenly surrounded again.

"Don't be scared," I whispered to Wiki. "I know what to do." I flashed my badge again and yelled, "I told you! I have amnesty! I work for the FBI!"

"Will you relax?" the cold voice of the albino man said. "We're not even here for you. We're here for him."

"Him? Why?"

"That's none of your business."

"But-but I've done nothing wrong!" Wiki yelled out.

"Down on the ground! Hands where I can see them!"

We fell to our knees, but as we raised our arms I whispered again, "Take my hand."

"Why?"

"Just do it. We're getting out of here."

Wiki grabbed my hand, and both of us were instantly surround by a brilliant blue light that knocked the soldiers back. Then, we ran as we could to the only safe place I knew–the lab. Upon getting there, I literally tossed Wiki over to Dr. Bishop. "Do something with him!"

"What?" the doctor asked.

"I don't care! Throw him in the tank, put him in one of your mind-reading dealies, or whatever you have, just do something!"

"What's the matter?" Peter demanded.

"They're after him. They'll arrest him and take him away. They wouldn't dare take him if he's in the middle of an experiment. It would ruin his mind. That's what you told me once, doctor."

"I did?" he asked.

"Yes! Look, it's a long story, and I don't have time to recount it. Just do something!"

So, Dr. Bishop did something and successfully kept Wiki away from the Nazis. And that is how the refuge started. About an hour later, though, it nearly ended just as quickly.

"What part of confidential don't you understand?" Broyles asked me angrily. "You knowingly brought an outsider into our classified laboratory!"

"But I needed to!" I argued. "He was going to be arrested, just as I was a few weeks ago."

"There's a difference with this kid and you, though, Mr. Bonhomme; he doesn't have amnesty!"

"Well, isn't he protected here? Doesn't my bringing him take him under my wing? Can't he share my amnesty?"

"I don't believe we can easily make that argument."

"We have to! This is why I'm here! Peter keeps asking me what I'm doing here, and this is why. I'm not just here to satisfy Dr. Bishop's occasional food cravings or to give Astrid a second pair of hands. I am here to help you understand the helix and the Circle! I am here to help you understand this limitation theory! How can I do that if I don't bring in people for Dr. Bishop to examine? I have to show you."

"Fine. I'll overlook this because he is on the autism spectrum. You are right, Bonhomme, you are here to help us understand. However, I must caution you not to let this get out of hand. Remember our agreement. One leak. And again, I am not sure that this group will be as easily convinced."

Didn't I tell you? And this was only the beginning.

As soon as he came to the taxidermy store, he felt it again. The tingle, the buzz, the lie. He looked around in outrage. "I knew it! You followed me here, didn't you? Admit it! Tell me so! There's no point in hiding, Michael Bonhomme, I know you're here. What do you want from me? You're trying to stop me? Well, you won't! I'm going to find my father, and when I do . . . you know what's going to happen."

There was never any movement. He had enough of looking crazy, so he went inside.

The next day, the game changed completely. Agent Broyles asked to see me. I was initially worried I was in trouble, but there was a trace of sadness in his usually stony expression. "I have bad news, Bonhomme. We have just been informed of some information not yet released to the public, and it concerns you. A plane crashed just outside of Russellville, Arkansas bearing passengers assigned for relocation. Those on board included: Tracy Strauss, Matthew Parkman, Claire Bennet, Noah Bennet, Mohinder Suresh–"

"Mohinder?!" I whispered.

"–Hiro Nakamura–"

"Hiro?!"

"–Hanami Nakamura–."

"Non!!!"

"–and Peter Petrelli."

"I don't believe it! Not Peter! Well, surely they escaped. Were their any survivors?"

"No survivors have been found as of yet, but it doesn't look good, Bonhomme. The remains of the plane exploded by an air strike. Nothing is left."

"Non. So, all of my friends . . . wait, what about Monsieur Rains?"

"Who?"

"Monsieur Claude Rains. He's British. Actually, he would difficult to find because he's invisible."

"I don't see anything about him here."

"What about my father? Please tell me he wasn't on that plane! Please, tell me he's alive!"

"All I can tell you is what I have told you already!"

"You said 'included'! That means there were others! What about Sylar? Was he there? Tell me he was, or everyone else has died in vain!"

"I am sorry, Gabe."

So, of course I felt very down all day. I went ahead and went to class and did my usual tasks, but my heart was not in it. I felt like everyone I knew was dead, which is strange because I only knew them for a few years. But then again, they were like the only true friends I had. In my heart, though, I knew I had to push on. I knew I had to fight now because eugenics had indeed begun again. I was determined to stop it before it claimed any more lives, though I had no idea how.

I had lunch with Wiki, and I was very silent as I ate my sandwich. He was silent, too, until suddenly he told me, "They're not dead."

I looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

He simply looked at me and repeated, "They're not dead."

"How do you know about that? I hadn't said a word."

He turned away and stared into space. "I don't know. All I know is Rebel says, 'They're not dead.'"

"Who is Rebel?"

Wiki didn't answer. He took a sip from his milk, wiped his lip, and said, "They're coming. I am sending them to you."

Before I could ask another question, Wiki got up and left. Then, just behind him, I saw the man with no hair sitting in a booth and staring at me again. Did he have something to do with this strange message?

I wasn't sure what Wiki meant until that evening. I was closing up the lab, and Gene was making a ruckus, stamping her feet and mooing loudly. "What is it, girl?" I asked approaching her. "What's the matter? Is it a mouse?" I was a bit afraid to come into the stall because she kept making frightened noises. I kept trying to speak to her calmly.

But as I came closer, I saw it was more than a mouse. I saw a hand gently stroke her nose and someone whisper, "Easy, Bessie, easy." It was a stranger in the lab! I was about to demand that he identify himself and even got out the phone to call Mademoiselle Dunham, but then he looked at me, and I stopped cold. "Word to the wise–most people get a dog."

It was Monsieur Rains.

To Be Continued . . .