I don't know why this story amuses me. Try to keep up. No, there is not enough background story. Why? Because I wrote this for myself - I just decided to put this up on the offchance that it might bring a bit of pleasure into someone else's life like it did mine. You've been warned - check your flames at the gate.
Oh, and I own Heroes. Yes, indeed I do. But Rose Byrne was too busy to do the sequence, and my editors felt it served no purpose but to confuse the plot unnecessarilly. So we had to write it out and put it here in stead.
... Right...
"Look at this," Mohinder held up a small flower, a moment ago unnoticed, stem pinched between thumb and forefinger. He propped himself further on his elbow to stare at the little blossoms. "What a glorious gift from a creator."
He rolled over on his back to show Her, squinting to see Her face as his eyes grew accustomed to the sunshine. His shirt pulled up a little and he was aware of prickly grass scratching his skin. He didn't care.
"How beautiful... but," Her eyes clouded and Her brow furrowed, looking for something in the pattern of petals and blossoms. "It's... flawed. There is a deformity, a mutation. I've never seen - look."
She pointed, and there was, indeed. It was quite an ordinary flower, really. No more than a weed to most minds. There were thousands of them around, all quite alike, but this one was different. There should have been a definite regularity, as in the others - basic, simple patterns. What there was, instead, was a cacaphony of tiny blossoms, turned every which way, with no aim apparent. Illogical.
"Yes." it seemed sad, that something so lovely should be a result of accident, even mistake. "I wonder, is there any sense to it?"
"I suppose there is a sense to all beauty, when you see it." She said curiously. "Do you think it could be a pattern after all?"
"Perhaps..." he said, out of hope more than anything. It seemed critical, somehow, that the little bouqet should have purpose. And he could almost imagine... "If you look at it, it's almost mathematical -"
"Almost like a..." She looked puzzled, "Like a numerical sequence. Mohinder, look!"
And he did. And through new eyes, it was suddenly, almost painfully clear. Logical, clear, crystalline mathematics, wrapped in petals. Perfect order.
"Amazing... I almost didn't see it - almost mistook it's complication for flaw." he laughed in surprise. "It's perfect."
"Yes," Her eyes sparkled, "It is."
"How could I not have seen?" He reached up and slipped the perfect flowers in Her hair. She smiled, and then snatched his hand and kissed it. Not the traditional, debonair kiss on the back of the hand, but pressed into the curled palm - private, intimate, beautiful.
"Or I," She said, lowering his hand and blushing lightly, "I believed the mutation to be a flaw."
"Mutation?" something in that word triggered a reaction.
He sat up.
In his own bed in his father's dark apartment. No sunshine. No flowers. No...
Who was she? He'd never known her, he felt sure. What was she doing in his dreams? He breathed deeply, intent on analyzing logically.
The flower, the mutation, clearly these were expressions of his new life's work. His waking mind pored endlessly over names, mutations, powers. Questions forming questions. A dreaming mind would be eager to solve a genetic mystery - even one so small as to fit in a flower.
The field, as well as being a good setting for a dream about flowers, would also be a welcome relief from the eternal darkness of his dingy rooms.
The girl... Well, maybe he was a bit lonely, spending all his days with ghosts and data.
But...what was that about a creator?