"Come on, turn around... turn around... TURN AROUND, DAMN YOU!"
For a few precious seconds after the solution in the other Walter's lab turned blue, Walter Bishop merely cursed the Observer's tragic timing. The one experiment that would have saved the other Peter's life – the one chance he had to save his son, even if it was a different father and a different little boy – and it was interrupted.
Profanity gave way to abject despondency when the other Walter crossed his strangely clean lab and discarded what he thought was a failed experiment. It wasn't supposed to go like this. The other Walter was supposed to find the cure, save the boy. He had every advantage: better organization, better technology, a head start. It just wasn't supposed to happen this way.
"...and yet..." Walter cast a glance about his lab. There was something he could do. There were a few things he could do. He could reinstate the abandoned gate project, cross over to the other side, and either give the boy a dose of the remedy himself or give the formula to the other Walter. He could create a device to send radio waves across universes, hijack the other side's more advanced cell network to get a message across. He could create another window, one that would allow the other Walter to see him.
Or he could use brute force. A smile spread across his face, the look of a man with an untested toy and a worthy cause to put it to.
As the neatly-groomed alternate Walter went into his storage room for the next round of chemical tests, the Walter with more of a claim to the term "mad scientist" went digging in his chest of emergency inventions. Underneath a bag and a half of Brown Betty and an LP of Elvis' Greatest Hits, he found it: an oblong metal box that looked like a power strip with only one outlet and a huge, ominous red dial.
Clearing aside his cluttered workspace with a sweep of his arm, Walter quickly spliced the window's power cable into the modified surge protector. It was a rough job, a jury-rig of exposed yellow wirecaps and black electrical tape, but it wasn't meant to last more than a few minutes at best. After one last cursory check of his work, Walter plugged the tail end into a nearby socket.
The overhead lights dimmed; and at the same time, the picture through the window brightened. The power amplifier overrode the Harvard lab's breaker box, modulating the current so that it could be drawn straight from the high-tension lines. In turn, it fed all of that power into the window, allowing the trans-dimensional viewer to stretch the membrane between the worlds even thinner. By Walter's rough mental calculations, at the upper limit of the window's potential, the dimensional interface was thin enough that micro-wormholes would form, allowing small particles through in both directions. Small particles meant air. Air meant speech. Speech meant a warning.
Walternate looked up from his preparations for the next chemical mixture as he sensed something wrong in the air before him, but no sound came through. Walter moved closer to the screen, fiddling with the dials and connections, trying to pull the last ounce of performance out of it. That was all it would take.
The picture brightened again, glowing like a searchlight in the dimness of the lab, and started to waver. Every movement of Walternate's gloved hands left rippling afterimages in the surface of the screen, but still no sound came through. The image stayed silent as the scent of ozone filled the room and the lights died completely.
Finally, consumed with impotent frustration, Walter slammed his fist through the screen. He could feel the shards of the window cutting his hand and forearm, but the pain was forgotten when the sound of soaring strings filled the room.
Toccata and Fugue. He should have guessed that his counterpart was a classical fan.
He could see the other Walter's brow crease at the sight of a disembodied arm floating in the middle of his lab, but there was no time. The power amplifier was sending coruscating arcs to every nearby metal surface, causing the lights to flicker on again with every buzzing bolt.
"The last experiment! You had it right!"
He had just enough time to see the fire rekindle in the other Walter's eyes.
Then there was one last spark, and everything went white.
BETTER DAYS
A Fringe AU Fanfic by Gavin King
Chapter One: Founding Day
The one thing about the whole ordeal that motivated me the most was that I'll never know if I succeeded. After I came back to my senses, I realized that I would have to help someone in a way I could measure, in a place I could see.
-Walter Bishop, private journal
September 18, 2010
Worcester, Massachusetts
Peter Bishop Institute for Human Potential, Athletics Field
The Director took his time adjusting the microphone, the same way he did every year. Everyone had their speculations about the reason. Some said that he was obsessive compulsive, and had to have it in just the right position. Others said he just wanted to give everyone a chance to quiet down before he spoke.
Liv Dunham knew better. The Director had two reasons for taking his time with the microphone. The first was that even after twelve years, he didn't have perfect control over his cybernetic arm. Still, with admirable obstinacy, he insisted on doing almost everything with it. The more important reason was that he was fighting back tears, just like he did every year, and refused to face the students and faculty of the Institute without dry eyes.
"Peter would have been thirty-two today," Walter began, when he was ready. "I wish he was here so I could see the man he would have become. But more importantly, I wish he had lived to see the man I became."
He paused, looking out over the crowd. Liv waited, even though she knew the next line. It was the same every year, just another school tradition, just another reminder of their purpose. Some of the faculty and most of the students ribbed Dr. Bishop in private for his perceived senility, seeing the repeated speech as just another aspect of his eccentricity. To Liv, on the other hand, it was a comforting constant, a much-needed reminder of her purpose.
"When Peter died, I lost my way for a while. I drove away most of the things that made my life what it was, stopped living and just kept... existing. But I looked at my life. I looked at my choices. And I realized I had failed a lot more children than just Peter. And with the Cortexiphan children, those who we know today as the First Generation, I had a chance to redeem myself.
"So I did two things. I developed Septima, for the children who had been given Cortexiphan and wanted to regain their limits, to take a step back from the brink and revert to normalcy. But for the 'tex children who wanted to embrace their abilities, to seek their destinies beyond the limits of mundanity, I, with help from my friend William Bell, founded the Peter Bishop Institute for Human Potential, on what would have been Peter's ninth birthday.
"Today is the twenty-fourth anniversary of the Institute. But you're not here to hear an old man go on and on about something everyone knows, even if some of you would say that as the Director, I'm entitled." The deeply etched lines on his face smoothed out as an almost childish grin wiped away the stormclouds and raindrops of his nostalgia. "You're here for the barbecue."
Behind the rows and rows of folding chairs holding the majority of the Institute's students and staff, a fireball rose into the sky. Susan Pratt, a diminutive blonde clad in the school colors of charcoal and crimson, grinned widely and began shooting bursts of flame from her hands into the fuel box of a huge, wood-fired outdoor grill.
Liv jumped up and hustled towards the grill, staying barely ahead of the other hungry people in the audience. The crowd stood around watching the pyrokinetic chef work her magic. Someone passed out styrofoam plates and napkins.
Walter sidled up next to Liv, the crowd parting easily to let him through. Amid the general hubbub of conversation (both the timid squeaks of first-years and the more confident chatter of the older students) their conversation was all but inaudible.
"Livy!" Walter exclaimed. "It's good to see you back here. How was Maine?"
"Easier than I thought. It turns out it was just some high school kid exploiting an anomalous patch of soft gravity to do skateboard tricks."
"To impress a girl, I presume?"
She chuckled. "Naturally."
"Well, we should consider ourselves lucky for simple problems." In front of them, Susan and some of the older students who had been press-ganged into helping her began to throw meat onto the grill. "By the way, there's something you need to know."
Her smile faltered briefly when she saw his face, lined in concern. "What?"
"Nick's back from Chile. He's going back into teaching."
A pang of something sharp and unpleasant shot through her gut. "I thought he was going to be gone for three years."
"He had better luck than he thought. Twelve willing participants. Given our current resources, we thought it was prudent to bring him back home."
"I don't think I can deal with him right now," Liv said quietly. She knew that Walter couldn't hear her over the crowd, but he knew her well enough to guess her feelings. "Not with a new school year starting."
"I asked Carla and Ms. Andrews to put you on opposite teaching schedules," he replied. "I'll do what I can to make sure you have the time you need. But, Livy, you need to learn to work with him sometime."
"It's not as simple as just learning to live with someone. There's the link..." The same link which had brought her and Nick together, and the same link that had torn them apart. A few of the other First Generation 'texxers had developed the same kind of link, but Liv and Nick were the only linked pair left where neither party had taken Septima.
"I know. I know. But there are things I can't help." Walter grabbed Olivia's shoulder with his flesh-and-blood hand. "If you need to take some time, off, I can find..."
Liv shook her head. "No. I can handle this. We have few enough teachers as it is. And you're right, we need Nick here."
"That's my girl." He clapped her on the shoulder again. "Besides, if you think that's hard? Try giving a commencement speech when you're high as a kite."
Her eyes shot up. "You're not."
He just chuckled. "I'm going to go get a bag of chips. See you at the faculty meeting."
Olivia watched him as he left, the crowd once again parting almost unconsciously to accommodate him. She was suddenly afraid to look into the crowd for the chance she'd find Nick there, so she just watched Susan grill and felt her stomach rumble.
XXX
The best results so far seem to be from a combination of the Delta-variant Cortexiphan and a Septima precursor. In theory, this will remove the limits on the mind early enough to matter, but delay the manifestation of the power to a point where the augmentee will be able to handle the physical, mental, and emotional demands.
-Walter Bishop, research log, 1988
XXX
After the hamburgers and hot dogs had all been served, but before the traditional Founding Day dessert of root beer floats, came the annual announcements. A huge bulletin board was set up in the middle of the athletic fields for just this purpose, and the entire student body crowded around the two-sided board to see where Destiny (not the abstract force, but Destiny Andrews, the woman who worked in the scheduling office) had placed them.
The first years, what in a normal school would be eighth graders, formed a dense cluster around the northern side of the board, jostling to have a peek at the neatly typed lists of names and rooms. The older students tended to wait on the fringes of the crowd, since dorm assignments didn't tend to vary much from year to year, and they could afford to wait. Especially if it meant avoiding being trampled by overeager first years.
The one exception to this rule was the fourth-year Unit assignments. The fourth-years were clustered just as tightly around their side of the board as the first-years on the other side, and for good reason. The Unit placement was when the Institute curriculum changed from mostly schoolwork to mostly hands-on training. The other three people in your Unit were to be your constant companions for the final three years of training, for good or for ill. There was much potential for strife, but in practice it was very rare. Destiny just happened to be a 'texxer, one of the Second Generation, with the power to see interpersonal relationships. She had final say on Unit assignments, and not even Walter could gainsay her on this. So when the pattern of harmony was broken, and two students with a preexisting conflict were placed in the same unit, there was always a reason for it.
"What the hell? I'm in a unit with Bill Tolleson? There's no reason for this!"
Tyler Redfield looked around in sudden embarrassment from his outburst, but he went unnoticed in the crowd of fourth-years having similar (but usually less profane) epiphanies. Sighing, he turned back to the board to read the other names in his list.
He wasn't surprised to see "O'Killey, Claire" next on the list. She had been in practically all of his classes since day one. There was a running joke amongst their shared circle of friends that Destiny was trying to hook the two of them up. He would have been more surprised if she was in a different unit, and that was all right with him. Whether it was by genuine personal compatibility or extended periods of unwilling proximity, the two of them were close friends.
"Asajima, Sayuri" was an unknown. He knew her by face and name, but the sum total of his knowledge of her personality could be expressed as "kinda dresses like a punk, I guess."
There was one more name. Right below the words "UNIT FOURTEEN" and above the dorm number, in bold, was "Mentor: Dunham, Olivia."
Professor Dunham. Professor Dunham was his Unit instructor. Professor Dunham, the head Combat Tactics instructor. Professor Dunham, who was practically Director Bishop's right hand. Professor Dunham, who was often said to be the nicest terrifying person you'll ever meet.
Suddenly Tyler was less concerned that Bill Tolleson was in his Unit.
Someone yelled "ROOT BEER!" from the direction of the food tables, and the crowd dispersed almost immediately. Tyler stuck his hands in his pockets and started to follow the flood of people, knowing that there was always plenty to go around. Where they managed to get root beer in kegs and ice cream in five-gallon buckets, he didn't know. He was pretty sure he didn't mind, though.
As he approached the tables, he glimpsed a tall strawberry blonde and hustled to catch up. "Claire!"
"Hey, Tyler." She slowed down to let him catch up. "Excited about the posting?"
"Dunham? You know I am! Getting apprenticed to her practically guarantees getting placed on a field team!" He studied her face as they walked. "You seem less enthusiastic."
"Well... Professor Dunham is fantastic, but it's like you said, getting placed with her means field work, Fringe team placement, that kind of thing. I've always thought my calling was humanitarian work."
"You could always talk to her about it. Or Destiny, or Ms. Warren, or even the Director."
"Maybe. I don't want to leave you guys in the lurch though."
They reached the back of the ice cream line. "Do what you need to do, Claire. I mean, I'd miss you, but... well, you would be leaving me alone with Tolleson. Never mind, I'd never forgive you if you left."
She rolled her eyes. "What the heck did he do, kill your dog? I don't think I've seen the two of you exchange more than five words in conversation. Besides, you'd have Sayuri."
"You know her? What's she like?"
"She kinda dresses like a punk, I guess. Other than that, I don't really know. She was in a couple of the same study groups, but...wait, why are you asking me? We've always been in the same classes, and she's only been in one or two of the same ones as us."
"You're the one who brought her up."
"Only as the person who would have to deal with your ridiculous rivalry if I swapped Units." The line moved forward again and a red plastic cup was offered to each of them. Tyler took his, but Claire shook her head. "Do you have sugar free?"
Sure enough, there were a few two-liters of diet root beer on ice. There was only the one kind of ice cream, but Claire took a scoop of it anyway. "Aren't you not supposed to have any sugar?"
"It's all right. I can just jab a needle into my arm afterwards."
Tyler felt a little green.
"Pfft. Baby." She stuck a straw into her cup and took a sip. "Maybe you shouldn't be on a combat team after all."
XXX
"This book is absolute drivel. Worcester's no different from any other college town, and implying that the Institute created some kind of 'superhuman sin city' in the surrounding area is laughable to anyone who's actually lived there. The author is just feeding off anti-augment prejudice, and in this day and age there's no reason for that."
-anonymous review of the book 'Tex, Drugs, and Rock'n'Roll: The Institute and the Worcester Underground
XXX
As soon as Sayuri Asajima stepped into the dorm room, the microwave tried to strike up a conversation.
[HI!]
[...hi.]
[I'm a microwave!]
[I know.]
[I know you know! But you're the only person who listens!]
[That's my power, yeah.]
She sighed and set her duffel bag down beside the sofa. The sofa was an enormous green modular beast that looked ludicrously comfy, surrounding a huge plasma TV set into the wall. The kitchen was across the greatroom from the sofa, meaning she had to strain a bit to hear the chipper appliance.
[Well, it's nice to meet you. I, uh... I guess I look forward to heating something up inside you?]
[Well, I certainly do!]
She flopped down on the couch, finding it just as comfortable as it looked. [Hey. TV.]
[Zzzzsnzzx... huh?] The television blinked on, showing static.
[Got any good old movies?]
[Day the Earth Stood Still on 46. Are you a sci-fi fan, ma'am?] She wasn't sure why the TV sounded like a British butler, but that was one of the less weird things in her life recently.
[Sounds good to me.]
The TV blinked on, showing the scene where the ship opens for the first time. Just then, the front door to the dorm (or, rather, student apartment – the Institute spared no costs) opened and a tall, thin boy with angular features and severe eyebrows walked in with two suitcases. "Hey, Sayuri."
"Hey, Bill." She wasn't quite sure how to react to him. He was in the awkward zone; somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend. "Guess we're roomies now, huh?"
"Looks like it." He stared at the duffel bag dumped unceremoniously on the floor. "Picked a room yet?"
"I wanted to wait until the other two got in." She looked over the couch at him. "By the way, what're they like? I haven't met them yet."
"They're pretty close. Don't know a whole lot about Claire specifically, but Tyler's an ass."
"Wait, how much of an ass are we talking here?"
Bill set his suitcases down next to Sayuri's duffel bag, following her walkway-obstructing lead. "Well, he's not a murderer or anything, he just kind of has a hero complex. Always acting like he's going to save the world someday. By the way, I noticed that you're watching TV. Did anyone tell you that they're not hooking up the TV until the end of the week?"
"Uh.. no. No they didn't." Busted.
Apologies, ma'am. You said you wanted a movie, and I found one.
"So... you're a technopath?"
She nodded. "The first full one, supposedly. They were pretty excited until I found out I can't actually boss machines around. It's great with friendly gadgets, but not all of them are. For some reason, Apple products hate me." She kicked her feet up on the table. "So what's your thing?"
"Sure you want to know?"
"We're going to be training together. Better now than later."
"All right," he said, and the next thing she knew, Sayuri woke up on the floor.
She sat up and rubbed her head. There was no headache, but she felt a lingering sense of fuzziness. "Uh. What was that?"
"My ability." He held up two fingers like a gun and blew on his fingertips. "I suppress neural activity in short bursts. You were out for three or four seconds, tops."
The door opened again, and the final two members of Unit Fourteen entered the apartment. Sayuri stood up to get a good look at them over the back of the couch. The girl was almost as tall as Bill, but she slumped, almost like she was trying to hide her height. The boy was significantly shorter, with clear blue eyes and a distracted impression. They were both carrying two suitcases apiece, as well as backpacks. Tyler looked like he was about to say something, but Claire cut in first.
"Hi! You must be Sayuri. I'm Claire, this is Tyler. Hi, Bill."
"Hi, Claire," Bill replied, glaring at Tyler.
"Nice to meet you, Sayuri." Tyler didn't meet her eyes, instead glaring back at Bill.
Claire sighed. "Play nice, you two." She glanced at the pile of luggage in the middle of the room. "Haven't picked rooms yet?"
"No, we wanted to work it out with you two beforehand. Are they always like this?"
"Pretty much. Do either of you guys have any objections?"
Neither Tyler nor Bill averted their eyes from their incredibly mature staring contest, but they at least both shrugged.
"It's settled then. I take the room at the far left, you take the room at the far right. The boys can fight over the ones in the middle."
"Hey!" Tyler turned to Claire. "Now I have an objection!"
She grinned mischievously, and Sayuri decided right then and there that they were going to get along just fine. "Too late."
"...Judas," he grumbled.
Suddenly, the air in the middle of the living room shimmered like a heat mirage. A split in reality opened, and a woman with pixie-cut blonde hair dressed in the school colors of charcoal and crimson stepped out as if doing nothing more extraordinary than parting a curtain.
As the four stared in shock, Professor Liv Dunham smiled almost awkwardly. "Hi. I'm Ms. Dunham, your faculty mentor for the next three years. Your first lesson? The element of surprise."