Chapter 6

Walter entered the house late that morning, none too pleased.

"Go home, Walter," Peter had said. "You've been working all night long; you need some rest."

Said work had involved testing his new hypothesis on how their Jon Osterman suspect was capable of teleporting through space at apparent will. There was little to give an indication as to how such a feat was being achieved, save that the act interfered with electrical systems, and left background electromagnetic signatures at the departure sites they have located.

With these few facts as his guide, Walter – with an ever-obliging Asterism at his side – prepared a set of experiments to determine whether his hunch was correct. It involved long periods of time standing in front of the black board jotting down differential equations to essential composers (among them Strauss and MC Hammer), until he would get a flash of insight and proceed to subject the test frogs he had acquired to increasingly elaborate experimentation.

This cycle continued until the early hours of the morning, a cycle that ultimately ended in failure. The suspect's ability seemed to operate neither via molecular dispersion and reintegration, nor through manipulation of space-time, at least, not in any discernible way. Having exhausted all possibilities, he found himself greatly discouraged and frustrated.

Not even the frog legs could cheer him up, succulent though they were.

Peter and Olivia had arrived to the lab in the early morning, where Peter managed to convince him to return to their house. Walter had naturally opposed the idea, explaining that the answers were just beyond his reach, and that he had to continue his work; it was only when Peter suggested that rest might be beneficial for his father's brain that he begrudgingly agreed. And so did Peter drive Walter home, warning him not to be too crazy with everyone's favorite housemate.

It was with fatigue and irritation that Walter shuffled inside, placing his coat on the rack.

"September?"

He found September in the living room, observing Bishop family photos that were placed on a shelf next to the television set. Sensing Doctor Bishop's presence, he faced him.

"Walter," he said. "You have returned."

Walter sat on the couch with a thunderous sigh.

"What has happened?" inquired September. "Are you not supposed to be at the lab?"

"I've been staying up all night trying to determine what sorcery that man has been using, but to no avail!" He let his arms plop to his sides in resignation. "What about you, September? How has your day been so far?"

"I have been meaning to speak to you about that," he said. "Do you have any supplementary reading material in your residence?"

"What do you mean? We have plenty of books lying around."

"But...I have finished reading them all two hours ago."

Walter brows jumped.

"You've read every single book in this house?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said the Observer. "I have read all the fiction and non-fiction, and the National Geographic issues, and the recipe books and science manuals, and the dictionaries as well. I also found some magazines stored within Peter's closet –Playboy, the name was. It was... an enlightening read."

Walter face froze as September forevermore altered the way he perceived his son.

"...Oh."

The assimilation of all written works in the house had taken three hours, a half of which was devoted to finding more books to read. After that, he decided to scan the labels on every labeled item he could find, killing an additional thirty minutes. But following this endeavor, he had been left with nothing to do, nothing to pursue. It was only during this period that he realized that when he served That Which He Used To Serve, he was in a state of constant external stimulation, whether it be through observation of events, the consumption of food, or in the engagement of recreational activities.

But when taking into account the limitations imposed by the protocols Peter had instated, and the lengthy periods of time September was left to himself, there wasn't much left for the Observer to do, and he more often than not entered a state of which he had become intimately familiar with every aspect save its name.

Boredom.

Walter and September remained still in their shared silence, a silence broken by the latter.

"Do you have any suggestions on activities we could pursue?"

Walter retreated in reflection, staring into space; an idea began to formulate, and he appeared to pass through several phases of increasing lucidity before he clapped his hands and rubbed his palms with a devious smile.

"I've got it! Wait here just one moment."

And he sped off upstairs.

XxXxXxXxXxX

"...We arose out of necessity."

September sat on the couch and Walter on the sofa as the former Observer shared his tale.

"The Great Causal Chain that governs the flow of all things was ours to steer, as per the will of That Which We Serve. Balance was the imperative; for without our intervention, things will naturally tend towards decay over time. Entropy leads to disorder, conscious beings are inherently drawn to destruction; it is an inevitability. To all worlds and times we thus traveled, ensuring the preservation of all things, which was our purpose from the onset."

Walter, who was bent forward, rapt by September's recounting, leaned back, deeply humbled.

"...Incredible."

Silence followed. Then, September turned to Walter.

"Walter, what did you say this was called?" he asked.

"It's an experimental hybrid," he said with a hint of pride. "I call it Brown Betty."

Walter reached forward and lit September's joint, and upon inhaling, the Observer sank into his seat, blowing smoke to the ceiling.

It had been fifteen minutes since Walter rushed downstairs with a plastic bag stuffed to bursting with a strange greenish material. He had watched as Walter deftly placed some of the mixture onto small strips of paper, which he rolled into cylindrical containers. Doctor Bishop had then placed the container to September's lips and lit the tip with a lighter.

"Now, inhale."

He did as he was instructed.

Nothing had happened, at least initially; seeing this, Walter told him to give it some time. And sure enough, the transition soon began, one so gradual that September didn't even notice the effect the drug was having on his body and mind, and at no point did his Observer brain suspect that his relaxed state and his increasingly talkative disposition were signs of something being amiss.

As September took another puff of his second joint, Walter continued.

"Agents of order, is that right? Spectacular. I had always imagined that to be the case. Though I must admit that I am still a bit confused. What is it you said you served again?"

September stopped; he probably shouldn't have been telling Walter all these things, but in his current state, he failed to see the harm.

"There is no accurate corollary in spoken word," said the Observer. "But perhaps the closest approximation would be the combined will of all conscious entities."

"Brilliant." Walter emitted a few throaty coughs. "You know, it's strange; you've told me things the whole of man will probably never figure out on their own, but even so, I don't think I generally feel any better or worse about things than I was before. Say, do you think that..."

He trailed off and began to snigger, pointing at September.

"What is it?" asked September.

Doctor Bishop struggled to formulate a coherent string of words.

"You...you have no eyebrows!"

He erupted in a wheezing fit of giggles, causing September to suddenly become very concerned. The Observer brought his hand to his brow ridges (though not without missing his head entirely the first time), where his eyes widened in shock.

"You are...correct," he said. "I...I do not. But you have eyebrows."

Walter stopped laughing, struck square in the face by epiphany.

"Good God," he said. "You're right!"

Then his laughter resumed, his body rolling around in the sofa chair.

September continued to rub his brows; his hands then began to wander across his scalp, then to the rest of his head, circulating around his head and over his face in constant, rhythmic fashion.

Not even Matter, Yet Not Matter was as smooth.

"Walter," he said, tracing the contours of his skull with open palms. "Walter...I cannot stop. You must help me. Walter. Aaah. Aaaaaaaaaaah."

Walter appeared just as afraid as September was as he stood up and gripped his friend's wrists, putting an end to the trance.

"Are you alright?" asked Walter. "What happened?"

"My hands...it is as though they were moving of their own accord."

"I know what you mean," said Walter, seating himself beside September and placing his joint on the coffee table's ashtray. "In 1973, one of my hands slipped into my trousers without my knowledge while I was giving a lecture at Harvard. I had thought the increasingly baffled expressions in the room were rooted in the wonders of biochemistry; it was only fifteen minutes later that I realized my error and took my hand out."

"I have attended many of your lectures," said September, slowly passing his fingers through the smoke as it wafted to the ceiling. "They were all fascinating."

At this, Walter grew more contemplative.

"So you've been watching me for longer than I had thought," he said. "I've always wondered why you and your people were so interested in me. And Peter, for that matter." Then, in a flash, Walter became very agitated. "September, why did you save Peter and I at the lake? Why is it so important that Peter lives?"

"You are what we have termed Prime Variables," said September, "individuals who have the greatest propensity for affecting the progression of the Great Causal Chain. When I was...discovered in the other Walter's lab, wanting to witness the creation of the cure that was to heal Peter of his affliction, I had caused the Great Causal Chain to stray from the intended path. My actions at Reiden Lake were merely to ensure Peter's survival, as was my mandate."

September remembered with great clarity the events of that time period. To fulfill uncounted eons of flawless service, only to be discovered standing at the lab by the other Walter, was an unforgivable oversight. He was infinitely fortunate to have been able to correct his mistake by saving the Boy's life, but his transgression did not go unpunished. Upon returning to the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place, That Which He Used To Serve had forced him to sit on the Non-Linear Time-Out Stool in the Spatially Recursive Corner for the linear equivalent of one hundred million years so that he may reflect on his mistake.

For a long time, the others had teased him for it, referring to him as Septemberred or Septemberror or He Who Fails To Take the Necessary Precautions So As To Remain Undiscovered During Significant Events.

The last title was particularly shaming.

They would also warn each other not to 'commit a September' before heading off to observe important moments, as well as frequently recount the same joke to one another, usually in September's presence.

"Knock, knock."

"Who is there?"

"September makes mistakes."

Incapable of experiencing laughter, they would simply point to September with stoic faces, and September could do nothing but dip his head a little.

It wasn't as bad as it used to be, thankfully. March had been the most relentless of them, often going out of his way to remind September of his shortcomings; after September reported his colleague's behaviour to That Which He Used To Serve – and March's subsequent confinement to the Non-Linear Time-Out Stool for one hundred thousand years – the teasing had been scaled down in intensity, though he would still periodically ask September if he would like a side of failure to go with his enchiladas.

"But I cannot tell you the reason why you and Peter are important," finished September, "because I do not know. I have merely served the will of That Which I Used To Serve without question."

Walter nodded, coming to terms with the Observer's answer; after taking another puff, he patted September on the lap with enthusiasm.

"How about some food, hmm? I'm feeling curiously peckish at the moment."

He stood upright and manoeuvred to the kitchen. As Walter rummaged around in the cupboards for munchies-friendly snacks, September held his joint in his fingers, observing it with relaxed, bloodshot eyes. It was a curious substance, this Brown Betty, acquainting him with a state of serenity unlike any he had never experienced. Placing the joint on the ashtray, he decided that he should assimilate Brown Betty more regularly.

Something caught his eye, then; he held out his hand before his eyes, moving it languidly, and he was astonished to see a trailing, lingering afterimage to the arc of his hand's motion. The significance of this occurrence was not immediately obvious to his slowed mind, but soon, it was all too clear.

"Walter," said September, wide eyes affixed to his outstretched palm.

"Yes?" replied Walter, carrying a back-breaking load of assorted snacks. "What is it?"

"I believe my powers are...returning."

Walter sat down in the sofa, digging into the Twinkie box with a puzzled face.

"What do you mean?" he asked through bites. "Didn't you say your powers were stripped?"

"They were stripped...but it seems as though my temporal perception is resurfacing. I can perceive the past of my hand's movements as it is happening." He looked to Walter. "I believe it might be the Brown Betty."

They sat in stoned silence, processing the implications of such a notion.

"Are you absolutely certain of this?" asked Walter.

"It is the only logical explanation. Though I will have to test this further." He took a breather of cannabis before proceeding. "Walter, I want you to think of a number. Any number will suffice. Are you thinking of your number?"

Walter clenched his eyelids shut for a moment, then opened them and nodded.

"The number you are thinking of... is three thousand and seventy-one."

"Ha! I chose four!" replied Walter, pointing in triumph.

The Observer was greatly confused.

"Is that not what I said?"

Walter paused.

"You know...I think you might have," said Walter, awestruck. "Good God! How did you do that?"

"It appears my ability to intuit the thoughts of humans has also returned," said September.

In this altered state, the knowledge that he was regaining what was taken from him made it all the more invigorating. He had been yearning for normalcy for the entirety of his exile; he did not expect that the key would lie in inhaling the fumes of burning plants, but he did not question it any further.

"This is excellent news!" exclaimed Walter. "You know, once, after a particularly lengthy bong session, I suddenly found myself to have become completely invisible! I walked around in a park wearing nothing but an undershirt and sandals, and people were simply ignoring me, not even looking my way as though I wasn't even there! Good times, those were."

"It is decided, then," declared September. "If I am to regain the full extent of my abilities, I must smoke as much Brown Betty as I possibly can."

And the Observer proceeded to suck on his joint with the totality of his pulmonary might.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Peter Bishop came home to find an Observer bobbing up and down in the closet.

He returned later in the afternoon after another unsuccessful day at the lab, where the only thing of note were interviews with witnesses of codename Jon Osterman's latest victim. Wearily, he took off his shoes and coat before entering the corridor leading to the kitchen; the house smelled strongly of air freshener for some reason, tinged with something he could not quite place. He was poised to call out for Walter and September, but something caught his attention, a muted shuffling sound originating from inside the closet.

Tentatively, he opened the door, only to see September facing the corner, bobbing in place.

"Why is this not working?" noted the Observer to himself. Noticing the influx of light, he turned around to address Peter. "What are you doing? I cannot be seen."

He then shut the door, enclosing himself once more. Peter tried to open the door again, but September resisted, pulling on the knob on his end.

"What the hell is going on here?" exclaimed Peter.

Peter wrenched the door open, and September sped out like an insect skittering out of the way of a malevolent shoe. The Boy pursued him upstairs, where he locked himself in the bathroom.

"September!" said Peter, knocking.

"Do not disturb me," came the reply from the bathroom. "I must remain unobserved if I am to achieve teleportation."

"Teleportation? What in the..."

With precise movements, Peter exploited the age of the door by twisting the knob at certain key points, thereby unlocking it; he went inside to see September standing on the toilet seat to perform his bobbing. Seeing Peter, he hopped off the toilet and scurried past Peter, emerging into the hallway and heading to the stairs.

"Wait just one second!"

September stopped and turned around.

"Wait just one second!" said September.

Peter grunted. This again?

"Will you stop that?"

"Will you...stop?"

"What are you–"

"–what?"

"What?"

"Yes."

"Stop it!"

September stopped, tilting his head as he usually did; this time, however, it seemed as though his head had suddenly multiplied its weight, and it began to drag the Observer to the side, nearly toppling his body from the momentum. He regained himself in seconds, holding his hands out for equilibrium, upon which Peter continued.

"Calm down for a second. I just was to talk –"

"–Stop it!"

It then occurred to Peter that while September was trying to do that preemptive copycat thing he does, his responses kept getting further delayed.

"Are you okay?" asked Peter. "And what's up with your eyes?"

Indeed, September's red eyes were a startling sight given that his superficial appearance never changed; although in every other respect, he was as detached from reality as ever, if not more so.

"There is no time," said September, ignoring him. He stared at his hand, waving it side to side, as though something were wrong with it. "I need more."

He made for the first floor. Peter caught up to him in the living room, where the Observer was searching around for something, lifting cushions and bending down to inspect the space beneath the table and couch. Peter dragged him to his feet and gripped him by the shoulders.

"Calm down for a minute! What's going on?"

"My powers are beginning to fade away. I must absorb more Brown Betty to maintain them. Do you not see, Peter?" He stroked Peter's face with a delicate hand. "Brown Betty is the key to greater understanding."

Peter swatted the hand away, totally weirded out by the gesture.

"Brown Betty?"

"Yes," explained the suited man. "We burned some green plants and inhaled their fumes, and as a result, my abilities have resurfaced. It is...what was the word? Rad."

"Oh my God..."

The extreme behavior, the reddened eyes, the lingering scent masked by copious use of air freshener; everything fell into place, and he was sorely displeased with the picture that was painted.

...Walter.

Peter abandoned his fried housemate, calling out for Walter. He brought his search upstairs, where he at last found Walter not in his room, but in Peter's; he was taking a nap on his son's bed, spooning the pillow Peter slept with at night.

"Walter!"

The man shot up, all senses on alert.

"W-what? Oh, it's you, Peter." He bore the smile of an innocent. "How was your day?"

"You gave the Observer weed? Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not. But he certainly is." He giggled. "You should have seen him earlier."

"He's still acting crazy! How much of the stuff did you give to him?"

"We...we shared a whole bag. But he smoked most of it. He just kept on going and going. I have never witnessed anything so inspiring."

Peter couldn't believe his ears.

"Inspiring? Do you have any idea –"

The sight of September running around in circles in the backyard through the bedroom window neutered all capacity for rational thought.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Peter sped downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, where September continued to do laps with uncoordinated movements.

"What are you doing now?" asked Peter, severely annoyed.

"My powers may be fading, but I can at least attempt to cross between worlds."

"Alright, fine. But could you at least do it inside?"

"No! I must crossover before it is too late."

September wandered without aim around the lot, expecting to pierce the inter-reality barrier at any moment. Peter tried to stop him, but he managed to wriggle from the Boy's grip at every turn, until he was forced to actively try to corner the Observer; alas, his movements were highly unpredictable, and Peter wondered which of them seemed more foolish at that moment.

The situation grew more complicated when he spotted Miss Langley watching from the window of her house as her neighbor tired to pin down a slippery fish of a bald man who chanted the same monotone mantra in endless succession.

"I must crossover to the other universe! I must crossover to the other universe!"

Eventually, Peter was able to halt September's movements through employment of a bear hug of which there was no escape.

"Okay, Trevor," said Peter, knowing he was being watched. "Come on; we're going to inside now, alright? Follow me. This way, that's right."

He corralled the Observer back inside, waving to Miss Langley, who reciprocated, her face one of sympathy. The Observer was placed in the dining room, where he was made to sit; all the while, September appeared shell-shocked, allowing himself to be guided without complaint or resistance.

"Peter," said the Observer at last. "It appears my powers have disappeared."

It came as a great disappointment to him; to have been so close to returning to his old self, only to have it all break apart like the smoke that emanated from the Brown Betty. To have to experience the loss of his powers once again only drove further the reality that there would be no going back to the way things were prior to his banishment.

Walter poked his head in, put on the defensive from his son's earlier outburst. Peter clenched his jaw with crossed arms, staring at his father.

"No more drugs," said Walter, acknowledging his mistake.

"No more drugs," affirmed Peter.

And just to make sure the point would stick, Peter went to the fridge and removed a gold star. He then left upstairs to escape the lunacy of it all, abandoning Walter and September to wallow in their respective disappointment.

Yet even so, Walter could not help but chuckle quietly as he shared a complicit glance with September, who belted out his atonal mock laughter in response.

XxXxXxXxXxX

A/N: Next time, we kick it up a notch.