Gone

Chapter 8

"Peter, there's no one home."

"Okay, that's just weird."

"It's weird because there's no one home?"

"No. It's weird because it looks exactly the same."

Peter was peering in through the glass of the front door, hand cupped over his eyes so he could see.

"Well," she began. "It is an old house…"

"And they still have the same paint as they did 23 years ago? The same furniture in the same places? The same pictures on the walls?"

"You remember all that?"

It was a good question, and he turned to look at her. "Yeah, I guess I do. I always had a problem with stuff like that. I would remember one thing and Walter would remember another. Sometimes, he made me think I was the crazy one." He frowned, stepped past her, slipping his hand into the mailbox on the front wall of the house. He pulled out a key and turned to her. "Voila! Key in the very same place."

She made a face. "Lots of people keep keys in their mailboxes. It's predictable."

"I know…" He turned back to the door, put the key in the lock. She rolled her eyes, regretting this turn of events, but she was somewhat committed. Besides, they had broken into this house before. Twice. At least this time, he bothered to leave the door intact and it swung open as he stepped inside. "I guess, in many respects, the Bishop household was sadly predictable."

"Right. Sadly predictable," she muttered, wondering if anything about the Bishop household could ever have been so. She shook her head and followed him in.

The house was neat as a pin and smelled of lemon cleaner and old wood. It was a good smell. It was an Arts and Crafts style house, with high wainscoting and substantial dark woodwork everywhere. There was a framed photo on the wall at the entranceway – a younger Walter, a very young Peter and a slim woman with long brown hair, obviously Mrs. Bishop. In the living room, there were books - more books than in most libraries - a baby grand piano scattered with sheet music and shelving with CD selections ranging from opera to R&B, from classical to jazz. It was a warm and classy home, obviously belonging to an academic couple, and for the first time, Olivia began to form a picture of Peter's mother, and what a home like this might have been like to grow up in.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him, moving through this place slowly, deliberately, taking it all in. She wondered what he could remember, and what his mind was filling in between the childhood gaps that would naturally be there. Then there would be the gaps caused by trauma, memories repressed and suppressed for self-protection. And finally, Walter had admitted to shocking his young son with car batteries – memories from any age would always be suspect.

He picked up a piece of sheet music and she knew he was tempted to play. Put it back down. Wandered some more, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. There were many small, framed photos around the room and he seemed drawn to them, naturally, but avoided picking any of them up. She cast her eyes around as well, fell upon a newspaper folded on a settee. The Boston Globe. June 16, 1985.

This wasn't a home, she realized. It was a mausoleum.

He began up the stairs next. It was a lovely staircase, with old, richly-grained wood, again heavy and square in the Arts & Crafts architectural style. He ran one hand along a banister that just begged for a little boy to slide down it, the other along the wall going up, as if the paint could serve to trigger memories of better days, when life was little more than phonics and hide-n-go-seek and bedtime stories.

At the top of the stairs were several wooden doors and Peter put his hand on one, turning to her before opening. For the first time since they'd crossed over, he seemed unreal, detached, otherworldly. "Master Bedroom," he said in an expressionless voice. "Robin's egg blue and brown. Paisley comforter bought in Chester, England. His and Hers Awards, Degrees and Diplomas over the bed." He pushed open the door. It was exactly as he'd described.

Beautiful. And because it hadn't changed in 23 years, weird.

On to the next room. "White and sunshine yellow. She was in the middle of redecorating. You can still smell the paint," he said, and she could. In fact, it smelled like fresh latex. He pushed the door open. There were paint cans on the floor.

"They haven't changed a thing," he said flatly. "In this entire house, they haven't changed a single thing in 23 years."

He bypassed one room, which was obviously a bathroom, heading straight for the door at the end of the hall. There was no need for narration. She knew well enough what she would find there.

He took a deep breath and pushed it open.

A little boy's bedroom, frozen in time. 1985 to be precise. Several globes, a planet mobile, model dinosaurs. Jets and spaceships and baseballs. Books and comic books. A Space Shuttle poster - the Challenger, celebrating an eleventh mission.

She frowned. The Challenger never had an eleventh mission.

Different choices.

There were teddy bears still on the bed, and she felt tears sting her eyes. She had heard of parents who had lost children keeping rooms exactly as they were, never changing a thing just in case, as if changing anything meant denying something, admitting something else, and for a grieving parent, that would be the most difficult door to close. For the first time, her heart broke for Walter Bishop - both of them - not 'mad scientist' but grieving fathers who had lost their beloved children in random and merciless ways. Grief was a powerful force. It changed things forever.

She couldn't imagine how Peter was feeling.

He was standing by the bed and bent down to pick up a stuffed dog from the pillow. It was obviously well-worn and well-loved, a button sewn on for one eye. He turned it over and over in his hands, a little grin tugging into one cheek. She moved over to his side.

"Do you remember it?"

He smiled at her and she couldn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "No," he said softly, and he put it back down.

"Rufus," said a voice from behind them. "His name is Rufus."

They both turned to find a woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing denim overalls splattered with yellow paint and her long dark hair was piled up in a messy bun. The woman from the photo. Walter's wife. Peter's mother.

She was pointing a gun at them.


"What day is it?"

Nina smiled at him. That was the third time today he had asked. They were heading back to 'the sleep room', where Walter had spent the night. There had been nice music in the sleep room, warm sheets, and just a faint whiff of Fentanyl to keep him sleeping like a baby. He never even noticed the electrodes they had taped to his head.

"It's Thursday, May 20th, Walter. I've told you that already."

"Is Agent Farnsworth coming to get me?"

"I'm told she's on her way. Would you like a sandwich?"

It was like distracting an errant child. So easy, and just a little wrong. But for some reason, he was insistent.

"Yes," he nodded, blinking rapidly. "Yes, I would. But first, may I see the DisRe?"

She laid a hand on his arm. "Walter, I've told you. We don't have a DisRe. That was something you and William postulated. We've never built one."

"Oh," he looked down, momentarily confused. "Oh, yes, that's right. Do you have a Particle Accelerator?"

Her perfect smile froze in place. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh. No reason. I would very much like to see it. Today, if I may. Before I leave."

"It's not accessible, if that's what—"

"Oh no, no. I don't want to tinker. I just would like to see it." His smile brightened, and for the first time, she wondered just how insane he really was.

"Ms. Sharp!" A young man in a lab coat jogged up to them. He was large, heavy set, with a baby face. He was also panting slightly. "Ms. Sharp—"

"Brandon, you've met Dr. Bishop before, haven't you?"

"Uh, yes. A few times, actually. Ms. Sharp, we have a small problem with uh, with um…"

"Yes, Brandon?" Smile like pearls, eyes like steel.

"With the Particle Accelerator."

She flashed those steely eyes at Walter, who smiled some more.


Starting at first in New York City, dogs began to howl.


"How dare you?"

The woman in the painted overalls began to shake.

Olivia glanced over at Peter. He looked as if he were about to break into a million pieces.

"How dare you," the woman growled. "How dare you break into my son's room?"

Olivia held her hands out, palms spread wide. "No, ma'am. That's not what we're doing—"

"Silence, girl. I've had enough of people like you, sifting through our lives like dung beetles. Would you steal that stuffed dog? Would you?! Sell it to some magazine for thousands of dollars? Shame on you. Both of you. Shame on you!"

Peter hadn't said a word, was just staring at her, head cocked, brow furrowed.

"I believe my companion downstairs has called for some police, so I think you two should be going now. Unless you really wish to be arrested. That would be most amusing. Don't you think? Don't you?"

Olivia frowned now. The woman's eyes were too wide, her gestures too theatrical. It was likely she'd never held a gun in her life. But still, there was something else…

"We don't wish to be arrested, Mrs. Bishop," she said, wishing that Peter would jump in sometime soon. As it was, he was still staring. And silent.

"Then you should go. Now. Go now."

This was very awkward. "Peter, maybe we should—"

"My son's name is Peter. I love that name. Such a strong good name."

Peter smiled now, but still hadn't moved.

"It's actually a Greek name, although most people assume it's English. Petrus. Is that your name, too, young man? Honestly, truly?"

Peter nodded.

"I keep trying to paint that room. He'll come back once I finish painting that room. I know it. I get to come three times a week to work on it. It's such a large room. And I have so many other projects."

Olivia scowled at Peter again. He really wasn't being helpful. She sighed and put out her hand. "My name is Olivia –"

"Don't interrupt, girl. I'll never get that room painted, now. This interruption, that interruption. Walter's always at work, and now Peter has gone away. If it's not one thing, it's another. What am I to do?"

Tears had sprung into her eyes now, and the gun, a small 28, was wavering in the air.

"My husband is at work and my boy has gone away. What am I to do?"

There was no answer to that. The woman was mad. His father, and now his mother. All chips stacked against him.

"What. Am. I. To. Do?!"

"You should paint," said Peter finally.

The woman froze, nodded, tears brimming in her unnaturally wide eyes. "Yes. I should. I should paint."

"I'm glad you chose yellow."

She nodded again, this time tears were filling behind her long lashes. "I wanted to paint it pink. Pink and gray. That would have been nice. But my son hated that idea. He said only girls would sleep in a pink guest room."

"Yellow is for sunshine. Happiness. And summer."

"That's what he said."

"Ι παρατηρήσει προσπάθησε να είναι μια καλύτερη άνθρωπο από ό,τι ο πατέρας μου," Peter said softly.

The woman stared at him, gun wavering, tears spilling.

"Τι λέτε;" she asked after a long moment.

Peter smiled.

She began to lower her gun.

"Freeze! FBI!" Two armed officers burst into the room, weapons drawn, hands supporting. They were wearing flack vests and the letters FBI were proudly and plainly etched across their backs.

One agent had a long blond ponytail.

"Olivia?" said Peter.

"Charlie?" said Olivia.

"What the hell?" said Charlie.

"Hands on your heads," said Olivia. "Now!"

"I think I'll go paint now," said Peter's mother. "Astrid, where's my paintbrush?! That girl is so sweet. She's FBI too, you know. But she takes care of me. Walter makes sure of it. Astrid, honey, can you make me some tea?"

And she turned and left the room, leaving Peter and Olivia with Charlie and Olivia and the sound of helicopters approaching in the early morning skies.


The bald man on the corner lifts a small device up to his lips. At first glance, one would assume it to be a cellular device. It is about the same size and shape. But that would be at first glance only.

"Yes," he says into it. "The machines have been activated. It remains to be seen which direction will be taken." He looks up into the sky, where shapes are moving against the clouds.

"The storm is beginning. I must leave."

And he folds the device into his pocket, turns and walks away down a Green Street, lined with dead trees.


"What exactly are we looking at?" asked Phillip Broyles as he stood at a window high above a vast chamber deep in the cold white heart of Massive Dynamic.

"A CMS," said Walter, smiling quite gleefully. "Isn't it fantastic?"

"A CMS?" Astrid frowned and wrapped her arms around her chest. "Walter, I read about that in your notes... Shouldn't this be…somewhere else?"

Broyles turned back to glare at Nina Sharp. "What exactly is a CMS?"

"Well Phillip," Sharp began, clasping her hands together in a friendly yet professional manner. She was, after all, a very good spin doctor. "CMS stands for Compact Muon Solenoid. It's the central part of a LHC, or Large Hadron Collider, a very complex piece of machinery—"

"It's a particle accelerator," grinned Walter. "We used to call'em Atom Smashers! Such a descriptive name, don't you think?"

Broyles frowned. "I thought these things had to be underground."

"Yeah," added Astrid. "And in a remote area. There's one in Switzerland, right? And in Texas."

"And one here in New York," said Nina. "And it is underground. Right here. Beneath us."

"Beneath New York City?" growled Broyles. "How did Massive Dynamic manage to build a Particle Accelerator beneath New York City?"

Walter waggled his eyebrows. "Beep, beep, beeeeeep! Zoom!"

"Oh!" Astrid's hand flew to her mouth. "The subways!"

"The subways?"

Nina smiled. She was smooth, he had to give her that. "Why Phillip, do you honestly think Massive Dynamic plans, drills, installs, operates, surveils and maintains tunnels beneath the world's most populous cities just to help people get to work in the morning?"

"Isn't it fantastic?" Walter was positively beaming.

Broyles closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head.

"Oh, it's completely safe," continued Nina. "In fact, the most antimatter we've ever been able to produce couldn't even turn on a light bulb."

"Antimatter?!" Broyles couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Anti-particles, actually," corrected Walter. "Anti-protons, anti-gluons, anti-quarks and the like."

"We've actually produced antitritium once," said Brandon. He was as eager as a schoolboy. "It was so cool."

"Wow," said Astrid.

"We're working on warp technology," Brandon continued. He was looking at Astrid now. Like a puppy. "You know, like in Star Trek. It's a relativistic theory based on Lorentzian Manifold physics, those sub-postulated by Miguel Alcubierre—"

"Brandon." Nina Sharp cut him off.

"Sorry, Ms. Sharp."

"Antimatter," repeated Broyles. He was not liking where this was going

"Well, yes," said Nina. "But that's neither here nor there. The thing is, we shut the CMS down 3 years ago."

"Why?" asked Astrid.

"It doesn't really matter, Agent Farnsworth. What really matters is that we turned it off."

"And?" said Broyles.

Sharp and Brandon exchanged glances.

"And at midnight last night, someone, or something, turned it back on."


The sound of helicopters is quite unmistakable.

One rarely hears them, unless you're a pilot or a soldier or a medic, but in a quiet, ivy-league neighbourhood in Boston, Massachusetts, it is a noticeable thing.

The woman named Olivia Dunham raised her Glock, just a little higher and glowered. "Who the hell are you? My twin sister?"

"No," said the woman named Olivia Dunham, who wished she had her own Glock in her hand, not strapped to her ankle. "No. But we are very similar."

"Forget it, Liv," growled Charlie Francis, his own weapon aimed at Peter Bishop's chest. "The choppers are here. We're taking them in. You can ask all the questions you want later."

"Taking us where?" Olivia again. Peter, for his part, had gone silent again. In fact, he didn't seem to even notice the agents or their weapons. He was looking around his room.

"Hands on your heads," snapped Olivia.

Olivia began to obey.

Peter did not.

"C'mon pal," snarled Francis. "Don't make me shoot you. Hands on your head."

When Peter finally looked at him, there was a strange smile on his face. "You're not gonna shoot me. You've been told to secure me. If you so much as touch me, you're a dead man, right?"

Charlie swallowed.

Peter reached into his pocket.

"Don't do it!" both agents now, guns trained on Bishop.

"Peter, no…" Olivia warned. Not the remote, not the remote…

He pulled out a coin, held it up for them to see, took one long last look at it himself, and finally, gently, laid it on the bedside table next to Rufus the dog with the button eye.

He put his hands on his head.

They were cuffed and shoved down the stairs, shepherded past Mrs. Bishop's bodyguard and caregiver, Astrid Farnsworth, who was watching from the kitchen, and past Mrs. Bishop herself. She was seated at the piano, a cup of tea at her side, playing a shuffling base line and rolling piano riff on the keys.

"Long Gone," by Sonny Thompson.

Peter slowed for one long last glance before being shoved into the morning light.

All the neighbourhood had come out to see, as helicopters on Green Street were not a common thing. There were several black SUVs on the street as well, and agents in flack vests as if the pair were fugitives and not travelers. With a sinking feeling, Olivia realized that she was being ushered one way as Peter was being ushered another.

"No," she said, straining against her cuffs. Charlie shoved her towards an SUV. "No! Peter!"

He threw her a long look before the other Olivia Dunham grabbed his arms and pushed him up and into the helicopter. She herself climbed in, slammed the hatch and immediately the rotors started up again, lifting dust and dead leaves into the air.

And for the third time in three months, Peter Bishop was gone.

"The kid was right," said Charlie. "We can't touch him, but you, Livvy - Broyles didn't say anything about you." He grinned at her and the scar on his cheek twisted.

Dear Charlie. Dead Charlie. How she missed him.

"Now please get in the car."

And he held open the door, reaching to protect her head. She realized there was another man in the back, silhouetted in the darkness and she blinked to adjust her eyes to the lack of light. As he pulled off his sunglasses off, Dunham felt the world begin to shift and slip.

He smiled at her.

"Hello, 'Liv," said John Scott.

And somewhere on Green Street, a dog began to howl.

End of Chapter 8