AN: Although it's still a couple of days off, I would like to take this moment to wish Alcatraz a Happy 2nd Birthday!

Alcatraz Island, July 30, 1958

The Warden entered the rec room and cast his eyes around, searching for his next target of sorts. It didn't take long, because there was only one man in the room who was in the far corner, painting on a fresh canvas. He walked over and spoke to this man. "Good afternoon, 2348."

Andrew Gant paused in his painting and looked up at the Warden. "Good afternoon, sir," he said politely. "What brings you here?"

"I just wanted to see for myself if the rumors were true," the Warden said, examining the beginnings of Gant's painting. So far, it depicted a mass of dark blue, which the Warden expected would ultimately show itself to be the sea. "It appears you do not disappoint. I can see the magnificent artwork just waiting to be known."

"Thank you, sir." Gant put down his palette and brush.

The Warden looked from Gant to the canvas and back again. "Don't stop on my account," he said. "Although I do have one question to ask you, and perhaps it would be better if you weren't distracted while answering." He paused. "How does a great artist like yourself manage to get caught so easily?"

Gant frowned. "I was set up. Whether or not you believe me..."

"Oh, I believe you, all right," said the Warden, but the flash of a sneer on his face betrayed the lie. "I just hope you can convince the jury during your appeal, 2348."

He turned and left the rec room. Gant waited until the fat bald man was well out of earshot before cursing under his breath, "Sanctimonious asshole." He resumed painting, relying on the soft hues of the blue seascape he was creating to take his mind off the anger he still felt at the injustice done to himself and to his family.


Salt Lake City, Utah, April 13, 2012

8:42pm, Mountain DST. The red-haired FBI agent consulted her watch as she watched the nine o'clock from San Francisco taxi in on the runway. "They made good time, Walter," she said to the old man standing next to her. "Walter?"

"Hmm?" Walter looked up from the smartphone whose screen he had been pawing at. "Oh. Sorry, Agent Dunham. This game with the Angry Birds is most addictive - more so than most mind-altering substances, contrary to popular belief. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to get the hang of it. Why is it so difficult to precision-target these hideous green pork balls?"

Olivia Dunham smiled as she came up with a great way to humor the mad old scientist. "It was developed by the FBI to determine which civilians had the right latent spatial and marksmanship skills to be of use to us. And by the way, the technical term for the targets is 'pork rounds.'"

"As opposed to 'pork rinds?'" Walter asked. "Which incidentally, I don't recommend eating unless you happen to be stoned. They taste utterly awful. Worse than butterscotch pudding, as if such a thing could exist in this universe. Perhaps they originated Over There?"

"Don't ask me," Olivia said. "You're the expert on such things."

Walter thumbed the screen of his smartphone a couple of times. "And the plane had a good tailwind coming in," he said. "Current wind conditions for this location are thirty miles per hour out of the west, with gusts up to 42. Heh. 42. What an important number, especially if you are a devotee of Mr. Adams." He smiled at Dunham. "See, this smartphone really is smart. It can be used for non-frivolous purposes."

"I'm sure that's not what Peter was thinking when he bought it for you," Olivia said.

"Oh, that reminds me-"

Olivia placed her hand on top of the smartphone. "No, Walter. Not now. They're here." She gestured to two individuals who were emerging from the gate - a slender blonde woman, like herself but with shorter hair, and a tall, strapping dark-haired man wearing a highly incongruous gangsta hoodie emblazoned with the logo of a bomb with a lit fuse and the brand name "The Hundreds." Even on his large, muscular frame, the hoodie was ridiculously baggy and only served to make him more conspicuous.

"Detective Rebecca Madsen," the other blonde said once Olivia approached them and introduced herself and Walter. "This is Enrico Pellesanti. Are you here to escort us to the landing site?"

Olivia nodded. "Right this way. We have a private jet waiting."

Enrico snorted. "A private jet for a skip over the mountain? Wow, is everyone in this century really rushed or what?"

Rebecca closed her eyes briefly. "I have to apologize for this one, Agent Dunham. He claims to be reformed, but clearly that doesn't extend to his manners."

"Oh, he's nothing," said Olivia. "I've met my share of sarcastic asses. And nobody could be as off-the-wall as Dr. Bishop."

"Excuse me?" Walter exclaimed. "I'm right here, you know. I may be elderly and clinically insane, but I most certainly am not hard of hearing!"

"At least he admits to it," Rebecca said. In an undertone, she added to Olivia, "Don't worry, I won't tell him about the other time traveler."

Olivia laughed. "I'm sure he'll find out eventually," she said ruefully. "The rest of our team is flying out to San Francisco as we speak to help out Agent Hauser." She flashed her badge so the team could cross through the door leading out to the runway where the FBI jet was waiting. Wrapping her scarf around her throat, she turned to Enrico and asked, "Did you ever have any kids?"

"No," Enrico said. "Never married. Life of crime was too all-consuming."

"Are you sure?" Olivia asked. "Because one of my fellow agents from DC looks a hell of a lot like you."

"Well, is he fifty-something years old?" Enrico asked.

Olivia shook her head. "Of course, he might be taking some kind of magical youth serum we don't know about yet." Enrico looked down at his hand. No colloidal-platinum glow at the moment, but that was of course subject to change. "Oh, and by the way, whoever told you that hoodie was a good idea, they're either deluded, a lying snake-oil salesman, or both."

"He's only trying to blend in," Rebecca said. "He even bought himself an iPod."

"I can only hope he hasn't discovered hip-hop yet," Walter said.

Enrico laughed. "Sorry, old-timer, but that Jay-Z...he's something else."

Walter shook his head. "In that case, son, you have my sympathies." He reached the jet and trotted up the steps. "I call the window seat!"

Olivia frowned at him. "Which is redundant, because on this plane, every seat is a window seat."