THE METAHUMAN TRANSFIGURATION
Description: The gang gets superpowers. It's not as cool as some of them always thought. Alternate Season 9 premiere.
Notes: As I leave tomorrow for a vacation on which I will not have too much spare time to write, the wait for the next update after this one may be a little longer than usual; I apologize for the delay. Thanks again for everybody's kind words, and rest assured I have very much enjoyed reading the feverish speculations! At least one guess will be proven correct in this instalment. As with Pasadena, I have taken liberties with Las Vegas geography in order to get a chapter out the door quicker—apologies if by sheer fluke I have put a commercial establishment right in the middle of somebody's home!
Disclaimer: The author does not own THE BIG BANG THEORY or any of the characters.
- 9 -
LATHAM HALL, 1645 ORLANDO ROAD, PASADENA, CA
FRIDAY, AUGUST 28, 2015, 6:29 A.M.
He stands atop a mountain peak beneath the night sky, the dome of an observatory rearing into the air behind him. The storm that rages above his head is the inevitable side effect of the weakness between dimensions, the product of air exchange across the bulk branes from planets whose temperature is either far higher or far lower than Earth's. It circles above him in a vortex miles wide, a cataclysm trembling on the edge of eruption. Below him, visible through a lensing in space he has set up to bridge the miles, the city he calls home is in flames, smoke towering into the sky in gold-backlit pillars of blackness. Thunder roars across the sky. Things swoop and dive over that city, wreaking destruction, havoc, and bloodshed where they go, and having destruction wrought upon them in turn by bursts of power, missile-borne explosive blasts, hurtling dragons of metal spitting cannonfire. The people he once called friends might be in there, fighting that battle. He no longer cares to look for them.
At his feet lies the body of the only woman he has ever truly loved. He would weep, but he has wept every tear he has in him; he doubts he will ever weep again. The body is unrecognizeable, blackened and constricted from the heat of fire so intense it was too much for even her to survive, hurled beyond the reach of even his powers by the inexorable bounds of logic. Time travel is possible, he knows that now, but paradox is not: events cannot be made never to happen, or the actions that undo it will lose their cause and cannot take effect. The very tragedies that inspire changing time seal their own irrevocability through that inspiration.
But just because his powers cannot undo the past does not mean other powers are likewise so limited. And if the price those powers demanded for their service is something he would once have called an atrocity . . . well, his definition of that term has changed. Why should he care for those so-called innocents? It was the cowardice and callousness of those innocents which tormented him all his life, which allowed this unforgiveable death to happen at all. If their destiny is to perish in misery in exchange for one life, he counts that a fair bargain.
The time nears; the vibrating dimensions have almost achieved the correct frequency. He lifts his hands, listening to the chittering scream of whispers in his brain, feeling their eagerness, their hunger, and not caring. He clenches his black-gloved hands, takes hold of the fabric of space and time with his will, and—
6:30 A.M.
—Sheldon woke, eyes snapping open, blinking rapidly at the ceiling.
"Well," he said after a moment. "That was strange." He cleared his throat. "Vocal test one, vocal test one," he muttered, and hummed through a set of key pitches, then blew out air through his lips. He grimaced at the taste and feel of his mouth; whoever had put him to bed had done so without waking him to get his teeth brushed. He hated that feeling.
He sat up, and realized several more things at once: he was in his clothes rather than his pajamas; he was in a strange bed and a strange room; and Amy Farrah Fowler was beside him, curled up facing him, her chestnut hair spread across the pillow and her glasses left on the nightstand. For half an instant the blackened, burnt body he'd seen in the dream came back to him, and the insanity of the dream's grief backlashed through him, sharp and strong enough to drown his normal reflex aversion. Before he caught himself he had reached out to touch her shoulder, then her throat and face; at the feel of warmth under his fingers, and the gentle movement of breath and pulse, he let out a sigh of relief.
Then he frowned. Looking closer, he could see Amy's face looked pale and her eyes bruised, as if she'd slept badly or not at all; and her skin felt cooler than usual, yet was simultaneously slick with sweat. He yanked back his hand with a grimace and wiped it on the bedcovers. "Ew," he muttered, "ew, ew, ew." He grabbed a corner of the bedspread and used it to wipe Amy's forehead. "Amy," he murmured. "Amy, wake up, please. Amy."
Amy groaned, stirred, rolled over and blinked herself awake. "Sheldon?" she muttered feebly. "Sheldon, what's wrong? Where are my glasses?"
"Um, they're here. Hold on." He leaned across Amy to grab them from the bedside table; he was not quite able to reach them without having to press some of his weight against her, and the sound of her indrawn breath immediately made him pull back in concern. "Did I hurt you?" he asked as he handed them to her.
"I—no," she said, after a pause and a look he couldn't read. "Thank you." She fitted the glasses onto her face, then sat a moment, breathing slowly and evenly.
"You don't look well," Sheldon told her. "How do you feel?"
"Awful," she eventually reported. "Much the same as when I woke up yesterday, to be honest. The symptoms are nausea, dizziness, fatigue and cold sweat—somewhat evocative of food poisoning, but as I haven't eaten since last night at your mother's and you're not suffering likewise, that seems an unlikely explanation. The other possibilities are that I have come down with an infection of some variety—"
"Contraindicated by your lack of fever," Sheldon noted.
"—or that I am experiencing some backlash from yesterday's exercise of my abilities," Amy finished. "We have, after all, no documented evidence about how people react to infusion with oneirion particles. It could be that—" She stopped, took a few more deep breaths, and went on. "It could very well be that such exposure is lethal and the abilities are merely a short-term phenomenon."
Sheldon frowned. "But then why would you alone show such effects? And so quickly? I feel fine; in fact, physically I've never felt much different. Likewise, none of our friends felt any ill effect either. I would therefore conclude that it is entirely unrelated to your abilities, or—" He stopped, an idea occurring to him. It seemed plausible and was easily tested, but required conditions he wasn't all too keen on. Still, he finally decided, it was worth it to know the answer.
"Amy," he said, and had to take a deep breath and exert some will to continue, "touch me."
Her eyes bugged. "Beg pardon?"
"Just with your bare hand, anywhere on my skin. When you do—think about me. Try to focus your attention entirely on me."
Amy swallowed. "That . . . will be less difficult than you might think." She looked at him. "Does it have to be with my hand?"
Sheldon blinked. "Well, I don't know. I suppose not, but—"
"May I kiss you?"
Oh, frickety-frack, not the female hormones again. Not that kissing Amy wasn't a pleasant experience—he'd been startled to find out how much he enjoyed it, once he actually tried it with some real intent and attention behind it—but the plain truth was, the degree to which everybody else he knew seemed obsessed with it had always put him off, especially since it seemed to be one of those vices the point of which was to deliberately discard the single thing he valued most in all existence: Clear, objective, rational thought. He had first come to treasure Amy's company simply because she'd seemed like the sole other person he'd met in all the world who shared those values.
On the other hand, all the research he'd read suggested that intimate touch had a marvelous therapeutic effect, if supported by genuine affection. And he did want to help Amy. He loved her. Sheldon sighed. "Very well. If I'm right, there's no danger of contagion anyway."
Amy scowled. "You say the most romantic things sometimes, Sheldon," she muttered.
"I know. Sometimes I forget how crazy risk-taking can get girls all riled up." Sheldon dutifully leaned forward, closed his eyes and pushed his lips out. After a moment, he felt Amy's mouth make contact, and barely restrained a grimace. Her lips felt dry and rough, like she hadn't used her lip balm for days, and tasted of nothing except . . . well, her. He wondered how long it would take to—
Zing! The sensation was like a static shock, except zipping from the soles of his feet through his head and out through his lips rather than stinging solely at point of contact. Amy jerked back, colour flooding her face; she shook her head, blinked, and then sat up, a surprised smile lighting up her eyes. To his own shock, Sheldon found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss her again now, and firmly got his wandering mind under control. That kind of time-wasting wasn't necessary now, if he was right. "I assume you feel better now?" he said.
"Uh . . . yes. Yes, I do. What happened?"
"I believe—" Sheldon got to his feet and dusted off his hands "—that we've discovered another critical parameter of your power, Amy. Yesterday, you were able to copy my powers and bring our friends to my mother's house, after you touched me in what I am guessing to be worry for me following Raj's loss of control over his power. Then, during the fight with the riot police, you touched Penny, again afraid for her, and copied her powers, replacing mine. You have now slept for at least six hours, and woke up with your initial post-coma symptoms returned, symptoms that dissipated immediately upon touching me again while focusing on me. Now, I want you to watch closely. Can you do what I'm doing now?" Sheldon went to the bedroom wall and, after some thought, opened a contiguity back to the lab downstairs, positioning it on an outer wall next to the elevator.
Amy's brow furrowed, but after a moment, she got up, went to the wall and drew a second rectangle on it, just as Sheldon had done. Sheldon could see the coordinates of space-time shift under her will, and the contiguity opened as smoothly for her as it had for him. He repressed a slight trace of jealousy—he never enjoyed realizing that other people could do something he liked as well as he could—and nodded. "Just as I thought. Your copied powers clearly dissipate following a minimum period of sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness of any type, and failing to duplicate a power leaves you in a state of physical ill-health. For the time being, you're going to have to make sure to copy at least one of us at your earliest opportunity each day."
"Oh. Well." Amy blinked. "Well, I suppose that's better than some possibilities." She bit her lip. "How bad do you think things could get? I mean, suppose I woke up and there was nobody around to duplicate a power from—how long would I have before . . . well, before I'd have to start worrying?"
Sheldon shook his head. "I have no idea, Amy. It could be these negative symptoms are merely some mode of biological after-reaction, like a hangover, and will fade given sufficient recovery time. Or it could be that they indicate some kind of neurological degeneration or toxic withdrawal, and a sufficiently long period without duplicating another's ability would harm or even kill you. We have no way to know without testing."
Amy nodded, then glanced through the still-open portals and did a double-take. "Wait a moment—is that Howard? Oh, my God, he's been down there all night." She walked through the portal she'd created and into the lab. Sheldon felt slightly miffed—he'd as good as opened the door for her first, was his work not good enough for her to use?—but followed anyway. With every step the sweaty feel of his clothes rubbed his skin, and he fought to repress a grimace of disgust. Oh, Lord, I don't even know where the washrooms are in this place. And he had no guarantee the domestic staff weren't slipshod corner-cutters who ignored bathroom mould until threatened.
Howard was alone in the lab, asleep and snoring, his head resting on his arms inside the bottom of the holotank display. Above and around him in the tank, a schematic blinked in lines of gold and red: one part of it seemed to centre around some kind of flanged horizontal platform, while the other was a flat cylindrical object the size of a large hockey puck or a small smoke alarm. On the bench next to him sat what looked like real-world versions of the designs: the flanged platforms were metal, adorned with blocks and cases of circuitry with lights flashing green, and lined on the bottom with a crosshatch of inlaid black lines from which tiny metal rings projected at every crossing point. Thin black cables ran from the platforms to the cylindrical object, which looked like it had been clumsily glued to a strap of Velcro. Two large double-D batteries had been slotted into the centre of the device, and at the sight Sheldon's momentary excitement died. He had to admit that he had thought, just for a second, that Howard might have turned his modest technical competence to something useful and built an arc reactor like Tony Stark's, but Tony Stark would never have built anything that ran off Duracell. Frowning, he called up the design program and began reviewing the specifications Howard had coded.
"Howard." Amy shook him gently, then more firmly. "Howard."
"Ma, no, it's Saturday, I don't have school," Howard mumbled.
Amy snorted out an exasperated breath and hit him on the back of the head. "Howard!"
"Uh!" Howard jackknifed upright, blinking. "Ah, no, Bernie, I knew it was you all along, I, uh—!" He shook his head, rubbed at his eyes, and finally looked around. "Oh. Uh, hi, Amy. Sheldon." He frowned. "What are you guys still doing up?"
"Howard, we've been to bed and come back," said Amy. "It's six-thirty in the morning."
Howard's eyebrows went up. "Really? Wow." Suddenly he looked distressed. "Ohhhh, crap. I promised Bernie I'd be up in fifteen minutes. Oh, boy, she's gonna be pissed . . . ."
"I think I may be able to convince her to forgive you," said Sheldon, still staring at Howard's code. He felt absolutely poleaxed, and wondered for a moment if this was how normal people felt around him. That anybody other than he himself had done this was astonishing in itself; that it had been Howard, of all people . . . . "Howard, do you remember what you did last night?"
Howard snorted. "Oh, boy. Been a while since I've been asked that question. Um . . . ." He massaged his temples, squeezed his eyes shut, and sighed. "Bits and pieces. I remember being really excited, and I'm pretty sure I yelled 'Eureka' at one point, but—" He stopped as his eyes fell upon the devices lying on the workbench. "Um. Uh, what're those, exactly?"
"I don't know," Sheldon had to admit. Oh, he hated doing stuff like this. But he had to give credit where credit was due: that was the obligation of the social contract. "But large components of it appear to involve the use of room-temperature superconducting cobalt-doped graphene ribbons. The formula for which you've written here on this computer."
Howard's mouth fell open. "Room-temperature what?" he said flatly.
Sheldon tapped the relevant section of code, where the fabricator instructions had been written. "And you also appear to have included a magnetic circuit designed to reproduce the wakefield acceleration effect in miniature," he went on. "Ramp this up and get a decent power source in there, you really could be a Ghostbuster, and walk around with an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on your back." He tried a smile, and could only assume from the cringing look on Howard's face that it was as much of a success as usual.
"Room-temperature superconductors?" A stunned grin spread over Amy's face. "Howard, do you have any idea how this will change the world? What am I saying, of course you do, you're an engineer! Oh, we have to come up with a name for this; Bernadette was right, we'll have to copyright it. Oh! Oh, I've got the perfect name: the Wolowitz Universal Superconducting System!"
"So . . . the WUSS," said Sheldon. Howard's grin collapsed.
Amy looked sheepish. "Okay, okay, um, how about: the Wolowitz Harmonic Induction Node Engine."
"The WHINE," said Sheldon. Howard put his hand to his forehead.
Amy grimaced. "All right, um, how about the Wolowitz Induction Engine Node Exothermic Repeater?"
"The WIENER?" said Sheldon. "Amy, are you trying to embarrass the poor man? Clearly the only possible name can be the Wolowitz Amplifying Node Generator."
Amy blinked, then grinned as she suddenly got his joke. "Yes, of course, you're right. For the rest of time, the entire world will know what they have to thank for their technological prosperity: Howard's WANG."
"Okay, that's it!" Howard exploded. "I remember now what I was trying to do; I fell asleep before I could get this properly tested, but you, my kindergarten-level humour-impaired friends, are about to witness the work of true genius." He wedged his shoes into the flanged platforms, and Sheldon finally realized what they reminded him of: old-fashioned roller skates without the wheels. Grabbing up the cylindrical object, he wrapped its Velcro strap round his wrist, then flipped a switch. The light on the cylinder turned green. Setting his feet down in the metal platforms, Howard put one hand to the cylinder and grinned fiercely at them. "Everybody who ever got pissed they hadn't invented Marty McFly's hoverboards by 2015, suck on this."
He gave the outside of the cylinder a sharp twist. Sheldon had half an instant to hear an extremely high-pitched whine spike piercingly through his eardrum before Howard's feet shot upwards, out from under him, and flipped him over onto his back. Shimmers of force pulsed from the bottoms of the metal platforms, driving him into motion and pushing him along the floor towards the wall. Yelping, Howard flailed around as Sheldon and Amy ran after him; he had almost reached the far wall before he managed to grab the cable leading from the cylinder and yank it out. The high-pitched whine vanished and he skidded to a stop on the floor, breathing heavily.
"Okay," he said after a moment, looking up at them. "Few bugs, but good alpha test, don't you think?"
7:22 A.M.
"You built anti-gravity boots?" repeated Bernadette in a squeak, her eyes wide.
"Technically—mmph—they're counter-gravity skates," said Howard, barely pausing between mouthfuls of the eggs and bacon that Kieran the valet had brought to the dining room. "The wakefield coil in the power cylinder creates a minuscule space-time distortion that draws an oneirion flow right out of the quantum foam, which is practically equivalent to a matter-antimatter energy liberation except a whole lot stabler and more controllable, the oneirions flow to the skates via superconductor, and then the nanocoils on the skate soles convert them into pseudo-gravitons that impart kinetic momentum upwards, or forwards if you lean forward enough to change the orientation of the coils against Earth's natural gravity field. Control the energy input, you can control the force with which you accelerate against gravity, so you rise or fall, or go faster or slower if you angle forwards or backwards." He swallowed another mouthful and swigged from his coffee cup. "It's kind of like surfing on waterspouts, except the water's nothing but kinetic force and air."
"And you can basically have all the energy you want, subject to the access and conduction limits of your system," said Leonard, feeling stunned. "You realize you just solved all Earth's power problems as well, right, Howard?"
"Ehhh," said Howard, tilting one hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. "The big problem is that you can't seem to create a closed loop, or at least I couldn't figure out how to do it; if you try to power the wakefield coil or the boson converters with energy converted from an oneirion flow, you get some kind of direct feedback effect and the loop collapses back to a zero-state balance. And oneirions can't power anything in themselves, you have to convert them back to one of the other four forces before you can do anything with them. Upshot is, you can access more energy but you can't create it, and you still need a separate independent power source for both your access coil and your converters. The battery industry isn't going out of business any time soon." He looked thoughtful. "Uranium and fossil fuels might get a whole lot cheaper, though, because with this kind of magnifier in your engines you can get a lot more bang for your buck."
Leonard and Penny exchanged glances. "I have to say," Penny admitted, "that's gonna sound more impressive at a press conference than anything I got. Nano this, quantum that—what am I gonna tell everybody? 'I think about flying, and I fly'? That's not much of a tweet." Looking a little morose, she finished her croissant.
"I think you underestimate the degree to which people are going to care about that aspect of it," said Leonard, wanting to cheer her up. "Remember, everybody out there is going to recognize you and Amy as the Angels who saved a bunch of FBI agents."
"Who would never have been in danger in the first place if we hadn't been there," pointed out Amy.
"If they hadn't run into you trying to kill you," said Leonard forcefully. He turned over ideas in his head. "Look, Penny, here's a thought. Do you remember a few years ago, somebody made a YouTube video that was like a 'found footage' GoPro video of Superman flying around? What we should do is get you one of those, then have you do a live broadcast of your flight at the press conference. That'll be one heck of a PR moment. 'See the world the way the Angel sees it.' What do you say?"
Penny looked at Bernadette and Amy; both women nodded encouragingly. With a slow but genuine smile Penny looked back to Leonard. "Actually, that does sound like a pretty cool idea. Thanks, Leonard. You're a lifesaver."
"Well, I am your sidekick; that's my job." Leonard blew on his fingernails and buffed them on his shirt, then took a slice of toast and began spreading margarine and marmalade on it. Penny laughed.
Sheldon drew himself up, looking indignant. "Excuse me, Leonard, but the Roommate Agreement specifically states you are to be my sidekick, at least until such time as you develop powers of your own or go out under your own hero identity."
"Oh, I know, I'll still be your sidekick too," said Leonard airily. "Nothing says I can't be Penny's sidekick as well. I checked the Agreement, Sheldon; there are no noncompetition clauses."
Sheldon opened his mouth, then closed it with a disgruntled look. "Drat," he said. "That never occurred to me. Whoever heard of a part-time sidekick?"
"Technically all superhero jobs are part-time, really," said Raj, as he and Lucy came into the dining room and took seats at the table. Leonard noted that despite Raj's request for separate rooms, they'd been holding hands when they entered, and couldn't really muster much surprise. "Think about it; they're flex hours, no benefits, no training, no certification, definitely no overtime pay, and you always have to fit them in among your other commitments. What Leonard would be, technically, is a time-share sidekick. Is there any oatmeal left?"
"Uh," Leonard looked, "no, but there's cold cereal. Oh, and Howard invented anti-gravity boots."
"Counter -gravity skates," said Howard, rolling his eyes, though he was not quite able to repress a grin. "Get it right."
"Oh my God," said Raj, and held out his hands to Howard, his eyes wide. "Oh my God, that's it, Howard! That's your power! You're a supergenius inventor, like Tony Stark! Now all we need for you is a suit of armour, and you'll be ready to kick ass like the rest of us!"
"Yes, and he can be known around the world as Iron Mensch," said Sheldon acidly, finishing his cereal. "Tony Stark was independently wealthy and had been designing weapons and armour since childhood. We're working in a borrowed lab with borrowed funds and borrowed materiel, and we don't have a handy artificial intelligence with the voice of Paul Bettany already running on our local network. I think we've got a long way to go before Howard gets his own comic book, Raj."
Howard gave him a sour look. "You really just have a chronic difficulty with letting people enjoy things, don't you, Sheldon?"
"Ignore him," said Leonard. "He's just jealous that somebody else figured out the first practical applications of his theory before he did. Besides, Howard, you already married your Pepper Potts, and she's hotter than Gwyneth Paltrow any day." He grinned at Bernadette, who blushed and smiled back. Howard looked caught halfway between exasperation and amusement, but after a moment he leaned in to kiss her, which she gladly reciprocated.
Penny hit him lightly on the arm. "Hey," she said, though she was smiling too. "No flirting with other men's wives. Especially not when you haven't even gotten around to marrying me, yet."
Leonard shrugged. If that wasn't a perfect opening, he was an NFL quarterback. "Well, now that you mention it . . . I was thinking that since everybody's here and none of us is going to work today—what would everybody say to a day trip to Vegas?"
That silenced the table. Penny stared at him. "Wait—you're serious?"
"Hey, I said first chance we got, and I meant it." He smiled at her, and was rewarded with a delighted grin that made her green eyes sparkle. God, he loved this woman.
"Um . . . aren't we still wanted fugitives?" Howard pointed to the window. "Ten to one there's like, at least, six agents staking this place out ready to jump on us the instant we show our faces."
"So we don't show our faces," said Leonard patiently. "We book one of those limo SUVs to pick us up at some place Sheldon knows, and Sheldon opens a wormhole to it. And the great thing is that we don't even need the limo to take us back; we can just jump straight back here."
"We would still need proper clothes," objected Raj. "Tuxedos and dresses and that sort of thing. Where do we go for that?"
Penny scoffed. "Oh, sweetie, are you serious? Clothes shopping is like my superpower." She stopped, looking sheepish, as everyone stared at her. "Okay, well, I guess it's one of my superpowers, now. No, but seriously, I will be able to find us everything we need."
"And who pays for this?" interjected Sheldon. "Leonard, you know I hate being a wet blanket—you know, you wouldn't choke if you didn't eat so fast—but the FBI is probably watching all our accounts by now for activity, if they haven't just frozen them solid. One transaction in Vegas and they'll know where to send everybody to find us."
Leonard took a sip of water to clear his lungs. "Well," he said after he finished, "I actually mentioned to Mrs. Latham, when I saw her this morning, that part of our research might involve unforeseen expenses. Which is why she gave me this." With a magician's flourish, he produced the silver-coloured credit card from his pocket. "Corporate expense card, on which account my name's been added as an authorized user, but which flags on use as Latham Industries. If we promise to reimburse Mrs. Latham later, I think we can afford one day's worth of non-work-related expenses. Besides, happy researchers are effective researchers." He put the card down on the table and leaned forward, looking around at everyone. "Look, guys, everything in our lives has turned completely upside down. I want our wedding to be a touchstone for what's really important: our friends, and our family. Please come with us. Please."
The group exchanged looks. Amy cleared her throat. "I, uh, I just have one question." Leonard made a "go on" gesture, and a radiant grin broke out on her face. "Can I be your maid of honour, Penny?"
"Oh, God, of course." Penny rubbed at her eyes, which were suspiciously bright and wet. "I guess that means Sheldon's going to be the best man?"
"Wasn't I always?" said Sheldon. Before Leonard could sputter out a sufficiently coherent answer, he suddenly grinned. "Bazinga. Leonard, I would be honoured to take the role of your best man, as long as I'm exempted from any duties involving dance rehearsals, speech making, organizing of bachelor parties up to and including the hiring of strippers, entertainment of guests, religious sponsorship, and marrying the bride in your place in the event of your death or loss of sexual potency." Then his smile vanished into a meaningful glare. "Seriously, Leonard, if you even think about giving the job to Wolowitz or Koothrappali we are going to have some serious renegotiations of our friendship clauses."
SWEET ETERNITY CHAPEL AND MOTOR INN, 942 SPRING MOUNTAIN ROAD, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
7:17 P.M.
In the event, it had all gone ridiculously smoothly.
They'd booked the limo and the chapel on line, Sheldon had opened a wormhole to their designated pickup spot (the mall where his preferred Pottery Barn was located, as the unlikeliest location someone would think to watch for them), and by nine o'clock the nine of them (Mary struck dumb by the act of stepping through the wormhole) had been on the road. They'd arrived at the Las Vegas Strip a little past one and stopped for lunch; after that, Mary and Penny had taken the boys through a tuxedo-rental shop (a process that took less than an hour) and dragged the girls through what felt like every classy dress shop on the Strip (a process that took nearly four hours). Then came another break for dinner and to book rooms in a hotel ("I am not having my wedding night in a house that belongs in a Bond movie!" insisted Penny), where they had changed, and then a pleasant stroll down the Strip, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the beautiful Las Vegas evening. As if nature herself were helping out, a fresh breeze and a rainstorm yesterday had broken the late summer heatwave, and the cool evening sky was a glorious tumult of red, gold, blue and grey. Sharply dressed in his tuxedo, Penny laughing and clinging to his arm, and his friends around him, Leonard had felt like the past few months had never happened, like everything had gone back to normal—no, to better than normal; to perfect.
Then they'd gotten to the chapel, well ahead of time for their booked eight o'clock ceremony, and Mary, Amy, Bernadette and Lucy had taken Penny away to the bride's waiting room to get her into her full bridal regalia while the guys waited in the groomsmen's chamber. And, of course, Leonard's nerves had picked precisely that moment to kick in. Suddenly he couldn't sit still, pacing back and forth. His forehead shone with sweat, and he'd had to unbutton his shirt and dry himself with a hand-towel no fewer than three times already. His stomach was doing an admirable rendition of the lead ballerina in Swan Lake. "How the hell did you keep your head together through your wedding?" he demanded of Howard, who was stretched out on a sofa and seemed to be getting entirely too much amusement out of watching him fight not to freak out. "I refuse to believe you're less neurotic than I am."
Howard shrugged. "Well, I had a couple of advantages," he said airily. "One, I was scheduled for a space launch two days after the ceremony, so I was saving all my hysteria for that. Two, I was too scared of upsetting Bernie's father and too annoyed with my mother to worry about little things like the rest of my life. And three, I actually have something resembling self-esteem."
"He's right, Leonard." Raj nodded from his armchair. "You could have nailed this all down like three to four years ago if you'd gotten past the whole needy-lack-of-confidence thing sooner."
"At least I mastered the art of talking while sober to women who weren't related to me before I was thirty," Leonard muttered, glancing skyward. Raj scowled at him.
Sheldon snorted. "The record suggests that 'mastered' might be an overly generous assessment of your capacities in that area, Leonard."
Leonard closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He'd intended it solely to keep himself from losing his temper, but it actually did help settle his stomach somewhat. "Okay, guys, please don't take this the wrong way, but is there any chance I could ask you all to leave me alone for five minutes? Just—go down to that little bar next door and have a drink. I just need a few minutes to myself."
Howard's eyebrows went up. "Uh-oh," he said in a mock undertone. "The groom doesn't want anybody to see him. Do I detect cold feet and a washroom-window escape?"
"Dude, not funny!" Raj hit Howard on the shoulder. "That's bad enough when it only happens on a date, and I should know. So should you, for that matter." He turned to Leonard. "Of course we will. Take all the time you need. As long as it's not, you know, long enough for us to lose the timeslot for the ceremony. I don't want those rose petals I bought to go to waste."
Leonard sighed. "I suppose I should just be grateful you didn't buy the six dozen live doves."
Raj gave him a pointed look. "Hey, Leonard, just to let you know? When you snark right at me like that, it's like rubbing sandpaper behind my eyes." He tapped his temple. "And not in the wholly metaphorical way it used to be, either. Come on, Howard. I'm going to see if they can make a decent Grasshopper at that bar." He got up and left; Howard rose, clapped Leonard on the shoulder and followed him out.
Sheldon lingered at the door. "Leonard," he said after a moment, "I apologize for cutting into your private time, but this is the first opportunity I've had all day to discuss something in confidence with you, and I strongly suspect you are the only person who will understand this and take this seriously. May I please take a few minutes to do so?"
Leonard blinked. "Uh—sure, buddy. What's the problem?"
"I had a bad dream this morning."
Leonard closed his eyes again. It took no less than six deep breaths this time to get himself back to a place of control, if not calm. "Sheldon: why is your bad dream a priority now?"
"Because it was wholly atypical of my dreaming pattern both in intensity and content. And given the capacities that our lab accident seems to have unlocked in me . . . ." Sheldon looked uncomfortable, almost as much so as when he'd admitted he had planned to propose to Amy. "I have to wonder if perhaps it was—well—temporally sensitive. Precognitory."
That was unusual enough to make Leonard forget his irritation. His eyebrows went up. "Well. You better tell me about it, then."
Sheldon did. Even in his normal emotionless tone, the description made the hairs on Leonard's arm and neck stand up. "It's possible it may not be a literal depiction of future events, of course," Sheldon admitted when he finished. "It may not even be an actual precognition. But the pain I felt when I thought about Amy being dead . . . ." He stopped, and looked away. With shock, Leonard saw Sheldon actually swallow with the effort of controlling himself. "I wish to forestall anything even close to that eventuality."
Leonard rubbed his chin, thinking. "Hang on a minute. You said you couldn't see who the dead woman actually was. This is gonna sound weird, but did you ever see yourself in the dream? Maybe the 'you' who was doing this wasn't actually Sheldon Cooper. Maybe it was somebody else."
Sheldon blinked. "Oh. I never thought about that." He frowned. "Why would I see a vision of somebody else's future, though? How could that possibly be important?"
"There are other important people than yourself in the world, Sheldon."
Sheldon shrugged, still frowning. "Well, I suppose."
Leonard sighed. "Look, buddy, I'm glad you told me. And yeah, it's possible it might be some kind of flash-forward timeline glimpse, it's possible it might be you in a really bad place after Amy—well, never mind that. But we don't know enough to make it worth worrying about. Okay? If it happens again, tell me. Otherwise, I think our sample set's too small to infer any valid hypothesis."
Sheldon nodded slowly. Then he gave a sudden, startling smile, so warm and affectionate it was almost like he'd become another person. "You always know just how to reassure me, Leonard. Thank you." He went to the door, then paused. "And since I haven't said this formally yet: Congratulations, Leonard. I'm very happy for you and Penny, and I hope you have a wonderful life together. I love you both."
Leonard gulped down an unexpectedly thick lump in his throat. His vision blurred. Oh, God, it really was too damn easy to make him cry, wasn't it? "Thanks, buddy. I'll see you guys in a few minutes."
The room was unexpectedly quiet in the wake of Sheldon's departure. Leonard found himself pacing back and forth again, and with a forced sigh made himself sit down on the couch. Calm down, he told himself, calm down. This was perfectly normal wedding-day jitters. In just a few minutes, he'd be marrying Penny. He stared at the wall. Oh, God, it was actually happening. He and Penny were going to be married. He was going to have a wife, to be a husband. And maybe—someday not too far down the road—he was going to be a father. God knew, if there was a God, he was going to make damn sure he was a better father than his own had been.
Oh, God, Penny, I love you so much. He blinked away the tears, letting them run down his face. He was going to have to dry his face; if Penny saw he'd been crying she'd only spend the entire ceremony trying not to snigger at him. His mouth curved into a smile at the thought.
A quiet knock came at the door. Leonard frowned, looking up. Who could this be? He got up, went to the door and swung it open. The heavyset, bald, suited man at the door was a stranger, standing with his hands behind him like an obsequious maitre'd. "Dr. Leonard Hofstadter?" he said in a deep voice.
"Yes, that's me," Leonard said automatically. "Can I help you?"
Without answering, the big man swung one hand out from behind him with shocking speed and jabbed something hard into Leonard's neck; he had time only to hear the teeth-rattling buzz and then his entire body went stiff in a searing spasm of eye-blurring agony. It lasted some few seconds that felt like an hour, and then he was falling, hitting the carpet in a limp, juddering mass, skin aflame from scalp to toe with blazing tingles of pain. His limbs would not answer him. His trousers felt damp. Absurdly, the only thought that came to mind was Oh, no, don't tell me I pissed my rented tux. The drycleaning for that'll be murder . . . .
Footsteps sounded as a second person came in. "Got him?" asked a sharp, unpleasant voice.
"Clean hit," confirmed the big man. "Hang on." A lance of bright silver pain spiked through Leonard's left buttock; all he could manage was a weak moan. Then the pain stopped, and numbness began to spread in rippling waves from the point where the needle had gone in. "Okay, that'll keep him down for a good hour or two. Let's go."
Leonard felt himself being lifted without effort by frighteningly powerful arms. His vision blurred out like an old-fashioned vacuum-tube monitor powering down. No, no, no, he wanted to scream, not now, not again, please, I just want to get married! Isn't anybody ever going to let me and Penny get married?! Isn't . . . anybody . . . ?
The world dissolved into darkness.