OUTSIDE BOSTON

The night was still as a corpse.

That's what the driver thought to himself, turning over in his bunk. It was around 2:00 am when he pulled up to the diner, and though the warmth of its clean and lighted place glowed faintly through its wide windows, it only stood in contrast to the blackness of night around it. In that impenetrable dark, everything was silent and unmoving. He was used to the stillness of the night; driving truck was a job with odd hours and even odder fellow travelers. At small town restaurants like this on the outskirts of nowhere, he preferred to take a cat nap in the furthest parking lot, away from the scent of stale pancakes and its faint jukebox-induced music. Here he could quietly rest, and easily make the freight time up in the morning, rolling into Boston proper in little more than an hour.

He shifted in his mattress. In the cozy comfort of the warm blanket, the pull to stay put and snooze was substantial. Just as imminent, however, was the tugging need to urinate.

"What was I thinking," he muttered to himself, berating the last two energy drinks in his system.

Throwing off the covers, he silently griped, feeling along the metal wall to the back door. Its metallic swing echoed in the stillness. Looking around to ascertain his solitude, he zipped down his fly. Being a practical man, he had no problem peeing at the side of his truck. Not the most sophisticated, but then again, there was nothing and no one around to see.

At least, that's what he thought.

A claw shot out, gripping his ankle. He kicked, immediately jumping away.

"Holy. . ."

The expletive trailed off into the darkness. He could hear it, whatever it was, breathing in ragged gasps that sent a chill up his spine. The fight or flight response in his body was telling him to run for the diner, he could make it in under thirty seconds if he sprinted. But the reasoning part of his brain, that part told him it wasn't uncommon for wild opossums or even house cats to house under big rigs, that gave him pause. Besides, what would the boys think of him.

With fumbling fingers, he steeled himself, telling himself it was stupid to be afraid of a tabby cat, all the while reaching for the phone in his back pocket. Turning the screen to the side, he searched underneath the rig for the injured animal. It didn't take long for the thin light to find the source of the ragged sound.

He stumbled back in pure alarm.

A woman lay stretched out on the ground. Blood trailed from her bare feet, debris clinging to the stickiness of the congealing matter. A bedraggled dress barely covered her shivering body, the fabric torn and soaking wet. Her face might have been beautiful if she wasn't white as a sheet, and garish with melting makeup: With lipstick smeared, her lips showed blue bruises underneath; black mascara ran down her dirty cheeks; her wet hair was straggly and dragging in the gravel. The sight was a ghoul straight out of a nightmare.

He leaned in closer, listening for signs of life. His fingers fumbled for the phone, dialing 911.

"Ma'am, I'm gonna get you some help, okay?"

Her pallid arm reached, gripping his flannel shirt like a vice. Blood-red nails dig into his skin. Her lips moved, muttering something, humming along to some tune. Some part of him thought it sounded familiar, but he had no time to think what.

The woman turned, mustering her strength. Only this time, he could make out an intelligible sentence.

"You have to help them."

"Help who?" he asked, resisting the urge to pull away.

"Please. . ."

The woman whispered, though the whisper was frantic.

"Please, they're going to kill us all." Her voice turned raspy and deep. She pulled him closer.

"Starting with you."

Her eyes closed as she collapsed in a heap. The incoherent muttering continued, long after the driver ran to the diner, yelling, screaming for help.

. . . . .

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

Agent Olivia Dunham considered herself a professional. Not new to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, her even-keeled demeanor had served her well in all kinds of situations, gun fights and interrogations alike. She could rely on herself to be calm, collected, in control, and certainly level headed under fire. Cool as a cucumber, as her partner described her. Charlie would then add with a dry grin, A cucumber with a Glauck.

Right now, she was neither cool nor collected; she was just confused.

It was the beginning of a crisp autumn day. She was standing in the middle of Harvard Yard, the quad teeming with students strolling to their classes in the Monday morning languor. Olivia crossed her arms, waiting for the old man at her side to pause and explain. He was wary of the chilly September air of Boston, wearing a heavy brown cardigan with a wool cap. His breath misted a little as he hummed and occasionally sang some words to a partially articulated song, utterly absorbed in setting up some sort of device: The metal framework had a dulled chrome sheen, as if made years ago and put in storage; the shape of its lights dated the machinery somewhere in the 1970s. Occasionally he would come across a hapless freshman caught in his direct path, though he was otherwise undeterred and oblivious to his surroundings.

That included Olivia.

So when her silence lasted over a good minute, she took the cage from his hands in a gentle, though assertive grip. It felt heavy, with whatever was under its white sheet shifting and flapping with soft coos. That did not bode well. Especially with the remote control in his other hand emitting sparks of electricity.

Oh God, she thought to herself, and it's only Monday.

"Dr. Bishop?"

Catching his name, the old man looked up, as if just noticing her presence. Though a genius doctor in many fields, the absent-mindedness of his former institutionalized days tended to get the best of him. The current moment as a case in point.

"Ah Agent Dunham, good morning to you. Not so much bright and early as dark and early, eh, with this overcast weather?" he commented with a congenial smile.

"Dr. Bishop," Olivia began again, "do you remember walking into my office about five minutes ago? Saying you had an emergency situation that couldn't wait?"

He made a tsk tsk sound. "My dear, I said it was a situation for which we should not wait for emergencies to occur, for if we did, untold peril would befall us. Quite different." He said this casually, beginning another hum. "Ah, Peter's here," he commented, looking pleased.

Sure enough a tall, dark-haired man rushed up Harvard Yard into their space of the quad. He'd come from their Kresge Building basement laboratory. The coloring in his normally pale cheeks belied his recent speed in the early chill.

". . .Nevermind, I see them now." Olivia caught the edge in his tone as he ended the call. Dark curls framed his face, his hair soaking wet with a recently-shampooed scent. He stood catching his breath, looking from his father to the FBI agent and back again, concern painted all over it.

"Walter left this morning, muttering about 'untold peril.' Didn't know he was serious until I found him gone without a trace."

"I can tell — you missed a spot." She pointed to his left ear, foamy with residual lather.

"Yeah, well, sheer and utter panic will do that to ya," he replied, using his coat sleeve to wipe at his ear. "Seriously, though," he queried with candor, "everything is okay?"

"Yes, we are," she explained, seeing his frame visibly relax in relief. "But it seems there's been a. . .miscommunication of sorts."

"That does not sound good," Peter muttered.

Peter Bishop had been there with her at the birth of this odd division under her charge, and though worlds apart in background and perspective, they had worked well together. In spite of the young Bishop promising to be a pain in the ass, they had come to depend on each other as colleagues, even friends.

Peter looked to his father, the old man once again fiddling with the machinery, and looking not at all in a state of emergency.

"Walter," Peter drawled, a suspicious note in his voice. "What's this big emergency?"

The old doctor stood next to the cage at his side. "Not as punctual as our Agent Dunham, but still appreciated for your attempted alacrity. So, without further ado — "

With a flourish he pulled the white sheet. It billowed in the breeze, unveiling underneath its hidden—

"Pigeons?" Peter voiced out loud. He furrowed his brow, an expression he made so often with his father it was almost permanently chiseled onto his forehead.

"Not just any pigeons," Dr. Bishop scoffed. "Columba livia domestica."

"Homing pigeons," Olivias pieced together out loud. "From the Joseph Meegar case. I thought they had flown away, the auxiliary agents couldn't locate them afterwards."

"That is what they assumed, " he grinned. "I merely didn't correct them. For the sake of science," he clarified as a defense, catching the federal agent's disapproving look. "But that is their quite unique evolutionary purpose: to find their way back home. Hence their nickname. It occurred to me sometime after the experiment's success that there were other – uses, shall we say – for their abilities – "

"Seriously?" Peter cut in. "This is what you dragged us out here for?"

Olivia had only worked with the younger Bishop for a few months now, but to her, Peter's eyes were as good as windows to his soul – a window whose state of being she could read crystal clear. Already, she could see he was taking in the scene, piecing together its unspoken story. She could also tell his reaction was not going to be as understanding as her own.

Not even by half.

"Walter, we have talked about this. If you say it is a matter of life or death, it better be," Peter fumed, his Boston native accent slipping out with rising annoyance. "Blood-sucking alien leeches the size of footballs? Yes. Laser-wielding robots? Absolutely. Those are justifiable causes for immediate concern. A buncha birds? Nope, no way do they qualify as a reason to bang on the door, yell some crap about 'untold peril' only to then disappear."

Dr. Walter Bishop scoffed. "Disappeared? Hardly. Highly illogical." He added, as an afterthought, ". . .without the use of a teleportation device."

Peter threw his hands up, rubbing them through his still-damp hair. "Gee, thanks for clearing that up."

"If you wanted clarification, maybe you should have opened the door."

"I was in the shower."

"Excuses."

Peter Bishop did a slow blink. The kind one does when making a gallant effort not to commit homicide.

"We also have these cute little things called cell phones, but see, they only work if you actually answer them."

The old doctor looked hurt at Peter's lack of understanding, holding the bird in his hands as if to shield it from Peter's ignorance. "Overrated. In a real emergency, they will be obsolete."

"Why are you even outside? You shouldn't be here anyway, not without Astrid."

"Agent Farnsworth is taking what she called 'personal time' a euphemism for rest needed for a menstrual cycle," Walter said, winking at Olivia. "Lady time is private time, into which no gentleman should pry. Unless specifically invited, and red wine is involved."

Peter couldn't help but shudder. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear any of that last part."

"Take care, son. The power of 'pretend' is a formidable thing. It shapes one's reality, inside and out."

Before Peter could argue, Olivia touched his forearm. His very blue irises eyed her for half a second before resting on the twenty dollar bill she discreetly thrust into his hand.

"Maybe a little Starbucks would lend us all a little, er, clarity."

Peter looked like he might object, but at the sight of Walter coaxing a pigeon with a bright orange object that could only be a Cheeto. . .something inside him crumbled. He took the bill with reluctant resignation to his fate.

"Tall or venti."

"Tall."

His father's voice interjected with, "Ooh, bring me a Danish!"

"I'll do my best," Peter replied, with only a little grumbling. He turned in the direction of the nearest Starbucks kiosk just inside the quad corner, Olivia catching the tail end of him talking to himself. "Nudity I can tolerate. Downright meanness, even. But all this before coffee? That just feels personal," he muttered, hurrying away.

"You'll have to forgive him," Dr. Bishop commented. "He can be quite grumpy when sleep-deprived."

"I've noticed."

"No, you don't understand," the old doctor replied softly. That warranted a raised eyebrow from the FBI agent. With a summoning gesture, the doctor made his way to a now-empty park bench. Olivia followed, waiting for him to elaborate. He stroked the pigeon perched on his finger, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

"When I first returned from Saint Claire's, some nights — most nights, in fact — it was difficult for me to sleep. Reciting things like pi or the song "Row, row, row your boat" is quite soothing to me. Now my circadian rhythm is quite acclimated to normal standards. But every so often, it's like I'm imprisoned, but…in my own head. Incarceration like that knows no relief. So I go downstairs and pace. Do you know what that's like? To feel a maelstrom in your mind, one that could swallow you whole. My dear wife, she knew. Before she. . .Oh, Elizabeth." Here his voice cracked. He swallowed, regaining his composure. "So, Peter, he plays for me, on the piano. Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes a few hours. To make it easier, until all that, that guilt and sorrow, that heaviness, it's replaced with something better. Music has a way of focusing the mind, and if not washing away the darkness, of holding it at bay, so we have a fighting chance."

"Rest assured, he's too much of a smart-ass for his own good, stubborn, and can't sing worth a dime," Dr. Bishop admitted. "But underneath that, he has potential to affect this world in unimaginable ways. The boy is important," Walter trailed off, staring off into some distance Olivia could only guess.

The two sat in silence. In the distance, they watched Peter waiting in the queue, ordering from a scowling barista. He must have said something, because soon the barista was no longer scowling but suppressing a grin.

She thought about the time she told him about her step-father. She was upset and hadn't meant to get so emotional. And there he was, Peter Bishop of all people: no sarcasm, no smug little grin, just him listening. The way he reassured her, looked at her with such compassion, touching her hand. He paused, and for a moment, she thought he might reach over, pull her in for. . .well, nothing. Nothing happened. She shook her head. She was imagining things that weren't there. She tuned back into Walter's words.

". . .That's really why he was so upset today: He's my legal guardian now, he's stuck with me, whether he wants to or not. I would resent me, too."

Olivia couldn't believe her ears. "Wait. That's what you think? That he resents you?"

The old doctor nodded.

"Dr. Bishop," Olivia began. "Walter," she continued. "You only worry about what you care for. Peter was concerned because he thought something bad might have happened to you today. He raised his voice because he was worried. And maybe he is grumpy and sleep-deprived, but even with that, he loves you very much."

Dr. Bishop looked reluctant, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "A possible hypothesis, I suppose."

"Trust me, he cares about you. More than you realize."

The old doctor made a curious expression. "Perhaps not only for me."

Olivia glanced over at the coffee queue. Peter was now out of the queue chatting with the barista. She was scribbling on the back of a receipt, placing it in his shirt pocket. Olivia turned away to find Dr. Bishop studying her neutral expression, an unreadable one that years in the Bureau had served her well.

"Peter is a colleague and friend."

"Undoubtedly," Dr. Bishop conceded. "Though one ultimately sees what one believes. Maybe if you believed different, you would see different."

"You may be mixing those principles up."

"Improbable," Dr. Bishop nodded. "Though possible."

Before Olivia could respond, her phone buzzed. Just in time, she thought. She held up her hand in an "excuse me" gesture, walking a few paces away. Her brows furrowed as she listened, occasionally adding a "yes" or "no, sir."

"This seat taken?" came Peter's voice.

"Unless there is an invisible person," Dr. Bishop shrugged, "not to my knowledge."

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

Two tall coffees and a greasy paper sack sat between the two Bishops. Peter cleared his throat.

"Okay, so," he began. "Bad news, they were out of Danishes. Good news, the barista bartered and threw in a bonus from the bakery kiosk next door as a condolence."

"That's wonderful, son." The joyless enthusiasm would have been apparent to even the dimmest of onlookers. "I'm not that hungry."

"Alright," Peter probed. "You're saying you don't want a fresh eclair, well, I guess I'll have to share it with the birds."

Peter opened the sack, holding aloft the pastry. From it emanated a heavenly aroma that didn't escape his father's attention.

"Did you say eclair? My favorite of the pastries, excluding – "

" – Apple fritters or a fresh pan au chocolate," Peter finished. His voice was soft. "I know." He fidgeted, rubbing his neck. "Listen. About earlier. . .I didn't mean to react so strongly." Peter met his fathers eyes, feeling like he hadn't in a long, long time: like a little kid. "I'm sorry."

His father looked over the features of his grown son. The thick head of curly hair he got from him, the intelligence, the stubbornness too, certainly. But underneath the day-old beard, the high-collared coat and austere, aloof attitude, he saw a pure-hearted child of six years old again.

"I know," said his father softly.

Peter smiled. He cleared his throat again. "Sooo," he drawled, "ya gonna tell me about these pigeons? The suspense is killing me."

"In a moment, absolutely," his father chomped. "This eclair really is quite divine." At that a large smear of cream dripped down, immediately gobbled up by the pigeon not wasting any time with the nearby freebie. Peter snortled in thinly-veiled amusement, his father joining in.

Olivia Dunham found the pair, coming back after her call; with one arm trying to keep a pigeon away while balancing an eclair in the other (without spilling the cream inside) and Peter offering words of encouragement ("Watch your flank, he's coming back!") she was met with chortles and outright laughter.

"I was only gone two minutes."

The Bishops froze, identical expressions on their faces. And they claim they're so different, Olivia thought, lifting an eyebrow. That made the pair crack up even more. Trying and failing to stifle a chuckle, Peter handed over a coffee cup with a little flourish.

"Aaand for the woman who obviously has experience negotiating with terrorists, here's a tall with sugar, no cream."

"Perfect. And Peter – Better take it to go. You too, Walter," Olivia added. Peter immediately sobered up. He gave her a questioning look, but only for a split second. He voiced aloud what she announced, both in unison:

"We have a case."