One of the central philosophies in Buddhism is the timelessness of self. The self always was, never wasn’t, always is, and always will be, never to cease existing. To even consider otherwise is simply counterproductive. In this mindset, much becomes meaningless: possessions, vengeance, greed, lust, responsibility, even love. However, it is just as large of sin to neglect the next world for this one as the other way around. The Fourteenth Dalai Lama once told Pope John Paul II that one thing he admired about the Christian Church was its dedication to social justice, that it was a virtue too long neglected among Buddhists. The greatest mission for any person must be to help another, to help all, to help self, or the world will surely crumble.
: : :
Micah Sanders
Random Hall
MIT
With his hands laid flat against the keyboard, Micah focused on his laptop. On screen, computer code appeared at a rate of a dozen lines per second.
“Let’s see if that works,” he commented to himself. A few clicks of the mouse and he watched as a long series of log messages appeared on screen. After a few seconds, a large error message appeared, eliciting a groan from the programmer.
A knock at the door interrupted his pity party. He opened the outside door of his dorm to find the First Lady standing there.
“Aunt Tracy!” He gave his aunt a tight hug. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed a break from all the drama that’s going on. And I thought, what better way to do so than visit my favorite nephew? So, how’s school?”
Welcoming his aunt into his room, he replied, “Hard.”
“Well, it’s MIT. And you’re fifteen. What kind of cakewalk were you expecting?”
“I’m a technopath majoring in Computer Engineering.”
“Yeah, one of fourteen as I hear it. But you’re having fun, right?”
Micah’s eyes lit up. “Today I got to touch a supercomputer.”
“Please tell me that you had nothing to do with the stock market dip today or the new computer virus…”
Micah chuckled. “It was completely isolated from the network. And my professor’s a byte-talker too, so there was nothing I could do to screw it up.” He stared at his aunt’s forehead, “Where are your sunglasses? Did you lose them?” He gave her a sympathetic look, as if her favorite pet had died.
“Why does everyone think I was so attached to those darn sunglasses?” Sighing,
“Nah, not worth the time.”
“You’re making me feel guilty for how much I paid to decorate the White House. You don’t make your bed. It’s okay, neither does the President.”
“Funny, Mom, I…” Micah stopped dead.
“And sometimes you act like her.”
“Hopefully you mean the mothery stuff and not… never mind. I’ll take it as a compliment.” She grabbed him in another hug and took notice of a bulletin board above his dresser, where his father’s medal of bravery was proudly displayed. “Following the St. Joan story, I see.”
With awe in his voice, he replied, “Yeah, I think she’s a hero.”
Micah had a momentarily panicked expression that he subverted before responding. “She’s enjoying college. Especially since it’s free thanks to the US Taxpayers.”
“I tried to tell you. First thing he’d try to buy once he turned eighteen was a car.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to do with a Toyota Corolla until he fails out of community college. After that, those car payments and those gas card bills, yeah, they’re going to his address.”
“Sorry to cut this visit short, but… the free world is at risk… again,”
Micah gave his aunt a sincere hug.
“Gosh, you’re getting tall,”
Micah let
Micah grinned, muttering, “Time to save the world.”
: : :
Matt Parkman
Pinehearst Medical Facility
Fort Lee,
Matt was easily able to open the door to the morgue. It had been severely damaged and put back on rather sloppily. Finding Peter’s labeled drawer was a simple task. As much as Claire may have hated her uncle, she obviously felt he deserved more than an anonymous death.
Peter’s body showed some level of decay and did have a certain malodorous aroma to it. But Matt persevered and rolled him over. Grabbing a pair of forceps, he messily dug the bullet from the back of Peter’s head, praying he wasn’t removing too much brain matter. The bullet hole showed a clean shot, obviously done while he was incapacitated.
Matt then readied a chemical coma kit. He sloppily taped it on Peter’s chest and inserted the tube in his left nostril. He then waited for him to regenerate, which Peter apparently showed no signs of doing. The bullet holes in his chest remained unhealed.
The sound of a pistol cocking was far too familiar to Matt. A quick mental sweep told him the gunman’s—gunwoman’s, that is—identity without turning around.
“Hey, boss, what’s up?” he joked.
Claire remained humorless, “What do you think you’re doing?”
She watched as Matt turned around, raising his arms, revealing Peter’s now healed body, quietly dormant. “I’m just trying to question him,” Matt answered, backing away from Peter.
“There is nothing that anyone needs to say to Peter.” She walked up to her uncle; Matt slid further out of the way. With a smoldering mix of fury and sorrow, she ripped the tube out of his nose. She raised her gun and pointed it straight between Peter’s eyes. After a whispered “Sorry” under her breath, she fired a single shot. The sound was deafening. Luckily, Claire’s eardrums were immune to damage.
She wasn’t expecting was the dull clank of a bullet hitting the metal drawer.
All at once, Peter’s body faded from sight. She looked up and Matt’s form did as well. “God, I hate telepaths,” she growled through her teeth.
She raced out the door, but if Matt or Peter were anywhere close, her vision was being blocked.
Down the hall, Matt, with a comatose Peter in his arms, made his way to the elevator. He kept an eye out for passer-byers whose vision he’d have to affect, but he saw none.
He wasn’t aware of the cameras.
The alarms started just as he entered the elevator. Looking around in the panic, his eyes finally settled on the camera in the elevator. He moved to the far side of the cabin out of viewing range.
: : :
Eisenhardt Academy
Pinehearst Company
Mandy
There was a knock on the door and a very comely agent in a well-pressed suit was waiting there.
“May I help you?” she asked with full sweetness.
In a stern, no-nonsense voice, the agent replied, “Yes, I’m Terrance Donaldson. I’ve been instructed to take Molly Walker back to her apartment. It’s urgent.” He showed Mandy his credentials. They checked out according to her log.
Mandy pointed to Molly’s seat right before her heart dropped in her chest. Molly, a new student in her class, was missing from her seat. Mandy scrambled for her attendance roll. Molly had been present during roll call yet had not been checked out.
The teacher fumbled for words. “Molly doesn’t appear to be here. I mean, she had some trouble adjusting, but there’s no way she could have escaped. This is a heavily guarded facility.”
The man’s face dropped. “Unless you know exactly where the guards are.”
Mandy was struck with sudden realization. Part of her job was to ascertain that each student’s abilities could be counteracted. A clairvoyant seemed pretty harmless, but this was a scenario that hadn’t occurred to her.
The handsome man left. Had she watched him leave, she would have noticed that the man suddenly became Matt Parkman holding an unconscious Peter Petrelli.
: : :
Bob and Elle Bishop
1994
Bob Bishop walked down the streets of Brooklyn with his blonde preteen daughter. On his right hand, which was holding his daughter’s hand, he wore a rubber glove. She was staring at the pigeons with malicious intent. She pointed one finger at the flock. A quick stream of water struck her finger.
“Ow!” she pulled her finger back and held it against her chest. She turned to her father and scowled, “Daddy, I wasn’t gonna do it.”
“Then why was your finger charged?” Bob asked dispassionately, slipping the water gun back in his pocket.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled under her breath. “Where we going?”
“I’m getting my watch repaired.”
“Daddy, I’m pretty sure there are repair shops in LA. Or
“Mrs. Petrelli is kind enough to send you a Christmas present every year.”
“She sent me a doll last year. I’m twelve. Can you tell her to get me a pretty dress this time? And not some silly girl’s dress. A lady’s dress.”
“I’ll pass along the message,” Bob commented dryly. “Here we are.”
Bob stopped in front of a street-side shop labeled “Clock and Watch Repair.” On the front window, “Gray & Sons” was painted below an ornate image of a clock face.
The door featured a bell, and a gray-haired man of medium height looked up from his work on a mantel clock. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to get this watch repaired.” Bob slipped his gold watch off and handed it to the proprietor, who dutifully and carefully screwed off the golden screws from the back plating. He peered at it for a moment, “Well, I can’t see any obvious defects. I’ll have to look at it. How soon do you need it?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on staying in
“Businessman, got it. Here, I’ll have my son look at it. He got a sixth sense about these things.” Gray turned around and called back, “Gabriel, get in here.”
A tall, lanky teenager emerged from the back room, holding a newspaper and a pen. “Yeah, Pop?”
Gray turned around to look at his son. “Boy, I thought I told you to fix the Weirmanns’ clock.”
“Finished,” Gabriel replied, “Hey, you ever tried these crossword puzzles in the Times? They’re fun.”
“You’re supposed to be working.”
Laying down the completed puzzle, Gabriel replied, “Took me seven minutes. I timed myself. With the Weirmanns’ fixed clock. What do you need?”
“Watch your tongue,” Gray scolded under his breath. “Could you help your old man figure out what’s the matter with this gentleman’s watch?”
Gabriel walked to his father’s work desk. He towered over the man. His eyes scanned the inner workings of the watch and he quickly deduced, “It’s the battery.”
Bob was taken aback, “That was a rather quick diagnosis.”
Gabriel showed the inside of the watch to Bob. “Note that motor pin is still and loose.” He brought it back to his face, “From the looks of these scorch marks, the battery overloaded.” He looked closer, “It’s probably all the gold parts in here. Most people don’t know this, but gold is an excellent conductor of electricity, better than copper. Though, it appears that the scorching is very severe. By any chance, was this watch exposed to high-voltage electricity?”
Bob turned to the mass of blond hair roaming the store. “We do have a bit of wiring problem at our house.”
Elle spun around, putting on an innocent face, while behind her, she attempted to put a cuckoo clock back on the shelf behind her without detection. Her eye caught the handsome watchmaker’s son, who smiled kindly at her.
“She’s shy,” Bob noted, both as an explanation and a subtle hint.
The hint was too subtle as Elle approached the workbench and lifted her wrist the dark-hair teenager. “I’ve got a watch, too.” She prominently displayed a silver women’s watch with a deep maroon face.
Gabriel took her hand, causing Elle’s heart to skip a beat and small shock to cross their hands. Gabriel lurched away, but apologized, “Static electricity. It’s probably these fleece sweaters my mom makes me wear.” He took her wrist again and examined it. “It’s a pretty watch.”
“It was my mom’s.”
Gabriel just laid his ear against the watch face. Elle grinned from ear to ear, but wiped it off her face when her father looked on disapprovingly.
With wrinkled brows—and what beautiful eyebrows they were! thought Elle—he commented, “This watch is in perfect working condition, especially for an older model. I wonder who the maker is.”
He twisted her arm and read the plate. “Sylar.” Nodding, he commented, “I’ll have to check it out.”
His father explained, “It’s a German company. Expertly crafted. They went out of business several years back.” Off his son’s rather disappointed face, he commented, “Have your mom check those rummage sales next time she’s looking for those textbooks you like.”
To Elle’s disappointment, Gabriel released her arm. He turned to Bob. “I can have it fixed within the hour. Just settle up payment with my dad and you can pick it up anytime today.”
Gabriel retreated into the back room with Bob’s watch. Bob turned to Gray and mentioned, “That’s a bright kid you got.”
“He’s more than bright. That kid’s been taking apart things and putting them back together since he could unlock his baby gate. It’s a shame we can’t send him to college. But plenty of fine, smart people work honest jobs to make a living and love it. You don’t need college to learn about life.”
“I can respect that point of view,” Bob replied charitably.
“Come by later and we’ll settle up the bill.”
Bob put the rubber glove back on and beckoned his daughter. Once outside the shop, he made a call on his bulky cell phone. “Yeah, I checked on him. Nothing displayed yet. He seems very smart, though. There’s no telling.”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
“Who was that, Daddy?”
“No one, Elle. Ready for some spaghetti?”
“Yeah!” the blonde preteen exclaimed.
As her father led her away, she kept an eye on the storefront until it was out of sight.
: : :
Kirishitan Cathedral
Ikitsuki, Japan
2011
There was no indication that the church had been used in decades. A lone bulletin, yellowed with age, the date faded beyond recognition.
However, the sanctuary showed signs of recent activity: miles of yarn was tied to every crevice of the place, producing a web that seemed to fill the room. All along the string, photographs, newspaper clippings from around the world, note cards, and small mementoes hang from clothespins and paper clips. The yarn extends out into the narthex through the doorways where the rotted doors have been knocked down.
A lone figure appears and disappears every few moments to hand another picture or newspaper article. There is no correlation between the date on the picture or article and its apparent age. Some items from the 1970s are crisp and new, while some supposedly recent items are yellowed and curling.
The wall space that is not being used to tie string to is covered with newspapers, the stock reports and comics mostly, and elaborate diagrams are scribbled on them.
Hiro Nakamura, with a slicked-back pony tail and leather jacket, appeared out of the void in front of one such wall of diagrams, holding a journal. He scribbled on it furiously while mumbling to himself. He stopped dead, asking himself, “Wait, what did I change then…?”
He threw the book into the wall and screamed, “It’s too much!” The sound echoed through the empty church. He took up at the wall-to-wall graph overwhelmed. From his jacket, he pulled out a stained, bent photograph of a much younger him, smiling dumbly with a beautiful redhead grinning from ear to ear.
“I could really use your brain now, Charlie. We might be able to save the world together.” He slipped it back into his pocket and let a single tear fall in desperation.Chapter 7
Director's Commentary: So, to spread the work out between the already busy cast, I started to bring in former cast members. Noah Gray-Cabey was eager to return to his roll as Micah, especially since I had my costume and makeup department make him look 15. Stephen Toblowski also reprises his roll as Bob. I needed to give Zach and Kristen the week off, so we did this nice little flashback with Bob. Also, I hinted in the story about a coming cast member that I'm rather excited about, but you'll just have to wait until then.
Written and Directed by Christopher VanDrey
Hayden Panettiere ... Claire Bennet
Greg Grunberg ... Matt Parkman
Masi Oka ... Hiro Nakamura
Ali Larter ... Tracy Petrelli
Milo Ventimiglia ... Peter Petrelli
Stephen Toblowsky ... Bob Bishop
Richard Jenkins ... Mr. Gray
Amber Benson ... Mandy Lawrence
Charlie Weber ... Illusion Agent
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