Los Angeles, 2012
[After this.]
It feels... strange. Traffic roaring, sirens screaming. Concrete under his feet, just like the song said. The sun a lot brighter than Malcolm's seen it in a long time--or it would be if it wasn't for the haze. Masses of people all around, and every one of them human. No aliens, no gods, no talking animals. He can’t believe how strange he finds that now. This isn't Philadelphia, but it is America, and Malcolm can’t stop himself from smiling to be back here.
Except, of course, he's never been here. Even back on his own world, Malcolm had only been to Southern California twice, and both times only for conferences. He flew in and flew out, and hardly had any time at all to explore the place.
Anyway, this is Jack's L.A., the America of CTU. So he has to expect a few differences. It hasn't been an hour, though, and he's already amazed to find how many differences there are.
Some of the changes are obvious. References to a President Palmer, a President Logan. An 'acting' president at one point. And more assassination attempts than Malcolm can keep track of. At least one of them had been successful.
Then there are the warning signs about irradiated areas, just like Jack had warned him. The surveillance cameras that seem to monitor every street. He loses count of how many times he sees police officers bearing weapons more high-powered than handguns.
Malcolm knows a lot of this is simply a question of perspective. Jack's world has been through a lot more than Malcolm's had. And, of course, Malcolm has no idea how his own world responded to outside threats after 1999. He doesn't even know if there were any such threats, and he probably never will. So he really can’t bring himself to judge this place.
But there's a persistent undercurrent of fear and defensiveness here. It bothers him. As a psychiatrist, it bothers him. Malcolm would bet good money the agents at CTU have learned to live with it, probably rarely even notice it anymore. But this is a frightened country, an angry and suspicious country, and the people have been hurt and humiliated enough to be capable of almost anything. It's giving him a new level of respect for what Jack and Tony, Chase and Kim, and all the others have to do. Because bad as things are, Malcolm has a feeling it all could have been much, much worse.
Of course, the day ends like he expected it might. He had half-hoped he wouldn't do it, but sure enough, here he is: sitting at a terminal in the Los Angeles Central Library.
He brings up a browser. (Netscape is long gone-he's surprised by that, the company had been so big in 1999 back in his world). And then he finds an online phone directory and types "Malcolm Crowe."
There are several people by the name Malcolm Crowe, but "he" is one of the first results. There's even a short bio from the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer. In 2005, he was given a key to the city for services rendered. That was even more of an honor than the award Malcolm himself had won, though he sees that award was also given to this Malcolm. It's good to see that. His eye runs down the listings, all the achievements through the years from a vaguely familiar 1999 to an impossibly different 2012, and at last, down to the final paragraph:
"...where he lives with his wife, Anna, son Sean, 11, and daughter, Emma, 9."
Had he expected that? He supposes he had, just like he's not surprised to feel the welling in his eyes. But the moment passes soon enough, and then there's only a quiet smile.
"Good for you, man," he whispers. "Good for you."