Fic: What Country, Friends, Is This? (ch. 1-2 of 12)
Title: What Country, Friends, Is This?
Author: Katta
Fandom: Heroes
Characters (in order of importance): Nathan Petrelli, a whole lot of OCs, Peter Petrelli, other canon characters
Rating: PG-13
Chapters: This story is written in 12 chapters and 5 interludes. This part has 2 chapters and 1 interlude. Everything else is still in the beta process.
Author's note on spoilers: This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after.
Summary: The flying man has lost his home, his family, everything he knew about himself - and his clothes. What is left for him now?
Chapter 1
He woke up on a cold dock, wet and shivering, with the mother of all headaches. Gathering his limbs together, he made a move to stand up and winced in pain. Had he been drinking? He didn't remember drinking, but then, he had only the vaguest recollection of how he'd ended up there at all. He'd been going fast, that much he remembered, faster than ever before, trying to stop but unable to hold back against the power of his own speed and the... the... what had sent him off again? Some force had pushed him ahead against his will, until there was nothing under him but water and he didn't even know which way was back anymore.
And now there was this place. What was this place? He looked around, seeing square, low buildings, windows shining bright against the darkness. A figure moved between the shadows - a man, clearly headed somewhere, walking with purpose. Desperate to connect with someone who obviously had more control than he did, anything to stop feeling so lost, he started walking, then running, and shouted out, ”Hey! Wait up!”
The man proved to be very young, almost a boy, and seemed taken aback at first, but then looked him over, eyes widening. ”Jävlar, mannen, mår du bra? Vad har hänt med dina kläder?”
He stopped, confused at the stranger's incomprehensible words. He hadn't forgotten how to speak, had he? His words had made sense to himself, but had they been only nonsense to the other man, much like this was to him?
”I'm sorry,” he said, ”I don't understand...”
To his relief, the man nodded and started speaking slowly and with an accent in words that did make sense. ”Okay. You speak English, yeah? What happened to your clothes?”
English. Of course, that was it. A different language, that was all. He could have laughed with relief, if he hadn't followed the man's gaze at his clothes. They were charred and tattered, as if something had burned them and torn them to pieces.
”I don't know,” he said, staring at the rags.
”Are you hurt?”
He shook his head mutely. If his clothes had been damaged so badly while he was still wearing them, he should have been damaged too. It only stood to reason... but nothing about this seemed very reasonable.
The man touched his shoulder and muttered some more in the foreign language. ”You are cold.”
”Yes.”
”And wet. Were you on a boat?”
He frowned. A boat? That didn't seem to fit. ”I don't think so.”
”Okay. What's your name?”
His name. God, he should know his name, but he didn't, it just wasn't there, not even at the tip of his tongue. It was gone.
”You know, your name?” the man continued. ”What people call you? I'm Qais, you are...”
”I don't...”
”You don't know.”
He shook his head, terrified. What had happened to him? Why didn't he know his own name?
”Okay,” the man - Qais - said, patting his shoulder in a soothing gesture. ”Here's what we do. I take you home with me, get you warm, and we can talk more about this later. Yes?”
”Yes,” he said, grateful to have some kind of help, even if it was from someone barely old enough to drink. ”Thank you.”
Qais nodded and pulled off his own jacket, draping it across his shoulder and rubbing his arms lightly. ”Better?”
”A bit.”
”Jalla, come on,” Qais said with a final pat on the arm. ”There should be a bus coming soon.”
They walked down a few streets to a large brick building with bus stops on one side. There were rows of monitors, but nearly all were blank and dark. When the bus came, the driver glared at them and barked something in the foreign language, but Qais answered him calmly, and in the end they were allowed in, sitting down near the back. He leaned against the seat, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort. The bus started moving and places went by, though there were very few people - a shabby-looking girl that sat nodding off in a corner, two women in headscarves speaking together in low voices, a man in overalls. The speaker voice called out incomprehensible names, and at one of those names, Qais pushed the stop button.
”You ready?”
He nodded, watching Qais' face as they stepped outside. It reminded him of something, with those patient brown eyes, the gentle smile. He had known someone, somewhere, like this, in expression if not in features.
They walked past some apartment blocks and then into one, climbing a gray staircase.
”Here we are,” Qais said, turning the key in a door that said 'Mansour'. Qais Mansour, then, two whole names for this stranger and none for himself.
Once inside, Qais yelled loudly and people started showing up in the hall - first an attractive young woman in jeans, carrying a pair of socks that she put on while she watched the two of them and said things that appeared to be questions, then a middle-aged couple in bathrobes, and finally a teenaged girl, half asleep, who padded out there in only a T-shirt. This last appearance caused the others to tell her something in sharp voices, until she went back into her room and returned with some sweatpants on.
The middle-aged woman shook her head at his clothes, said something at the man by her side and waved him away, and then shooed the new arrivals into the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, overwhelmed.
”It's okay,” Qais said. ”I have explained things to them. Well, a little bit, anyway. Dad is fetching you some new clothes. Do you want a bath? Mom said you should have one - or a shower, if you'd rather.”
”A bath would be nice,” he said. ”Thanks.”
He stripped out of the rags he'd been wearing and sat down in the bathtub, letting the blessed warmth of hot water run over him.
A knock on the door made him open eyes that had started to drift shut. Qais' father came in, holding some clothes and a large towel. He only now noticed that the man walked with a heavy limp.
Qais gestured towards his father. ”My dad, Adil.”
The two of them spoke for a while, and while he sometimes thought he recognized the sound of a word, he could have been mistaken. Finally, Adil asked, ”You feel better?”
”Much,” he said. ”I can't thank you enough, or your son. I don't know what I'd have done if he hadn't been there.”
”Are you hurt? We can call hospital if you want.”
”No, I'm not hurt.” He hesitated. ”But I don't... I don't seem to remember anything. At all.”
Adil nodded, his face showing no surprise. It must have been one of the things Qais had told him. ”You are not Swedish.”
Sweden. Was that where he was? That surprised him; he had a feeling Sweden should be more... well, blonder for one thing. Still, this was one question he could definitely answer. ”No. I'm not.”
”Know you where you come from?”
He shook his head.
”Are you here...” Adil said something to Qais, who filled in, ”Legally?”
Legally? He rubbed his forehead. Even if he was there legally, how was he supposed to prove it when he had no idea who he was? Anyway, what of the one memory he did have, of seeing land after nothing but endless water? He didn't recall crossing any border.
”I think I just arrived.”
Qais picked up his tattered clothes from the floor and started searching through them. After a while, he shook his head. ”No papers.”
Of course not, he thought bitterly. That would have been too simple, wouldn't it?
The two men spoke together for a while, and then Qais smiled at him. ”Don't worry about anything. We'll help you work this out, okay? Do you want some sleep when you're done in here? We can put some new sheets on Aisha's bed, she's going to work now anyway.”
He was practically falling asleep already, and so he only nodded in relief. Lost and confused as he may be, at least he didn't have to be alone.
Interlude 1: Peter and Angela
In his dream, all was cold, and dark, and utterly empty. The only thing that moved was him, shooting through the void like a bullet fired from a rifle. He felt parts of himself being ripped away, until there was nothing left, and screamed with lungs that were no longer there, trying to make a noise, anything that would prove that he still existed.
Peter woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding, and he had to lie still for a few minutes, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Going back to sleep was out of the question; instead he turned on the light and left the bed, going into the kitchen for something to eat. The thought of food made him queasy, but it was a ritual - wake up at night, make a sandwich.
He boiled a cup of tea as well and sipped it slowly, trying to settle his stomach.
Steps came closer, and he recognized the sound as belonging to his mother even before she showed herself.
”Couldn't sleep?” she asked. Her voice was frail and tired, like it had been all those months ago, when his father died. Back then, he had done all that he could to ease her pain. Now, it enraged him. How dare she? How dare she, after what she had done?
”No.”
”Bad dreams?”
He stood up and started packing away the food. ”I don't want to talk about it.”
”Was it... the explosion, or...”
”I said I don't want to talk about it!” He poured out the rest of the tea and threw the sandwich in the trash.
”Peter, I know this is hard.”
”Hard? You were gonna let me destroy New York! Tell me, are you even sorry that he's dead, or just that your little plan failed?”
She grabbed his arm, sending a mass of images through his brain of a child he'd only ever seen on family photos yet recognized clearly. He flinched. ”Don't.”
”Why ask questions if you can't stand the answer?” she asked. Her voice was steely and cold, now, but there were tears glittering in her eyes.
The child grew into a teen, then a man, and there was the second child - him, along with Dad, younger and more carefree than he remembered him. A family, a whole family, and there was Nathan's wedding, and the boys' births... he tore his arm from her grip and forced her out of his mind, unable to stand any more of this.
”Whatever you think of me, Peter,” she whispered, ”don't for a minute think I don't love my children.”
”Then why?” he asked, desperate to understand despite fearing what he would hear. ”Why!?”
Her cold fingers touched his face, wiping away his tears with the back of her hand, and he let it happen. ”You've never been to war, Peter. I can't expect you to understand what it's like, when your duty no longer lies in keeping the family alive.”
”How could it possibly be your duty to destroy New York?”
She watched him for a while, and seemed ready to say something, but shrugged instead. ”It doesn't matter. That future is gone now. Whatever lies ahead, it's very jumbled, very unsure... and we've lost him.”
She turned and left, and he reached out with his mind, but caught nothing but weariness before she was gone entirely.
Leaning against the refrigerator, he pressed his fingers against closed eyelids, missing Nathan so badly that he couldn't breathe. The one person he could count on, and he'd killed him. If only Claire was here, or even Claude with his acid barbs - anyone who wasn't a Petrelli, who didn't lie to him and who he didn't have to lie to.
Most of all, he wanted a second chance, starting over, trying again - which he could, thanks to Hiro Nakamura.By denying himself that chance, didn't he allow this to happen? Letting his brother die over and over again, because he feared rocking the boat.
”I'm sorry,” he murmured. ”I can't. I'm so sorry.”
Chapter 2
The room was light, a dim kind of light that didn't fit the time of the alarm clock, which was three fifteen. He turned his head, seeing a room that was sparingly decorated, but still very clearly inhabited by a woman. There were brushes and a mirror on the bureau, a skirt thrown over a chair, and a row of glass and porcelain cats on a shelf. Above the shelf, there was an embroidered cloth with foreign letters - Arabic, his mind said. Of course, the family from last night. He'd been given the room of one of the daughters, the one who had left while he was still in the bath. Aisha.
He sat up, pulling at the collar of his pyjama jacket. It was loose enough, but he felt weird wearing it, as if he didn't normally. Well, that was a clue as good as any, he guessed.
The pile of clothes Adil had fetched for him was lying on a nearby chair, and he went to put them on. Gray cotton pants of medium quality, a blue shirt, white tube socks. Buttoning up the shirt, he noticed a burn mark on one of his fingers. The ring finger. He held up his left hand and studied the mark, which went all the way round. There had been a wedding ring there, he could swear it, and whatever had burned his clothes had made the ring hot enough to burn him. And then what? Had it melted?
He was married. The realization hit him hard. Somewhere out there, there was a wife missing him, maybe children, and he didn't have a single memory of them.
He looked in the mirror, seeing a figure that was familiar and strange at the same time. Adil's clothes were too short and slightly too wide, which made them look odd on him. Well, at least he was dressed and warm, which was a hell of a lot better than last night.
There were low sounds coming from beyond the door, and so he left the room, catching sight of a dark ponytail and the flickering screen of a TV set, from which he heard voices speaking in English, interrupted by laughter. Coming closer, he found that it was the youngest girl, who had traded her night clothes for a bright red top and low-cut jeans and was now half-lying on the sofa.
”Hey,” she said, reaching for the remote so she could turn off the sound. ”You must have been very tired.” Her English was a lot like her brother's - fairly good, but slow and accented.
”Yeah,” he said. ”Thanks for letting me stay.”
She leaned her chin on her hand, watching him with curious interest. ”I'm not letting you do anything. That was Mom and Dad. And Qais, I guess, for taking you home in the first place.”
”It was very kind of them,” he said. Taking a complete stranger into their home, and one who was dressed like he had been - he'd been very lucky to be found by people who'd do something like that. He very much doubted he would have done the same thing himself. ”Where are they?”
”Work. Well, Qais is in the shop buying food, the rest are working. I got home only a few minutes ago. I'm your babysitter right now.” She grinned at him.
Leaving a complete stranger alone with their young daughter, then. He was starting to worry about this family's safety. ”Well, that's very kind of you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name last night.”
”It's Rim.”
”Like on a glass?” he asked, tracing a circle in the air.
She giggled. ”Yes! Like a glass.”
”Bad joke. I guess you've heard it a thousand times.”
”Not really. We don't speak English that often.”
”Of course. Yeah.” He sat down in an armchair, watching the muted TV. The screen had foreign captions, but the people on it looked familiar.
”Is it true that you don't remember anything?” Rim asked. ”Not even your name?”
”No,” he said, concentrating his gaze on the tall, balding man on the screen. ”Nothing.”
”That's... bad.”
The inadequacy of the word made him smile. ”Yes. It's very bad.”
”May I give you one?”
He gave her a puzzled look. ”A name?”
”Yes. It has to be better to have one, right? Even if it's not the right one?”
She had a point. Of all the things he couldn't remember, his name pained him the most. ”Did you have a particular name in mind?”
”No.” She sat silent for a minute, brow furrowed, and then said, ”Kalle!”
”Kuh-le?” he repeated. Well, that definitely wasn't his name. But maybe that was just as well. Having something almost right might have been worse. ”What does it mean?”
”Oh, it's this really common Swedish name. Like Karl, except Kalle, like if you're too lazy to say Karl or something. Everyone's called Kalle. Kalle Anka, Kalles kaviar, Kalle Blomkvist, Kalle och chokladfabriken... it's barely even a name. More like saying: I'm here now, I have a Swedish name!”
”Kalle,” he tried again, slowly. ”You think I should have a Swedish name?”
”Yeah.” She bit her lip in mock thought. ”Would you rather have an Arabic name? You could be Mohammad or something, but I don't know. It doesn't feel right.”
”And Kalle does?” he asked wryly.
”90 of Swedes are called Kalle. You'll fit right in.”
”All right then,” he agreed. It was so bizarre he might as well go along with it.
”Although we could use Mohammad too, if you want. Kalle Mohammad. First name - last name.”
He raised his eyebrows. ”Are you trying to make me even more confused than I already am?”
”Is it working?” she asked with a wide grin.
”Nope.” Truth be told, it had quite the opposite effect. Kalle Mohammad might be a silly invention, but at least that silliness was something to hold on to. He leaned back in his chair and nodded at the screen. ”What are you watching?”
”Um... I don't know the name in English. It's about aliens.”
”Could you turn the sound on?”
She obliged, and he watched the rest of the episode. It was simple, comfortable and sometimes very funny, and he had a feeling that he might have seen it before. The tall man seemed familiar, as did the scary blonde and the long-haired boy - though seeing him gave echoes of a different kind of familiarity, something further away, just an association maybe, but much more important. He tried to follow the feeling into his mind, but it kept eluding him, like an itch he couldn't reach. Instead he found himself asking, ”Is there a fat guy on this show? With glasses?”
”Huh? Oh, yeah, the cop. I don't think he's in this ep.”
”Holy shit.”
”What?”
He rubbed his forehead. A memory. An honest-to-God memory, and it was a character in a stupid TV show.
He found it hard to keep concentration up after that, and was relieved when he heard a turn of a key in the front door, followed by Qais shouting in Arabic. Rim rolled her eyes, but jumped up, running into the hall, and he followed, figuring it was something to do, at least.
”Hey,” Qais said, dumping the bags on the kitchen floor. ”Hope you like lamb.”
”I guess we'll find out.” He looked around the kitchen. It was painted in light colours, with matching table and chairs in simple design.
Rim took two cartons of milk and put them in the fridge, then gesturing for his benefit: ”Meat and such on the top, fruit and vegetables on the bottom.”
”Right.” Easy enough system, though they had to move things around a bit to fit the lamb steak in.
”Did you sleep good?” Qais asked him.
”I did.” He hesitated, but these kids were so trusting, he kind of felt protective towards them. ”Listen, I'm grateful for what your family is doing, but... was it really wise to leave me alone in your home?”
”Rim was there.”
”That's part of my point. You don't know me from Adam. What if I had harmed her?”
Qais put a jar of mayonnaise on a shelf and then paused. ”You looked very bad this morning. I was more afraid that you would die while you slept.”
”You looked like something ate you and spat you back out,” Rim added helpfully.
Considering how he'd felt, it was probably an accurate description. ”Yeah, but I could have been a junkie or something.”
”Junkie?” Rim asked.
”Drugs,” both men said at once. Qais filled in, ”I saw your arms. You're not a junkie.”
”Fine, so an escaped convict.”
”In expensive clothes?”
”I was wearing rags.”
”Expensive rags. Good quality, before you... whatever happened to you.”
He hadn't even consider that, and he realized that possibly, this family knew more about him than he did, just by paying attention to details. He sat down heavily on a chair, running his fingers through his hair. ”Anything else you want to tell me about me?”
Qais tossed a few oranges into the fruit bowl, grabbed one for himself, and sat down. ”You speak very good English. You probably are... not English-English. Maybe American or Canadian. Or at least you have lived there. But I don't get a touristy vibe from you. It's a bit puzzling.”
”How can you get a touristy vibe from someone who's just had an accident?” Rim protested. ”Talk sense!”
He didn't say anything, because he could see what Qais was getting at. Definitely not a touristy vibe.
”Maybe a businessman,” Qais continued. ”Well-off, in any case. Probably not a refugee.”
”Handsome,” Rim said, causing him to start a little. She was a child, for crying out loud.
Qais evidently felt the same. ”Old enough to be our father.”
”Married,” he said, holding up his hand. ”Ring marks.”
”Good call,” Qais said approvingly. ”Protective - maybe a father. Or an older brother.”
”Suspicious around strangers,” Rim said.
”Not Arabic.”
”Or Swedish.”
”Possibly Bosnian or Albanian. Maybe Turkish, but I doubt it. Although...” Qais' cheeks suddenly got a bright pink color. ”Wherever you're from, you could be Muslim.”
He frowned. Being given a religion seemed a pretty big deal. ”How's that?”
”Well, you're - I mean, this morning, in the bathroom, I noticed - Oh, don't make me say this in front of my sister!”
Rim burst into giggles, clearly knowing exactly what her brother was talking about.
”What?” he asked, feeling more than a little frustrated to be left out of a joke on his behalf.
”Khitan,” Rim said. ”Omskärelse. Your parts - ” she gave a gesture that was vague, yet still unmistakable ” - have been changed. Muslims do that. Not Christians.”
”Oh.” While that wasn't anything he would have paid attention to on his own, he still was a bit uncomfortable at the turn this conversation had taken.
Qais seemed to share the emotion, because he gave a deep groan and hid his face in his hands. ”I am very glad Dad is not home and can hear this.”
This caused Rim to stick out her tongue at Qais and say something, which caused him to throw an orange at her, which caused them both to dissolve into something that sounded like insults, though they were both grinning while they spoke.
At one point, Rim switched to English, telling him, ”I know one thing we know about you, though.”
”What's that?”
”You're Kalle Mohammad.”
Qais snorted. ”He's what?”
He smiled. ”That's true. I am.”
As it turned out, he did like lamb, or at least lamb the way Zaynab Mansour cooked it, in onion and tomato sauce and served with rice. He liked Zaynab herself too, even though their ability to understand each other was severely limited.
”Ismi Zaynab,” she had told him the minute she stepped inside the door after work. ”You okay now?”
”I'm okay,” he had assured her. ”Nice to meet you, Zaynab.”
”Nice meet you,” she echoed, and the words were chopped and few, but the sentiment shone through in a way that made him feel honored.
Like he'd previously felt with Qais, he got an almost-memory off her. Something about her wide cheekbones and generous mouth really rang a bell, and as he watched her chat away with Adil in whatever language they were using at the moment, he wondered if it was his own wife he was reminded of. Did he have a family much like this one? Younger, most likely; he couldn't quite see himself with a daughter of Aisha's age. At least he sincerely hoped not, seeing how he was highly aware of how attractive Aisha was, with features much like her mother's but a softer chin and larger eyes.
They tried to hold their conversation in English during the meal, which worked for the most part with the younger generation, but whenever a parent got involved, somehow they slipped back into another language. Even so, he found that he could understand a lot of what was going on just by body language, tone of voice and whatever words he managed to pick up. Asking about someone's day sounded and looked a certain way, as did the gentle ribbing done between the family members, and of course the many requests to pass one thing or another.
After a while of listening to the latter in particular, he took a chance and asked Zaynab, ”Skicka bread, please?”
Everyone stopped eating, staring at him wide-eyed. Zaynab passed him the bread, her usual smile replaced with a stunned expression.
Aisha was the one to ask the question written on everybody's faces. ”How did you know?”
”You've been saying it all meal. It is the right word, isn't it? Skicka?”
”It's the right word. You're smart! We'll have you speaking Swedish in no time.”
”Arabic,” her father corrected.
”Both!” said Qais.
”At the same time!” Rim filled in.
They all laughed, and he laughed too, feeling for a moment like part of the family.
The trouble was, he wasn't part of the family. He had a family somewhere, and the others had politely postponed the question of what they were supposed to do about that fact. It put him slightly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When everyone was full, all the dishes put in the washer and all the leftovers in the fridge, Adil got a serious look on his face and gestured for him to go into the living room, where they sat down on the sofa.
”Have you decided if you want that we call the police?” Adil asked very seriously. ”So that we can learn who you are and how you come here?”
A shudder went down his spine. He didn't know why - it was a reasonable question, and as far as he knew, he had no reason to fear the police. And yet the mere thought of someone investigating how he'd got there made his pulse race.
Adil watched him closely, a worried wrinkle between his marked eyebrows. ”Worry you not. We will not force you. You are shock, I can see. You can stay here until you are ready. But it will be difficult for you, to live in Sweden without papers, ID.” He pronounced it EEdeh, but the point got through. ”You will be nobody.”
”I'll be Kalle Mohammad,” he said with a breath of mirthless laughter, rubbing his forehead. After a while of thinking, he shook his head. ”I can't ask that of you.”
”We have people here before,” Adil said, patting his hand. ”Hide. It is okay. Qais say that we can trust you.”
”How does he know? I don't even know that.”
”Qais know,” Adil said, sounding very sure of it. ”We have man here, Qais said to us to not hide. We hide him not, then catch police him. He was a... he had done bad things, in the war. Killed many. The women... bad things.”
”Bad things,” he echoed quietly, trying to think. So Qais had known a war criminal at sight. Didn't mean the kid was right about him. But why would he care? He had a hell of an opportunity at his feet here. People just dying to help their fellow man, and him in - face it - dire need of help. It was either this, or the police, or trying to make it on his own, with no memory, in a foreign country. Definitely not an alluring concept. ”All right. Thanks.”
Adil gave him a last comforting pat on the arm and stood up, bad leg making it quite a struggle. ”Good. You are welcome here.”
He remained seated, thinking things through. Having a place to stay was a good start, but it wasn't enough. He'd need a job, something to do - even if the Mansours were willing to take financial responsibility for him, he'd drive himself crazy just sitting around the house. And above all, of course, he needed some way to get those damned memories back.
A large, flat object landed on his lap.
”Here you go,” Rim said. ”I'm leaving for work, but I thought you might want this.”
He stared at the world map adorning the cover and asked, ”What is it?” even though he could see perfectly well what it was.
”My Atlas. You can see if anything looks familiar.”
It was a brilliant idea, although somewhat ruined by the Atlas being in Swedish. The first few pages were full of strangely spelled names with with lots of ö and å in them, and he leafed them by, certain that none of those was his home.
He paused longer at the pages depicting ”Europa”. Many of the words were still foreign to him, but the shapes of countries were old friends, as known to him as the curve of a wheel. His eyes were drawn to certain towns: London, Aix-en-Provence, Syrakusa. Were they places he had been, or did they just hold some other special meaning?
Turning another page, his eyes were drawn to a tiny piece of land: ”Bosnien och Hercegovina.” Within that land, ”Srebrenica.”
The sound of gunfire was so loud that he jumped, but of course no one was shooting. The livingroom was as calm as it had ever been, with the family gathered around the TV set to watch some musical show. Part of him wanted to stay in the cosy atmosphere, but he forced himself to look back into the Atlas and follow the gunfire.
There was no logic to what he saw, just images: a man shouting orders, a wall with most of the facade gone, an old woman sitting on a large suitcase, his own hands lifting a kid on board a truck. His head started to hurt. Then, suddenly, he was high above it all, detached and free, seeing things clearly without the chaos and noise of the ground to distract him from what had to be done. The controls lay light in his hands, and he felt a connection to the machine that filled him with excitement despite the gravity of the situation.
A war pilot. Was that it? In what war, and on which side?
”Are you okay?”
He hurried to turn another page, and nodded at Qais, giving him a bright smile. ”I'm fine. Just brushing up my geography.”
It was pretty clear the kid didn't believe him, but he didn't push the issue either, just shrugged and returned to the TV show.
He kept leafing through the pages, looking for another memory. USA and Canada stayed open for quite some time, as he searched through the cities. The family had deemed his accent American, and maybe it was. He recognized many of the names on the page, but couldn't say anything more about them; there was no immediate, visceral memory like there had been with Srebrenica. He had a feeling there should be, but no matter how long he stared at the page, he couldn't make any images appear.
Only once more through the whole book did he get such a flash again, and it was much briefer: at Tokyo, Japan he saw a face, round and grinning, with innocense shining in the bespectacled eyes. It was over as quickly as it had begun, but it left him feeling oddly cheerful, almost amused.
TBC
Author: Katta
Fandom: Heroes
Characters (in order of importance): Nathan Petrelli, a whole lot of OCs, Peter Petrelli, other canon characters
Rating: PG-13
Chapters: This story is written in 12 chapters and 5 interludes. This part has 2 chapters and 1 interlude. Everything else is still in the beta process.
Author's note on spoilers: This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after.
Summary: The flying man has lost his home, his family, everything he knew about himself - and his clothes. What is left for him now?
Chapter 1
He woke up on a cold dock, wet and shivering, with the mother of all headaches. Gathering his limbs together, he made a move to stand up and winced in pain. Had he been drinking? He didn't remember drinking, but then, he had only the vaguest recollection of how he'd ended up there at all. He'd been going fast, that much he remembered, faster than ever before, trying to stop but unable to hold back against the power of his own speed and the... the... what had sent him off again? Some force had pushed him ahead against his will, until there was nothing under him but water and he didn't even know which way was back anymore.
And now there was this place. What was this place? He looked around, seeing square, low buildings, windows shining bright against the darkness. A figure moved between the shadows - a man, clearly headed somewhere, walking with purpose. Desperate to connect with someone who obviously had more control than he did, anything to stop feeling so lost, he started walking, then running, and shouted out, ”Hey! Wait up!”
The man proved to be very young, almost a boy, and seemed taken aback at first, but then looked him over, eyes widening. ”Jävlar, mannen, mår du bra? Vad har hänt med dina kläder?”
He stopped, confused at the stranger's incomprehensible words. He hadn't forgotten how to speak, had he? His words had made sense to himself, but had they been only nonsense to the other man, much like this was to him?
”I'm sorry,” he said, ”I don't understand...”
To his relief, the man nodded and started speaking slowly and with an accent in words that did make sense. ”Okay. You speak English, yeah? What happened to your clothes?”
English. Of course, that was it. A different language, that was all. He could have laughed with relief, if he hadn't followed the man's gaze at his clothes. They were charred and tattered, as if something had burned them and torn them to pieces.
”I don't know,” he said, staring at the rags.
”Are you hurt?”
He shook his head mutely. If his clothes had been damaged so badly while he was still wearing them, he should have been damaged too. It only stood to reason... but nothing about this seemed very reasonable.
The man touched his shoulder and muttered some more in the foreign language. ”You are cold.”
”Yes.”
”And wet. Were you on a boat?”
He frowned. A boat? That didn't seem to fit. ”I don't think so.”
”Okay. What's your name?”
His name. God, he should know his name, but he didn't, it just wasn't there, not even at the tip of his tongue. It was gone.
”You know, your name?” the man continued. ”What people call you? I'm Qais, you are...”
”I don't...”
”You don't know.”
He shook his head, terrified. What had happened to him? Why didn't he know his own name?
”Okay,” the man - Qais - said, patting his shoulder in a soothing gesture. ”Here's what we do. I take you home with me, get you warm, and we can talk more about this later. Yes?”
”Yes,” he said, grateful to have some kind of help, even if it was from someone barely old enough to drink. ”Thank you.”
Qais nodded and pulled off his own jacket, draping it across his shoulder and rubbing his arms lightly. ”Better?”
”A bit.”
”Jalla, come on,” Qais said with a final pat on the arm. ”There should be a bus coming soon.”
They walked down a few streets to a large brick building with bus stops on one side. There were rows of monitors, but nearly all were blank and dark. When the bus came, the driver glared at them and barked something in the foreign language, but Qais answered him calmly, and in the end they were allowed in, sitting down near the back. He leaned against the seat, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort. The bus started moving and places went by, though there were very few people - a shabby-looking girl that sat nodding off in a corner, two women in headscarves speaking together in low voices, a man in overalls. The speaker voice called out incomprehensible names, and at one of those names, Qais pushed the stop button.
”You ready?”
He nodded, watching Qais' face as they stepped outside. It reminded him of something, with those patient brown eyes, the gentle smile. He had known someone, somewhere, like this, in expression if not in features.
They walked past some apartment blocks and then into one, climbing a gray staircase.
”Here we are,” Qais said, turning the key in a door that said 'Mansour'. Qais Mansour, then, two whole names for this stranger and none for himself.
Once inside, Qais yelled loudly and people started showing up in the hall - first an attractive young woman in jeans, carrying a pair of socks that she put on while she watched the two of them and said things that appeared to be questions, then a middle-aged couple in bathrobes, and finally a teenaged girl, half asleep, who padded out there in only a T-shirt. This last appearance caused the others to tell her something in sharp voices, until she went back into her room and returned with some sweatpants on.
The middle-aged woman shook her head at his clothes, said something at the man by her side and waved him away, and then shooed the new arrivals into the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, overwhelmed.
”It's okay,” Qais said. ”I have explained things to them. Well, a little bit, anyway. Dad is fetching you some new clothes. Do you want a bath? Mom said you should have one - or a shower, if you'd rather.”
”A bath would be nice,” he said. ”Thanks.”
He stripped out of the rags he'd been wearing and sat down in the bathtub, letting the blessed warmth of hot water run over him.
A knock on the door made him open eyes that had started to drift shut. Qais' father came in, holding some clothes and a large towel. He only now noticed that the man walked with a heavy limp.
Qais gestured towards his father. ”My dad, Adil.”
The two of them spoke for a while, and while he sometimes thought he recognized the sound of a word, he could have been mistaken. Finally, Adil asked, ”You feel better?”
”Much,” he said. ”I can't thank you enough, or your son. I don't know what I'd have done if he hadn't been there.”
”Are you hurt? We can call hospital if you want.”
”No, I'm not hurt.” He hesitated. ”But I don't... I don't seem to remember anything. At all.”
Adil nodded, his face showing no surprise. It must have been one of the things Qais had told him. ”You are not Swedish.”
Sweden. Was that where he was? That surprised him; he had a feeling Sweden should be more... well, blonder for one thing. Still, this was one question he could definitely answer. ”No. I'm not.”
”Know you where you come from?”
He shook his head.
”Are you here...” Adil said something to Qais, who filled in, ”Legally?”
Legally? He rubbed his forehead. Even if he was there legally, how was he supposed to prove it when he had no idea who he was? Anyway, what of the one memory he did have, of seeing land after nothing but endless water? He didn't recall crossing any border.
”I think I just arrived.”
Qais picked up his tattered clothes from the floor and started searching through them. After a while, he shook his head. ”No papers.”
Of course not, he thought bitterly. That would have been too simple, wouldn't it?
The two men spoke together for a while, and then Qais smiled at him. ”Don't worry about anything. We'll help you work this out, okay? Do you want some sleep when you're done in here? We can put some new sheets on Aisha's bed, she's going to work now anyway.”
He was practically falling asleep already, and so he only nodded in relief. Lost and confused as he may be, at least he didn't have to be alone.
Interlude 1: Peter and Angela
In his dream, all was cold, and dark, and utterly empty. The only thing that moved was him, shooting through the void like a bullet fired from a rifle. He felt parts of himself being ripped away, until there was nothing left, and screamed with lungs that were no longer there, trying to make a noise, anything that would prove that he still existed.
Peter woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding, and he had to lie still for a few minutes, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Going back to sleep was out of the question; instead he turned on the light and left the bed, going into the kitchen for something to eat. The thought of food made him queasy, but it was a ritual - wake up at night, make a sandwich.
He boiled a cup of tea as well and sipped it slowly, trying to settle his stomach.
Steps came closer, and he recognized the sound as belonging to his mother even before she showed herself.
”Couldn't sleep?” she asked. Her voice was frail and tired, like it had been all those months ago, when his father died. Back then, he had done all that he could to ease her pain. Now, it enraged him. How dare she? How dare she, after what she had done?
”No.”
”Bad dreams?”
He stood up and started packing away the food. ”I don't want to talk about it.”
”Was it... the explosion, or...”
”I said I don't want to talk about it!” He poured out the rest of the tea and threw the sandwich in the trash.
”Peter, I know this is hard.”
”Hard? You were gonna let me destroy New York! Tell me, are you even sorry that he's dead, or just that your little plan failed?”
She grabbed his arm, sending a mass of images through his brain of a child he'd only ever seen on family photos yet recognized clearly. He flinched. ”Don't.”
”Why ask questions if you can't stand the answer?” she asked. Her voice was steely and cold, now, but there were tears glittering in her eyes.
The child grew into a teen, then a man, and there was the second child - him, along with Dad, younger and more carefree than he remembered him. A family, a whole family, and there was Nathan's wedding, and the boys' births... he tore his arm from her grip and forced her out of his mind, unable to stand any more of this.
”Whatever you think of me, Peter,” she whispered, ”don't for a minute think I don't love my children.”
”Then why?” he asked, desperate to understand despite fearing what he would hear. ”Why!?”
Her cold fingers touched his face, wiping away his tears with the back of her hand, and he let it happen. ”You've never been to war, Peter. I can't expect you to understand what it's like, when your duty no longer lies in keeping the family alive.”
”How could it possibly be your duty to destroy New York?”
She watched him for a while, and seemed ready to say something, but shrugged instead. ”It doesn't matter. That future is gone now. Whatever lies ahead, it's very jumbled, very unsure... and we've lost him.”
She turned and left, and he reached out with his mind, but caught nothing but weariness before she was gone entirely.
Leaning against the refrigerator, he pressed his fingers against closed eyelids, missing Nathan so badly that he couldn't breathe. The one person he could count on, and he'd killed him. If only Claire was here, or even Claude with his acid barbs - anyone who wasn't a Petrelli, who didn't lie to him and who he didn't have to lie to.
Most of all, he wanted a second chance, starting over, trying again - which he could, thanks to Hiro Nakamura.By denying himself that chance, didn't he allow this to happen? Letting his brother die over and over again, because he feared rocking the boat.
”I'm sorry,” he murmured. ”I can't. I'm so sorry.”
Chapter 2
The room was light, a dim kind of light that didn't fit the time of the alarm clock, which was three fifteen. He turned his head, seeing a room that was sparingly decorated, but still very clearly inhabited by a woman. There were brushes and a mirror on the bureau, a skirt thrown over a chair, and a row of glass and porcelain cats on a shelf. Above the shelf, there was an embroidered cloth with foreign letters - Arabic, his mind said. Of course, the family from last night. He'd been given the room of one of the daughters, the one who had left while he was still in the bath. Aisha.
He sat up, pulling at the collar of his pyjama jacket. It was loose enough, but he felt weird wearing it, as if he didn't normally. Well, that was a clue as good as any, he guessed.
The pile of clothes Adil had fetched for him was lying on a nearby chair, and he went to put them on. Gray cotton pants of medium quality, a blue shirt, white tube socks. Buttoning up the shirt, he noticed a burn mark on one of his fingers. The ring finger. He held up his left hand and studied the mark, which went all the way round. There had been a wedding ring there, he could swear it, and whatever had burned his clothes had made the ring hot enough to burn him. And then what? Had it melted?
He was married. The realization hit him hard. Somewhere out there, there was a wife missing him, maybe children, and he didn't have a single memory of them.
He looked in the mirror, seeing a figure that was familiar and strange at the same time. Adil's clothes were too short and slightly too wide, which made them look odd on him. Well, at least he was dressed and warm, which was a hell of a lot better than last night.
There were low sounds coming from beyond the door, and so he left the room, catching sight of a dark ponytail and the flickering screen of a TV set, from which he heard voices speaking in English, interrupted by laughter. Coming closer, he found that it was the youngest girl, who had traded her night clothes for a bright red top and low-cut jeans and was now half-lying on the sofa.
”Hey,” she said, reaching for the remote so she could turn off the sound. ”You must have been very tired.” Her English was a lot like her brother's - fairly good, but slow and accented.
”Yeah,” he said. ”Thanks for letting me stay.”
She leaned her chin on her hand, watching him with curious interest. ”I'm not letting you do anything. That was Mom and Dad. And Qais, I guess, for taking you home in the first place.”
”It was very kind of them,” he said. Taking a complete stranger into their home, and one who was dressed like he had been - he'd been very lucky to be found by people who'd do something like that. He very much doubted he would have done the same thing himself. ”Where are they?”
”Work. Well, Qais is in the shop buying food, the rest are working. I got home only a few minutes ago. I'm your babysitter right now.” She grinned at him.
Leaving a complete stranger alone with their young daughter, then. He was starting to worry about this family's safety. ”Well, that's very kind of you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name last night.”
”It's Rim.”
”Like on a glass?” he asked, tracing a circle in the air.
She giggled. ”Yes! Like a glass.”
”Bad joke. I guess you've heard it a thousand times.”
”Not really. We don't speak English that often.”
”Of course. Yeah.” He sat down in an armchair, watching the muted TV. The screen had foreign captions, but the people on it looked familiar.
”Is it true that you don't remember anything?” Rim asked. ”Not even your name?”
”No,” he said, concentrating his gaze on the tall, balding man on the screen. ”Nothing.”
”That's... bad.”
The inadequacy of the word made him smile. ”Yes. It's very bad.”
”May I give you one?”
He gave her a puzzled look. ”A name?”
”Yes. It has to be better to have one, right? Even if it's not the right one?”
She had a point. Of all the things he couldn't remember, his name pained him the most. ”Did you have a particular name in mind?”
”No.” She sat silent for a minute, brow furrowed, and then said, ”Kalle!”
”Kuh-le?” he repeated. Well, that definitely wasn't his name. But maybe that was just as well. Having something almost right might have been worse. ”What does it mean?”
”Oh, it's this really common Swedish name. Like Karl, except Kalle, like if you're too lazy to say Karl or something. Everyone's called Kalle. Kalle Anka, Kalles kaviar, Kalle Blomkvist, Kalle och chokladfabriken... it's barely even a name. More like saying: I'm here now, I have a Swedish name!”
”Kalle,” he tried again, slowly. ”You think I should have a Swedish name?”
”Yeah.” She bit her lip in mock thought. ”Would you rather have an Arabic name? You could be Mohammad or something, but I don't know. It doesn't feel right.”
”And Kalle does?” he asked wryly.
”90 of Swedes are called Kalle. You'll fit right in.”
”All right then,” he agreed. It was so bizarre he might as well go along with it.
”Although we could use Mohammad too, if you want. Kalle Mohammad. First name - last name.”
He raised his eyebrows. ”Are you trying to make me even more confused than I already am?”
”Is it working?” she asked with a wide grin.
”Nope.” Truth be told, it had quite the opposite effect. Kalle Mohammad might be a silly invention, but at least that silliness was something to hold on to. He leaned back in his chair and nodded at the screen. ”What are you watching?”
”Um... I don't know the name in English. It's about aliens.”
”Could you turn the sound on?”
She obliged, and he watched the rest of the episode. It was simple, comfortable and sometimes very funny, and he had a feeling that he might have seen it before. The tall man seemed familiar, as did the scary blonde and the long-haired boy - though seeing him gave echoes of a different kind of familiarity, something further away, just an association maybe, but much more important. He tried to follow the feeling into his mind, but it kept eluding him, like an itch he couldn't reach. Instead he found himself asking, ”Is there a fat guy on this show? With glasses?”
”Huh? Oh, yeah, the cop. I don't think he's in this ep.”
”Holy shit.”
”What?”
He rubbed his forehead. A memory. An honest-to-God memory, and it was a character in a stupid TV show.
He found it hard to keep concentration up after that, and was relieved when he heard a turn of a key in the front door, followed by Qais shouting in Arabic. Rim rolled her eyes, but jumped up, running into the hall, and he followed, figuring it was something to do, at least.
”Hey,” Qais said, dumping the bags on the kitchen floor. ”Hope you like lamb.”
”I guess we'll find out.” He looked around the kitchen. It was painted in light colours, with matching table and chairs in simple design.
Rim took two cartons of milk and put them in the fridge, then gesturing for his benefit: ”Meat and such on the top, fruit and vegetables on the bottom.”
”Right.” Easy enough system, though they had to move things around a bit to fit the lamb steak in.
”Did you sleep good?” Qais asked him.
”I did.” He hesitated, but these kids were so trusting, he kind of felt protective towards them. ”Listen, I'm grateful for what your family is doing, but... was it really wise to leave me alone in your home?”
”Rim was there.”
”That's part of my point. You don't know me from Adam. What if I had harmed her?”
Qais put a jar of mayonnaise on a shelf and then paused. ”You looked very bad this morning. I was more afraid that you would die while you slept.”
”You looked like something ate you and spat you back out,” Rim added helpfully.
Considering how he'd felt, it was probably an accurate description. ”Yeah, but I could have been a junkie or something.”
”Junkie?” Rim asked.
”Drugs,” both men said at once. Qais filled in, ”I saw your arms. You're not a junkie.”
”Fine, so an escaped convict.”
”In expensive clothes?”
”I was wearing rags.”
”Expensive rags. Good quality, before you... whatever happened to you.”
He hadn't even consider that, and he realized that possibly, this family knew more about him than he did, just by paying attention to details. He sat down heavily on a chair, running his fingers through his hair. ”Anything else you want to tell me about me?”
Qais tossed a few oranges into the fruit bowl, grabbed one for himself, and sat down. ”You speak very good English. You probably are... not English-English. Maybe American or Canadian. Or at least you have lived there. But I don't get a touristy vibe from you. It's a bit puzzling.”
”How can you get a touristy vibe from someone who's just had an accident?” Rim protested. ”Talk sense!”
He didn't say anything, because he could see what Qais was getting at. Definitely not a touristy vibe.
”Maybe a businessman,” Qais continued. ”Well-off, in any case. Probably not a refugee.”
”Handsome,” Rim said, causing him to start a little. She was a child, for crying out loud.
Qais evidently felt the same. ”Old enough to be our father.”
”Married,” he said, holding up his hand. ”Ring marks.”
”Good call,” Qais said approvingly. ”Protective - maybe a father. Or an older brother.”
”Suspicious around strangers,” Rim said.
”Not Arabic.”
”Or Swedish.”
”Possibly Bosnian or Albanian. Maybe Turkish, but I doubt it. Although...” Qais' cheeks suddenly got a bright pink color. ”Wherever you're from, you could be Muslim.”
He frowned. Being given a religion seemed a pretty big deal. ”How's that?”
”Well, you're - I mean, this morning, in the bathroom, I noticed - Oh, don't make me say this in front of my sister!”
Rim burst into giggles, clearly knowing exactly what her brother was talking about.
”What?” he asked, feeling more than a little frustrated to be left out of a joke on his behalf.
”Khitan,” Rim said. ”Omskärelse. Your parts - ” she gave a gesture that was vague, yet still unmistakable ” - have been changed. Muslims do that. Not Christians.”
”Oh.” While that wasn't anything he would have paid attention to on his own, he still was a bit uncomfortable at the turn this conversation had taken.
Qais seemed to share the emotion, because he gave a deep groan and hid his face in his hands. ”I am very glad Dad is not home and can hear this.”
This caused Rim to stick out her tongue at Qais and say something, which caused him to throw an orange at her, which caused them both to dissolve into something that sounded like insults, though they were both grinning while they spoke.
At one point, Rim switched to English, telling him, ”I know one thing we know about you, though.”
”What's that?”
”You're Kalle Mohammad.”
Qais snorted. ”He's what?”
He smiled. ”That's true. I am.”
As it turned out, he did like lamb, or at least lamb the way Zaynab Mansour cooked it, in onion and tomato sauce and served with rice. He liked Zaynab herself too, even though their ability to understand each other was severely limited.
”Ismi Zaynab,” she had told him the minute she stepped inside the door after work. ”You okay now?”
”I'm okay,” he had assured her. ”Nice to meet you, Zaynab.”
”Nice meet you,” she echoed, and the words were chopped and few, but the sentiment shone through in a way that made him feel honored.
Like he'd previously felt with Qais, he got an almost-memory off her. Something about her wide cheekbones and generous mouth really rang a bell, and as he watched her chat away with Adil in whatever language they were using at the moment, he wondered if it was his own wife he was reminded of. Did he have a family much like this one? Younger, most likely; he couldn't quite see himself with a daughter of Aisha's age. At least he sincerely hoped not, seeing how he was highly aware of how attractive Aisha was, with features much like her mother's but a softer chin and larger eyes.
They tried to hold their conversation in English during the meal, which worked for the most part with the younger generation, but whenever a parent got involved, somehow they slipped back into another language. Even so, he found that he could understand a lot of what was going on just by body language, tone of voice and whatever words he managed to pick up. Asking about someone's day sounded and looked a certain way, as did the gentle ribbing done between the family members, and of course the many requests to pass one thing or another.
After a while of listening to the latter in particular, he took a chance and asked Zaynab, ”Skicka bread, please?”
Everyone stopped eating, staring at him wide-eyed. Zaynab passed him the bread, her usual smile replaced with a stunned expression.
Aisha was the one to ask the question written on everybody's faces. ”How did you know?”
”You've been saying it all meal. It is the right word, isn't it? Skicka?”
”It's the right word. You're smart! We'll have you speaking Swedish in no time.”
”Arabic,” her father corrected.
”Both!” said Qais.
”At the same time!” Rim filled in.
They all laughed, and he laughed too, feeling for a moment like part of the family.
The trouble was, he wasn't part of the family. He had a family somewhere, and the others had politely postponed the question of what they were supposed to do about that fact. It put him slightly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When everyone was full, all the dishes put in the washer and all the leftovers in the fridge, Adil got a serious look on his face and gestured for him to go into the living room, where they sat down on the sofa.
”Have you decided if you want that we call the police?” Adil asked very seriously. ”So that we can learn who you are and how you come here?”
A shudder went down his spine. He didn't know why - it was a reasonable question, and as far as he knew, he had no reason to fear the police. And yet the mere thought of someone investigating how he'd got there made his pulse race.
Adil watched him closely, a worried wrinkle between his marked eyebrows. ”Worry you not. We will not force you. You are shock, I can see. You can stay here until you are ready. But it will be difficult for you, to live in Sweden without papers, ID.” He pronounced it EEdeh, but the point got through. ”You will be nobody.”
”I'll be Kalle Mohammad,” he said with a breath of mirthless laughter, rubbing his forehead. After a while of thinking, he shook his head. ”I can't ask that of you.”
”We have people here before,” Adil said, patting his hand. ”Hide. It is okay. Qais say that we can trust you.”
”How does he know? I don't even know that.”
”Qais know,” Adil said, sounding very sure of it. ”We have man here, Qais said to us to not hide. We hide him not, then catch police him. He was a... he had done bad things, in the war. Killed many. The women... bad things.”
”Bad things,” he echoed quietly, trying to think. So Qais had known a war criminal at sight. Didn't mean the kid was right about him. But why would he care? He had a hell of an opportunity at his feet here. People just dying to help their fellow man, and him in - face it - dire need of help. It was either this, or the police, or trying to make it on his own, with no memory, in a foreign country. Definitely not an alluring concept. ”All right. Thanks.”
Adil gave him a last comforting pat on the arm and stood up, bad leg making it quite a struggle. ”Good. You are welcome here.”
He remained seated, thinking things through. Having a place to stay was a good start, but it wasn't enough. He'd need a job, something to do - even if the Mansours were willing to take financial responsibility for him, he'd drive himself crazy just sitting around the house. And above all, of course, he needed some way to get those damned memories back.
A large, flat object landed on his lap.
”Here you go,” Rim said. ”I'm leaving for work, but I thought you might want this.”
He stared at the world map adorning the cover and asked, ”What is it?” even though he could see perfectly well what it was.
”My Atlas. You can see if anything looks familiar.”
It was a brilliant idea, although somewhat ruined by the Atlas being in Swedish. The first few pages were full of strangely spelled names with with lots of ö and å in them, and he leafed them by, certain that none of those was his home.
He paused longer at the pages depicting ”Europa”. Many of the words were still foreign to him, but the shapes of countries were old friends, as known to him as the curve of a wheel. His eyes were drawn to certain towns: London, Aix-en-Provence, Syrakusa. Were they places he had been, or did they just hold some other special meaning?
Turning another page, his eyes were drawn to a tiny piece of land: ”Bosnien och Hercegovina.” Within that land, ”Srebrenica.”
The sound of gunfire was so loud that he jumped, but of course no one was shooting. The livingroom was as calm as it had ever been, with the family gathered around the TV set to watch some musical show. Part of him wanted to stay in the cosy atmosphere, but he forced himself to look back into the Atlas and follow the gunfire.
There was no logic to what he saw, just images: a man shouting orders, a wall with most of the facade gone, an old woman sitting on a large suitcase, his own hands lifting a kid on board a truck. His head started to hurt. Then, suddenly, he was high above it all, detached and free, seeing things clearly without the chaos and noise of the ground to distract him from what had to be done. The controls lay light in his hands, and he felt a connection to the machine that filled him with excitement despite the gravity of the situation.
A war pilot. Was that it? In what war, and on which side?
”Are you okay?”
He hurried to turn another page, and nodded at Qais, giving him a bright smile. ”I'm fine. Just brushing up my geography.”
It was pretty clear the kid didn't believe him, but he didn't push the issue either, just shrugged and returned to the TV show.
He kept leafing through the pages, looking for another memory. USA and Canada stayed open for quite some time, as he searched through the cities. The family had deemed his accent American, and maybe it was. He recognized many of the names on the page, but couldn't say anything more about them; there was no immediate, visceral memory like there had been with Srebrenica. He had a feeling there should be, but no matter how long he stared at the page, he couldn't make any images appear.
Only once more through the whole book did he get such a flash again, and it was much briefer: at Tokyo, Japan he saw a face, round and grinning, with innocense shining in the bespectacled eyes. It was over as quickly as it had begun, but it left him feeling oddly cheerful, almost amused.
TBC