Stop me if you've heard this atomic secret...



WINNER OF BEST ISAAC CHARACTERIZATION AT THE HEROES SLASH AWARDS

Something...weird has been happening to me these past couple of weeks. Ever since I started chasing again, I keep painting all of this amazing stuff, and I don’t even remember painting any of it. I’ll wake up, and I’ll be staring at this...thing that I have no recollection of making. At all. They’re pretty good, some of them. Wish I could figure out what the hell they were and why I painted them.

“Isaac?”

I turned; Simone was standing in the doorway.

“Hey.” I smiled, and picked up an empty paint bucket.

She laughed her smooth, easy laugh and traipsed casually down the stairs. “I swear, Isaac, it’s like you never leave this apartment. You oughta watch it, or you’ll be pale as a ghost by October.”

“That’s what they tell me.” I brought the bucket over to the sink and turned on the faucet. “What do you want?”

“Got any new paintings for me?”

“Yeah, they’re over there,” I said, making a vague waving motion towards the new pieces. A slight guilt nibbled at my gut. Those were the weird paintings, the ones I had painted while I was high. But Simone couldn’t know that.

Her heels click-clacked across the floor as she made her way over to them, and I scrubbed down the bucket as best as I could, trying to get rid of the dried bits of paint still in there.

“See anything good?” I called over my shoulder after a little while.

“Yeah,” she called back. “Get over here.”

I shut off the water and jogged lightly over. “Which one do you like?”

“They’re all good, but...this one.” She was holding the small canvas that I had hidden under the large eclipse painting. It was a man, a black man, wearing orange jail fatigues, his foot phasing through the wall of a prison cell. I didn’t remember painting it, like most of the stuff I had been painting lately. Something about it had perturbed me, so I had stowed it away so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

“Yeah? You like that one?” I stuffed my hands into my pockets.

“It’s fantastic, Isaac,” she said. She was staring at it so intently I was surprised her eyes weren’t boring holes through it. “It’s so...surreal. It’s got a Salvador Dali feel to it. Like you’re in some sort of dream or something. It’s great.”

“Thanks.”

“What made you paint it?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. You want it?”

“Definitely.” She set it down on top of a table. “I’ll get it wrapped later. Mr. Linderman will definitely want this one.”

“Mr. Linderman? Who’s that?” I gazed down on the painting, and grazed my fingers across its thick, rough texture.

“He’s a client. He’s very interested in your paintings.” She was sorting through some more pieces in the back, taking care not to chip one of her nails. “He’s that mobster guy in Las Vegas. He’s got lots of cash. You’ll probably make a lot off of him.”

“A mobster?” I didn’t take my eyes off my painting. “Don’t you think that’s dangerous, Simone?”

“Yeah, well.” I heard her walk up behind me, and felt her elegant fingers gently massage my shoulders. “I just sell paintings. I think I’m pretty safe.” She softly kissed my neck, leaving just a trace of peach lipstick against my skin. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

I chuckled. “I’m not so sure.”

“You are. Take my word for it.”

We stood there like that for a while, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, head pressed against mine, and me, still staring at that goddamn painting.

“This was why I hid it,” I muttered.

“Hid what?” Simone said.

“This painting.” I picked it up and narrowed my eyes. “I can’t stop looking at it. I had to hide it under that big one so I wouldn’t see it lying around and start...staring at it again.”

Simone chortled in my ear, and her arms slid off me. “You’re funny, Isaac. So proud of your work.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s...” I pursed my lips. “Never mind. I dunno.” I tossed it onto the table and went back to the sink.

She laughed again and smoothed her curls, her bracelets clinking lightly together. “Well, I have to go now. I’ll be back later to pick these up.” She gave me a quick peck on the lips and sauntered on out the door, her hips swaying gently.

I watched her go, the air hanging heavy over my head. I hated lying to her, about the drugs, about everything...which was pretty much what the drugs had become. It was getting worse than it had been before I had gone to rehab. I was shooting up about five or six times a day now. I just...needed to. I can’t really explain it.

I shook my head, and started scrubbing the bucket again. After a couple minutes, I gave up and put it back with the others. I can’t ever clean those things right.

My eyes slid over to the painting of the phasing man still lying on the table. My feet were moving before I knew what I was doing, and I was stroking the canvas again, feeling this man’s face, his chest, his foot that was going right through the wall.

“A man who can walk through walls,” I laughed scoffingly. “Like that could ever happen.” But art doesn’t need to make sense, especially art that you create when you’re as high as a kite.

My mouth twitched, and I placed the painting carefully behind the stack that Simone had left leaning against the wall. I couldn’t keep staring at the thing. I had important things to do—comic books to write, other paintings to finish.

I started to walk away, but my head turned slightly of its own volition. Something about that man in the painting called out to me, but I didn’t know what or why...

He’s just a guy in a PAINTING, I told myself sternly as I reached for the sketchbook lying on the kitchen counter. He’s not even real. Just some imaginary person you painted while you were all doped up. Stop thinking about it.

I sighed and flipped open to a fresh page. Back to work—if that’s what you want to call doodling.



There was a rush, a rush running through my veins, a desirable rush that coursed through every inch of my body, to my brain, down to my toes, everywhere. My head bent back, a lazy grin spread across my face, taking it all in, the pleasure, the ecstasy...

There was a girl over there, in the hallway, wearing a cheerleading uniform, her hair was blonde and there was a boy standing over by the lockers and he looked disappointed because she was walking away (a messenger bag was on her shoulder), she looked pretty upset herself, and my hand groped for the paintbrush. All the colors were swirling in and out, and the bright red on her uniform was pulsating, and everything was illuminated and then it wasn’t, and then it was, and I added more brush-strokes and I watched the girl walk away and the boy stare after her.



“What the hell—?”

I was on the floor, the needle lying about four feet away, and I was staring up at yet another one of those mysterious paintings. A young cheerleader, probably some girl in high school, was walking away from some indie-looking kid who seemed kinda pissed. Why the hell would I paint something like that?

I slowly got up, yawning, and dusted myself off. I contemplated the painting for a couple of seconds, and wondered how I was able to paint so well when I was high, when I was suddenly hit by a wave of nausea and headed speedily over to the bathroom.



I remembered that girl, the girl that got run over by that bus. She accused me of painting her, and ran outside, and got hit by the bus I had painted her getting hit by. I had no idea who she was. It boggled my mind for the longest time.

Still feeling the remnants of nausea, I ignored it and headed over to the phone, where I dialed Simone’s number.

“Hello?”

“Simone?”

“Yeah, Isaac?”

“You coming to get those paintings yet?”

“On my way.” And she hung up.

I put down the receiver and rubbed my hands over my face, hoping I didn’t still looked all drugged out.

I looked over at the painting with the cheerleader.

Wish I’d painted that guy again instead, I thought.



If I was a little freaked out by the paintings before...well, that was nothing compared to now.

Suicide bombing in Israel. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Except, when I looked at the newspaper, and saw the photo that accompanied the article...it was the exact same image that I had painted three weeks ago.

Even the bus numbers matched.

Maybe that was a coincidence. But other things like this had happened already. The girl and the bus. The woman losing her child on the subway. The massive car accident in Rhode Island. All of these things, these things that I had painted...they had come true. But only the paintings that I had done while I was high had proved prophetic. The sketches that I had done sober, they were nothing.

There was an obvious connection.

And all of the other paintings, the ones I had painted while doped up...I had to destroy them. They were evil. Some...some devilish force, some evil thing possessed me. The heroin. It was making me lose my mind. I had to quit, I had to...rehab wasn’t going to work; it had never worked for me before.

There was only one way.

I had to stop completely, and stop for good.



Something occurred to me after Simone left and I was staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how I could’ve screwed up so badly.

If I could paint the future, then that man—the phasing man—he was real. And he could walk through walls.

It sounded crazy.

But so did a junkie painting the future while he was high.

I smiled. Maybe I wasn’t alone after all.



I tried painting him again, but I couldn’t. All I kept painting was that cheerleader, the same cheerleader that had been walking down that hallway, except now she was running away from shadows. And I painted Peter Petrelli again too, and lockers were flying at him while he held his arms in front of his disbelieving face. And two Asian guys were staring up at a Homecoming poster splattered with blood. I couldn’t shake the feeling that these were all somehow connected, but I couldn’t care about that. I had to find him. If I found him, maybe we could stop the bomb. I wasn’t exactly sure what an escaped convict and a heroin addict could accomplish together, but there had to be something. Why else would we have been given these powers?

It was destiny.



The cheerleader did mean something, after all. She was the key, the key to saving the city and stopping the bomb. Peter had saved her, presumably, while I had been whisked away to a rehabilitation center by some strange people that seemed to know all about my abilities. They’d fed me drugs so I could paint more of the cheerleader, but I can’t control what I paint while I’m high. If I could, I wouldn’t have been painting the cheerleader in the first place at all. I would’ve painted Him.

I didn’t know why I still had a fascination with this guy...I mean, clearly he wasn’t the answer to my problems. I hadn’t painted him at all since that one painting of him that I didn’t even have anymore. There was nothing this guy could do for me. I’d probably never meet him. But somehow, I still felt this sort of...kinship?...with him. I didn’t really know what it was, but I’m not exactly a Freudian analyst or anything.

I dreamt about him a lot while I was at rehab. They were sort of interspersed between dreams about that Eden girl and nightmares about apocalypses. I don’t remember exactly what happened in them; I would just wake up from the dreams feeling very peaceful and fulfilled.

I’m going to meet him someday. I just know it.



“What do you want, Isaac?”

Simone came down the stairs, her feet stamping each step heavily. I smoothed back my hair and attempted a smile.

“Hey.”

“What do you want, Isaac,” she repeated, her hands on her hips.

“D’you know what I’ve discovered now, Simone?” I asked, cautiously inching myself nearer to her.

“No, what,” she said, not seeming too interested.

“I’m clean,” I started.

“I know, you told me.”

“I wasn’t finished. I’m clean, and I can paint the future without the drugs, right? I thought it was like...like I couldn’t control what I painted, you know? Like it just sorta happened and I couldn’t control what I saw and what went on the canvas. But I’m thinking that maybe I can. If I could just think about what I want to see, that maybe it’ll...maybe I’ll see it.”

“So why don’t you?” She crossed her arms.

“I will. But I need to ask for a favor first.”

She sighed deeply. “I’m not sure I want to help you, Isaac.”

“Please. Just this once.” I touched her sleeve and gazed deeply into her eyes. “For old time’s sake.”

Her eyes looked conflicted, but she smirked resignedly and gave in. “What do you need?”

“I need that painting back.”

“Which one?”

“The one with the phasing prisoner. You know, the one where his foot was going through the wall? The Salvador Dali one? I need it back. It’s important.”

“I can’t give you that painting.”

I bit my fist. “Why not?”

“I sold it already. Mr. Linderman has it.”

I scoffed. “Linderman. Of course.” I backed away from Simone slowly and scratched my head, trying to figure out any possible way I could convince Linderman to give it back.

“Why do you need it?” Simone asked.

“Because,” I said, “I need to paint him.”

“Paint who?”

“The phasing man!” I cried in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? I need to paint him, find out what’s happening to him. Do you realize I know nothing about this guy except that he walks through walls and is a convict? I don’t know why he was in prison. I don’t know if he was guilty or innocent. I don’t even know what his name is, for God’s sake!”

“But why does it matter?” she said, and took several steps forward as though to get a closer look at my face. “With all of this crazy stuff that’s been going on—the cheerleader in Texas, this explosion you’ve painted—why do you care about some escaped convict?”

“He can walk through walls,” I said. “He’s like me.”

“You’ve met plenty of people who are ‘like you’,” Simone said, making quotation marks with her fingers. “What’s so special about this one?”

“I...I don’t know,” I admitted. “But something about him calls out to me. I feel...connected to him, somehow.”

She stared at me long and hard. “Something strange is happening to you, Isaac,” she said. “And it’s not just the paintings.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and started away.

“Simone!” I called after her.

She stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“I still love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“I know.” And she continued out the door.



I was in the future, that strange floaty zone where all of the colors flew and melded together incandescently. He was there...I had finally found him, but something was wrong, he was on the ground and a blonde woman was kneeling next to him (was that the woman I had painted with the suitcase full of money?) and there was another man on the floor, an old man, but he was dead and his brains were splattered over the place. It hadn’t been Sylar, though, it had been the phasing man, he had put his hand through the old man’s skull...but why? And there was a bullet-wound through the phasing man’s chest. He was dying. Blood...everywhere.

“D.L.,” the blonde woman sobbed. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” he croaked out, his voice deep and raspy.

“No,” I whispered. “You can’t die. You can’t...”



I blinked; I was back in the loft, and I was staring at the painting—an above angle showing the dead old man with a gun lying next to him and a hole in the back of his head, the blonde woman holding the phasing man (or D.L.) in her arms, and him...blood on his hands, bleeding...dying...dying on the hardwood floor.

I choked out an involuntary sob as I stumbled backwards, the paintbrush clattering down to the floor. How could he die? When would this happen? Was it even true? Or was it like the bomb—was it preventable? Could it be prevented? It had to be. He couldn’t just die like that. He couldn’t be in one of my first future paintings and have me obsessed with him and dreaming about him almost every night, and then, when I finally find him, just die. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t fair.

I had to contact him somehow. I had to warn him. But I still didn’t know anything about him. I didn’t even know what his last name was.

I had to keep painting. Find out more. Save him. And then we could stop the bomb. Together.



Simone and I were embracing on the rooftop, and her hair smelled like strawberries.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go out to dinner.”

“I...I don’t have a lot of cash,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s okay.” She patted my arm and pulled away. “It’ll be my treat.”

I smiled. “All right.”

We headed back downstairs to my loft, my arm flung around her shoulders.

“Uh—wait.” I stopped suddenly.

She looked at me quizzically. “What is it?”

“Did you...did you see anything else while you were down there? Besides the painting of you and me on the roof?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I grinned with relief. I guess I had put it away after all, then. “Never mind.”

She seemed suspicious, but didn’t say anything, and we made our way back into my apartment.

“I should get changed first,” I said, sweeping my hand over my slightly ratty clothes.

She nodded, and I grabbed some nicer clothes out of my drawer and headed to the bathroom to change.

I was in there for a grand total of about, oh, thirty seconds. When I came back out, Simone was looking through some paintings in the back.

My heartbeat started accelerating. “Um, Simone, we should—”

Too late. Her rifling fingers came to a screeching halt as she noticed the one I had finished painting about four hours ago.

“Isaac...” she said slowly, and pulled it out from the stack. “What the hell is this?”

It was a...well, a rather erotic painting of D.L. He was lying naked on a bedspread, blanket strategically hiding his...you know. He was looking at someone, but you couldn’t see who. He had rather nice physique, to tell you the truth. Very nice, in fact.

“Um, ah...” I stammered.

“This is the phasing man, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Y-yes.”

“So you painted this.”

“No! I mean, I did, but I was painting the future. I just painted what I saw, I didn’t do it, like, on my own or anything,” I said.

She didn’t look like she believed me. “You told me you can think about something and paint it. You were thinking about this, weren’t you? You were looking for it.”

“I...” Words failed me.

“Tell the truth, Isaac.”

“Why do you care, anyway?” I snarled, and flung my sweater on the ground. “We broke up. Or, you broke up with me. I don’t see why it matters to you.”

Simone looked hurt, and I felt bad for a second, but then she said, “You’re obsessed with this guy. It’s not healthy.”

“Not healthy? How is it not healthy?” I spat. “What the hell is unhealthy about it?”

“It’s not healthy because you’ve never even met this man and you’re painting these really sexually charged images of him and you can’t seem to stop thinking about him!” she exclaimed, and placed the painting on the ground roughly. “It’s either this D.L. guy, or the bomb, or finding Peter. You always have to be fixed on something. If it’s not heroin, then you’re addicted to something else!”

I felt strongly tempted to say “fuck you”, but I didn’t. “Addicted. I’m addicted. That’s new.”

“It’s not new, which is why I’m concerned,” she said, and grabbed me gently by the shoulders. “I care about you, Isaac.”

“I care about you too,” I said, “but if you’re going to come in here and make these crazy accusations...”

“It’s not crazy, Isaac,” she said softly. “And you know it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go to dinner tonight,” she said.

“I guess not.”



Simone is dead.

I try not to think about it too much.

They call it the “denial” stage of grief, or at least that’s what the guidance counselor told me when my father died.

I’ve been occupying myself by painting...just painting, pretty much all day, with very little rest or eating. Once in a while I’ll stop to go to the bathroom, or nibble on some granola bars, but other than that, I paint. Or I draw more of my comic. It’s busy work, it’s mindless, it keeps my mind focused on other things. I need that right now.

I have a world to save.



He came to me in a dream last night.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he whispered soothingly in my ear, and I shivered. “We’re all gonna be fine. I’m gonna take care of you, Isaac.”

He kissed my cheek, and we fell down on the covers.



I was trying to paint my future, for once—I wanted to see what would happen to me. I wanted to see me and D.L., together. Stopping the bomb. Saving the world. Being there for each other. Or me, saving him. Me, finding out his phone number and calling him to warn him. Something.

But no. I painted my own gruesome death at the hands of Sylar instead.

I rubbed my hands down over my face and collapsed onto the floor.

I can’t ever catch a goddamn break...



“It's all right. I finally know my part in all of this. To die here...with you. But not before I show them how to kill you...and stop the bomb. I finally get to be a hero.”

He just shook his head. He didn’t get it. Somehow, I thought he never would.

And in my last moments, I saw Simone—

I saw my parents—

And I saw him.