Curriculum Vitae

September 15th, 2007

New York University Medical Center

Locke had known what would happen once he came back from the Island. He's always known, deep down inside, that the paralysis would recur. That he'd lose his legs again.

Even while praying, even while begging, Dear God, dear whoever it is or whatever it is that's out there, oh God, oh for the love of God please let me keep this one thing, I can lose everything else, I can lose the life I had out there, but please God let me be able to walk.

Even while invoking a deity that he still called God but which in his mind's eye he saw as the Island, the lush and leafy Island of Miracles. He'd known.

But it was a necessary sacrifice. Necessary to save the Island-and for that, he would give anything. So he had returned and taken a new name, begun a new life, though it was old faces that he was seeking.

He'd ended up somewhere in New York, and had lain helpless by the side of the road, waiting for somebody to find him and call 911. He'd been taken to the hospital, but he was still waiting. Waiting and remembering.

November 1999

Somewhere in New York City

Locke didn't know what had made him take the trip.

All he knew was that he couldn't face going back to his dingy apartment for another weekend, couldn't face another evening watching Wheel of Fortune while eating a soggy, tasteless microwave dinner, couldn't face another hour of sitting with an incompetent government-employed therapist who would force him to talk about childhood and adolescent and adult experiences that he'd rather forget.

In fact, he wanted to forget everything that had happened to him in his entire sorry, useless, pathetic waste of a life. And he'd always wanted to see the Empire State Building. So he'd blown off his therapy session and bought the cheapest ticket available to New York City.

Several hours later, he'd bought a hot dog from a street vendor (it wasn't very good, but at least it wasn't in a white plastic tray) and was riding on the subway to Queens. He'd spent some time in the fancy neighborhoods in Manhattan, but they had just made him feel uncomfortable and out of place. And he'd felt choked and crowded by the tourists and shoppers hurrying along Park Avenue.

Eventually he'd ducked into the nearest subway station and set off for the first destination he could think of. So Queens it was, then. It was a more fitting environment for him, anyway.

Locke settled into his seat, trying to ignore the strange, sour smell that permeated the entire subway. In a few minutes he had slipped into another world, playing a game that he'd begun as an escape, a diversion, but which was rapidly becoming an addiction.

I think I lost him at the last station, he told himself, fingering a piece of paper that he'd left in his pocket. The mission must be completed at 1800 hrs today. They're relying on me to carry it through without a hitch.

He glanced around at his fellow passengers. One man standing near the door in a trench coat and hat caught his eye-a scarf was covering most of his face.

Impossible! I made sure that the changeover was undetectable. But still, I can't be too careful...

Locke came to himself with a start as he realized that they'd arrived at his stop. His fantasy had been so vivid, so real, that it was reality that seemed artificial: the fluorescent lights of the subway station, the voice from the speaker system announcing the next stop, the mysterious stranger in the trench coat and hat, now transformed into a harmless commuter wrapped up against the cold.

Locke shivered as he walked out into the sunshine.

Well, so what? he thought, as he strode along with his hands jammed in his pockets.

So what if I make Walter Mitty look confident and fulfilled? It's not like there's anything in my life worth thinking about, worth holding onto, worth coming back for. Reality doesn't have anything to offer me.

And his fantasies were so real, so vivid-so much so that he could feel his pulse quickening as he planned the next move in a decisive battle, hear the arrows singing through the air on a hunt, smell the rich dark earth under his feet as he stepped onto unexplored territory in a foreign land.

He'd taken to reading anything and everything he could find to furnish his imaginary exploits with little touches that would make them come alive, details that would give them greater authenticity. Sun Tzu's The Art of War, The Seven Kingdoms, reports of archaeological digs in Egypt and Mesopotamia that described fabulous treasures unearthed in the tombs of the pharaohs.

The information Locke had amassed allowed him to travel to England as a knight of King Arthur's court, or to Japan as a samurai invading Korea and China, or to the Soviet Union as a US government agent. Why should he settle for the life he had been given by a cruel and unjust fate, when he could have so much more?

When Locke finally slowed his pace, he found himself in a street lined with small shops. There was a furniture store across the road, between a used bookstore and a watchmaker. The peeling sign above the door showed John that the latter belonged to "Gray and Sons."

He looked down at his own watch, remembering that it had been running slow for the past few months. For a while he had considered fixing it himself, but in the end, he'd decided against it. None of the numerous reference books and magazine articles that now filled his apartment had any connection to scientific subjects unless they had a military application-he'd wanted to obliterate the memory of the teenage nerd who'd been recruited by Mittelos Bioscience, not encourage it.

Locke crossed the street and stood in front of Gray and Sons, hesitating before pushing the door open and walking in.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, he saw the young man with dark hair and glasses, stooping over a desk at the back of the room.

"I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Oh no, not at all. Please come in. I'm just finishing this up."

Locke watched as the other man went about his work, using tweezers to put together the pieces in a cuckoo clock's delicate mechanism, putting on some sort of elaborate brass magnifying apparatus for the final adjustments. His fingers worked rapidly, as if knowing by instinct exactly how to place each cog, each screw, until he was done.

"What can I do for you, Mr...?"

"Locke. I'm, er..." Now that he was here, his problem seemed ridiculously trivial. "My watch. It's been running a little slow."

"Let me take a look at that." The other man took the watch from Locke and held it up to his ear. "Ah, yes. I see."

He removed the back of the case and began studying the inner parts.

Locke spoke again, more out of a desire to interrupt the silence than anything else. "So...are you 'Sons'?"

"Excuse me?" The watchmaker looked up, one of his eyes appearing oddly magnified under his loupe.

"Sons. You know, on the door, it says 'Gray and Sons.' I was just wondering if you were the, er, 'Sons.' Or 'Son,' rather, since you're obviously a person. In the singular."

The other man took a long time to reply, and Locke wondered if he had offended him. He was just about to apologize when the watchmaker said, "Yes. This was my father's business."

He paused, before continuing, "My name is Gabriel."

His tone was almost defiant, as if insisting on the existence of his own name. Locke, however, was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the subtle change in the other man's demeanor.

"It must have been nice," he said. "Sharing that with your father."

He tried not to think about Anthony Cooper, his voice, the look in his eyes as he'd smirked at Locke and told him how he had been used, then tossed aside. "Growing up in his workshop."

"Oh yes. It was...nice." This time, Locke noticed the trace of bitterness in Gabriel Gray's voice.

"It was so easy. So...convenient, being born into a profession. Knowing exactly what it was that I was destined for."

John Locke started as he recognized the emotion in Gabriel's eyes: the frustration, the unsettled desires, the longing for something greater.

He wanted to grab Gabriel by the shoulders and tell him that it wasn't too late, that he was still young, so much younger than he, Locke. Young enough to start over, to search for his dreams, his true destiny. He wanted to make Gabriel promise him never to let life cheat him of what it owed him.

He stood there staring for several seconds before he realized that the other man was trying to give him back his watch.

"Here you go, I've fixed it." Gray's expression had been wiped clean of all feeling; he was once again the calm, efficient watchmaker. "It shouldn't trouble you again. There's no charge: it was just a small bit of work."

Locke opened his mouth to thank him, but instead found himself saying something quite different.

"In Korea, there is an old ceremony that many parents still carry out with their young children. They take the child to a fortune teller, where there is a large table covered with an array of items. These can vary from place to place, but there is usually a book, a set of writing instruments, a pile of brightly colored cloths and silk tassels, money, and dried beans, among other things."

"The child is placed in front of these objects, and it is given complete freedom to choose any of them without encouragement, guidance, or hindrance from its parents. It can choose anything it wants. And from its choices, the fortune teller outlines the child's destiny."

Locke noted that Gabriel was listening with rapt attention, his formerly pale skin flushed.

"Of course, nowadays this ceremony is just that-a ceremony. Nobody truly believes that a child's future can be decided by what toys they reach for. But...I like the idea of such a ritual. Of giving the child freedom to choose, without any criticism of their choices. It often takes place on the child's first birthday, but really, there's no reason why it can't be held at any other time."

Once he'd finished speaking, Locke stood fiddling with his watch, feeling foolish. Who was he to tell a complete stranger all of this? He sounded insane.

But when he looked up, he saw that Gabriel did not seem angry or contemptuous. He was staring at the surface of his workbench. Locke waited for him to speak, then turned to go.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why I said all that. I...I don't know. I didn't mean to imply that...if you're happy here, then that's great. It's just..."

"Just...don't let anyone tell you what you can't do."

May 2003

Tustin, California

"At your service, Colonel." Locke's boss smirked as he strode up to the desk and saluted smartly, clicking his heels together. He leaned forwards and whispered, "Mission accomplished, sir."

"Very funny, Randy." Locke resisted the impulse to staple the other man's hand to the desk and tried to concentrate on his work.

"Come on, John, where's your sense of humor?" Randy rapped out a quick beat on the top of the cubicle wall.

"I was only trying to join in your little game. It is just a game, isn't it? Honestly, sometimes I think you believe your own lies. Are you sure you're not going a little, you know?" He tapped his forehead with one finger.

"Just leave me alone, Randy. I'm trying to work," said Locke, through gritted teeth. If the jerk cracked one more joke he was going to grab him by his overly moussed head and put it through the computer monitor, boss or no boss.

"All right, all right, keep your hair on. So to speak. Just having a little fun."

Locke turned back to his work, trying to ignore the muscle he could feel twitching under his left eye. At that moment, the phone on his desk rang.

Locke stared at it as if he'd never seen it before. His phone never rang. Sometimes he used it to call Sam and set up reconnaissance missions and raids. But really, nobody found it necessary to contact an office drone.

When the phone continued to ring, he answered it. "Hello?"

"Mr. Locke? Mr. John Locke?" The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

"Speaking."

"Mr. Locke, my name is Bob Bishop. I am a representative of Primatech Paper Company. Perhaps you've heard of us?"

Locke's first impulse was to reply that there were hundreds of paper companies in America, and even he wasn't desperate enough to start researching all of them and committing their names to memory.

However, he just said, "No. Can't say that I have."

"That's quite all right. I'm calling because we are very interested in becoming a supplier for the company where you work. In addition to paper we also produce cardboard in a variety of weights, colors, and thicknesses that would be ideal for making boxes. Now-"

Locke interrupted the other man before he could continue. "Look, I think you've made a mistake. I'm just the collections supervisor. I don't handle supplies or clients or anything like that. You probably want to speak to my boss."

"Oh no, Mr. Locke. We wanted very specifically to speak to you. We chose you because you have some very special qualifications that make you an ideal fit for us."

Locke thought he now knew what he was dealing with. "That's funny. That's very funny. Whoever you are, I hope you got a kick out of this, because I sure did. Ha ha ha."

"This isn't a prank call, Mr. Locke. If you change your mind, call us. We're in the Yellow Pages." And with that, Bob Bishop rang off.

Locke was sitting in front of the TV watching Wheel of Fortune when he changed his mind.

To be honest, he'd thought about calling more than once. He'd looked up the number, even begun dialing, only to stop at the last minute. What was the point? He turned up the volume, trying to drown out his own thoughts.

"Date with Destiny?"

"That's right!"

Locke stared at the TV. The word was spelled out on the screen in giant block capitals. D-E-S-T-I-N-Y.

Before he knew it, he'd picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang only once before someone picked up.

He almost chickened out again the next day, while waiting for Bob Bishop to come to his apartment, while shaking his hand and going through the necessary introductions, while waiting for the other man to say something. He didn't know what he'd expected Bob to look like, but he found himself being simultaneously reassured by the other man's kindly air and soothing voice, and unsettled by his cold eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses.

After a few minutes spent fussing over tea and small talk, Bob got down to business. And listening to him, Locke started to doubt the other man's sanity. He let Bob speak for a while before breaking in.

"I don't know who you think you are, but I can't believe you wasted my time with this nonsense. Get out of my house."

"John." Bob didn't sound surprised or offended, only gently sorrowful. "I thought you would have more faith than this. I thought that you would be more receptive to the miraculous."

"There's no such thing as miracles." Locke felt himself getting more and more angry.

Look at me, he wanted to say. Look at my life. I'm in a wheelchair. Why the hell would I have faith in anything?

And then it happened.

For a second Locke thought he'd gone insane. But no, he'd seen it with his own eyes. A woman had just walked into the room through the wall of the apartment. Locke stared, then blinked, then stared again. Then he turned back to Bob.

"John, meet Louise. Louise, this is John Locke."

For the next few minutes he listened spellbound as Bob told him about the Company, about the work they did, about the work that they wanted him, John Locke, to be a part of. He couldn't believe it. There were people out there in the world, special people, extraordinary people, gifted with abilities that until now he'd thought only existed in fantasies and comic books.

And for one mad, joyous minute, Locke believed that he was one of them. He had to be. There was no other reason why Bob would have recruited him, no other reason why the Company had sought him out.

That is, until Bob mentioned the Company policy of pairing 'specials' with 'non-specials,' and suggested that Locke be paired with Louise.

"So I'm not one of them. I'm a 'non-special.'"

"I wouldn't place too much emphasis on the terminology, John. The important thing is that you are perfect for this job. You might not be suited for field work, but when it comes to recruiting new members, and screening people we bring in-"

"Oh, to hell with that. I should have known. I should have known this was coming. You can take your offer and leave. I'm not interested."

Locke knew that he was working himself up into a rage, but he didn't care.

"What, you thought I'd leap at the chance to be around people all day who are special, who do have gifts? Who've won the genetic lottery? You thought I'd enjoy working in another office, watching life pass me by? Forget it. Just go."

Bob sighed and got up to leave. "I'm disappointed in you, John."

"Story of my life."

When Locke woke up that afternoon, with a splitting headache and no memory of the past 24 hours, he assumed that he had taken too many antidepressants the day before.

A part of him wished that he'd taken enough to kill himself.

Another part whispered that he'd never have the courage to do it.

September 16th, 2007

New York University Medical Center

Locke had been moved out of the ER and into recovery, where he would go through rehab before being released. The entire routine was depressingly familiar, but he also felt exultant. At least he had chosen this. He had chosen this fate, gone into it with his eyes open. And he had a goal, a sense of purpose.

It would be a week or two before he could visit Jack and the others, but he could wait. He leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing the Island and recalling all the secrets that it had yielded to him. He could save it. He would save it.

Locke turned his head as he heard the door click open. He saw a young man enter the room, smiling as he brushed the dark hair out of his eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Bentham," he said. "It's nice to meet you. My name's Peter Petrelli. I'm your new nurse."