A man kneels in the rubble of a broken dream, watching the waves roll in over the horizon. It's long past dawn now, and he should have left a while ago. He has places to be, missions to complete. After all, who else is left to carry them out now?

There isn't much left of the place this used to be, just singed pieces of furniture and the crumbling foundation surrounding him. Big pieces, like the wreckages of their capsules, have long since been moved to the museum a few miles away, a whole building dedicated to commemorating the inventiveness, the ingenuity, the lives lost. People go there to learn, to remember.

People come here to grieve.

There's a plaque raised above the rubble of the rest of it, the only thing unbroken and clean. Etched into stone are his family members' names, immortalized in marble and yet gone forever. Surrounding the plaque lay flowers, cards, crosses and wreaths left by fans and supporters.

It's weird to think about how swiftly they went from nobodies, to criminals, to heroes, to gone.

The man kneels down in the dirt and the dust and reaches for a slab of stone, hefting it with minimal effort. Beneath he finds a single rotted-out throw pillow and, miraculously, an old photo frame.

It's cracked and covered in grime, but he wipes his sleeve over the surface and he can see the image. There they all are- Tasha, Mr. Davenport, himself and his siblings. He runs a thumb over Bree's face, Chase's, Leo's.

Bree, who was always so fast until the one time she needed to be. Chase, who in his haste to protect his family with a force field, never made it out of the house. And Leo, brave, barely bionic Leo, who tried so hard to stay positive, up until the last moment when he realized none of them would survive.

Well. Except him, of course, because fate is cruel and bionic durability is infallible. The sole survivor of the explosion that ended his family, the man can't remember the last good day he had. A teardrop falls and splats onto the photograph in his hand, and he carefully wipes it away, smearing some grime away from the picture. He tucks the photograph carefully into an inner pocket of his jacket, and then he hears the footsteps behind him.

A woman approaches him, clutching her purse in one hand and a Mission Creek guidebook in the other. "Excuse me, sir?" she says. "Those bionic teen heroes… the ones from TV, you know. So sad what happened to them, my nephew cried for a week…"

It was a national tragedy. The heroes who had just been introduced to the world were suddenly ripped from it, along with their personable parents and lovable little stepbrother. The man remember having to endure so many weeks of news broadcasts about it, wincing every time he heard his own name attached to the modifier, "last of the bionic super siblings."

"See," the woman continues, "I was just at that museum about them and I read that they turned the kids' old home into a memorial for them, for their bravery. Well, what was left of the old home." She fidgets with her purse. The man says nothing. "Well, I think I got turned around… I was just wondering, um, could you point me in the direction of the old Davenport mansion?"

The man looks at her.

"Ma'am," he says, "you're standing in it."