"What do I have to say, agents? What do I have to say about the death of the one and only friend I have in this world? What is there to say? Nothing that will change that fact. Nothing that will alter the knowledge that I hold, that I hide, even from myself—especially from myself—deep inside, way down deep inside, where my wounded heart still beats; the knowledge that Dr Radovic wasn't really my friend. That he was merely a man who tolerated my company, for the benefits it would bring. That I was naive enough, lonely enough—desperate enough—to see that as friendship.
"I hoped if I could study enough, if I could theorise enough, achieve enough, discover enough, if only I could show my worth, then maybe, just maybe, I could turn that tolerance into something more. That I could turn my teacher, my mentor—my tormentor—into my friend. Perhaps eventually I may have succeeded; now I will never know.
"Loneliness is a blight, Agent Fields—a curse that has stalked me all my life. A curse I would not wish upon any soul. I tell you this not to excuse my actions, nor to justify them. Merely to perhaps make them a little more understandable.
"So, on the matters of friendship, of relationships, of...love? On those matters I have very little to say. Much I would have liked to learn, but sadly, little to say.
"I could speak of those few fields in which I do have some knowledge. The vanishingly small number of areas in which I have some actual experience. Science. Physics. The innumerable, incomprehensible wonders of the quantum world—incomprehensible to most, at least. But I fear, agents, in discussing those matters, I would be wasting my diminishing breath.
"Instead, I will speak to you of stories. Of fantasies. Fairy tales, if you will. Oh yes, well may you roll your eyes. I have seen that look before. That look—and all it signifies—is why I have worked alone, for most of my career. It is why my papers lack co-authors. It is why at conferences, my colleagues turn away. And it is why, despite the significance of my achievements, I am a largely a pariah in the scientific world.
"And it is why I treasured my relationship with Dr Radovic. Despite what you may think, I was not blind to his flaws. I knew he was ruthless, that he was ambitious, that he hungered for power. I knew he valued my knowledge rather than my friendship. I knew he was not a good man.
"These things I knew, as much as I may have denied the knowledge to myself. But in a sea of solitude, who can blame a drowning man for clutching at any straw? Dr Radovic listened to me. He encouraged me. Most of all, he spent time with me. Unless you have been truly lonely, agents, you cannot know what that means.
"For all that, even he did not grasp the true significance of stories. Try as I might, I could not convince him of their importance, could not make him see their value. To him, they were nothing more than fatuous nonsense, mere fripperies, childish distractions from what he considered more vital matters. He saw my fixation on fairy tales, my obsession with fables and fantasies, my fascination with myths and legends, as a hindrance to our work. He felt my time, my attention, my...my genius would be better spent elsewhere. For all his brilliance—and despite his flaws, he was brilliant—Dr Radovic could not see how wrong he was.
"I have always loved stories, agents. Always. My earliest memories are of my mother reading to me as a very small child. Grimm's Fairy Tales, The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Andersen; it didn't matter which, I loved them all. A loner even then, I was always far happier in the pages of a book, lost in the forests of Narnia, falling down the rabbit-hole or peering through the looking-glass, rather than asthmatically running about on the playing fields of my youth. My reserved nature, my timid soul—they thrilled to the daring feats of heroes, the dastardly deeds of villains, and the travails of those caught between.
"I notice you seem rather anxious, agents. The portal has certainly grown, hasn't it? It can't be too long before it envelops us all. Of course, given my current condition, that's of rather more concern to you than it is to me. It's really quite remarkable the sense of calm imminent death brings one. I could almost recommend it—if not for the imminent death part, of course. In any case, since you were so kind as to ask me what I had to say, I believe I'll finish my little speech. Oh, don't look so glum. Never fear, I shall be brief. Well, brief-ish. Now, where was I?
"Oh, yes. Tell me agents, did you know the key components of many stories are shared across different civilisations? Even those which have had no previous contact? Did you know there is a Persian Cinderella, a Chinese Little Red Riding Hood, a Roman Snow White? That long before the tale of Noah, the Babylonians told stories of a flood, of an ark and of its cargo of animal refugees? That Japanese storytellers had their own hero of superhuman strength, millennia before DC or Marvel existed? Time and again, across continents, across countries, across cultures, similar concepts, similar themes, similar stories have arisen, over and over.
"Why is this so, agents? Coincidence? A reflection of the inherent constancy of of human nature? I must admit, I gave the matter little thought. Little thought, that is, until my research led me to a particular interpretation of quantum physics. A fiendishly complicated, highly controversial interpretation. An interpretation known as the many-worlds theory.
"Infinite universes, agents. Infinite possibilities. The existence of all possible pasts and all possible futures. I must admit, the theory held a powerful appeal for me. After all, my own past had not been a particularly happy one, and quite frankly, my future held little prospect of being any different.
"The mathematics of the theory were undeniable, as much as many of my peers felt otherwise. These other universes, these other worlds were real; I was sure of it. And to access them, I simply had to find the right key. The correct resonance. The crucial commonality with which to synchronise the probability waveforms and bridge the interuniversal divide.
"For years I searched. For years I strove. And for years I failed. Until, late one night, toiling fruitlessly away in my lab, an idea occurred to me. A crazy idea. A ridiculous, preposterous idea. An idea I would have ignored, dismissed and discarded out of hand, were I not so desperate for a breakthrough.
"Stories, agents. My idea was stories. If they could be shared across cultures, then why not across universes? There had to be some reason for their persistence, their resonance, for their constant replication. What if the reason was that stories are somehow inherent? That stories are an elemental, core component of creation? What if stories unite us all?
"And if so, could stories provide me with my key to the multiverse? After all, what is a story, if not a journey to another world? And the answer, quite simply, was yes. This was the critical factor that my peers, that Dr Radovic, could not give credence to, could just not bring themselves to comprehend. That far from being trivial, far from being incidental, stories are fundamental. Stories could indeed provide me with my key. Stories did provide me with my key. And here we are.
"I know there have been wrong turns on my part, agents. Poor decisions. Indecision and weakness. It's all quite clear with the benefit of hindsight. I am not an evil man, yet I have allowed evil to be done. I allowed my own base needs, my longing for companionship, to taint my actions. So I cannot in good conscience argue that I do not deserve my fate.
"And yet, I find myself wondering, does this world deserve any better? This world of criminals and con-men, of fashionistas and fascists, of science-deniers and flat-earthers and environmental vandals? This world which has been so unkind to me, which has so grudgingly granted me so little, and which has with ruthless, remorseless consistency crushed each and every one of my hopes and dreams? This world to which I owe nothing? This world which barely knows I exist?
"Perhaps it is time for that to change. Time for Frank Feathersone to make his mark on the world, before he leaves it. Or indeed, before it leaves him—ha-ha. Perhaps that would be a fitting end to my story, agents. After all, have I not become the villain of this little tale? Why should I not wreak my revenge?
"At any rate, it is time to decide. The portal draws near, my vision grows dim. The fate of the world is in my hands, agents. And to think, my father always told me I wouldn't amount to anything. What's it to be, agents? What's it to be?"
Peregrine placed a gentle hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Frank, you know the answer to that."
Breathing shallow, features waxy, Featherstone appeared to consider for a moment. Finally, with a faint smile, he spoke. "I do, Agent Peregrine. I do. The code...the code is, five-three-one"—he paused, and for a long few seconds, the agents thought he may have breathed his last, until, with a long shuddering breath, he continued—"eight-zero-zero-eight."
Tearing his eyes away from the edge of the portal, now mere metres away, Fields scrabbled for the phone in the pocket of the stricken man's lab coat. In desperation, he stabbed at the home button. He stabbed again. Slowly, eyes wide, he turned to Peregrine.
"Flat!" He held up the little device, its screen emblazoned with a cheery little cartoon battery symbol, a symbol indeed distressingly, undeniably empty. "The bloody, stupid thing is completely flat!"
Weakly, the scientist turned his head towards Fields. "Oh dear. My apologies. I'm forever forgetting to...to...charge..the...wretched...thing." And then, with that final, emphatic act of dumb-arsery, Frank Featherstone—incomparable genius, ineffable idiot, incompetent wooer, and inveterate lover of stories—breathed no more.