Evolution and the Cockroach

"I could have been a flood or a tornado. There's really no difference actually." - Sylar

Mohinder waited patiently, leaning back against his desk while students lazily filtered into the classroom. Once the scraping of chairs and the chorus of gossiping voices had subsided, the geneticist strolled over to his chalkboard and rolled a white stick between his fingers. "Good morning. Today," he turned his back to the sea of ambitious faces, scrawling out the nature of their lesson onto the plaque, "we will be continuing our discussion on the nature of evolution." Dusting off the chalk residue from his hand onto the leg of his jeans, Mohinder turned back around revealing the words "Evolution and the Cockroach" with a tidy line drawn beneath them for emphasis. Pens and pads of paper were retrieved throughout the room for note taking.

"Evolution is a curious thing. There is no real rhyme or reason behind it. No true method to the madness or great plan that comes together. Not even a diabolical scheme meant to manipulate the lives of unassuming men and women the world over. What evolution is, is a product of flaw in a system where millions of strands of genetic code are in a constant state of translation and replication. Any single amino acid misinterpreted carries with it the potential for mutation. Such changes in our most basic of foundations most often go unnoticed, insignificant, but on occasion they result in a mutatio that over time proves beneficial and worthy of reproduction; such as the species of white butterfly that becomes black in order to better take advantage of natural camouflage from predators that would otherwise destroy their population. Or perhaps, it may also lead to the rise of a more adequate pestilence; a creature capable of culling a herd of smarter, stronger, and faster prey in a pristine example of Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection. What evolution is, is a game of probability and circumstantial chance where winners are simply chosen at indiscriminate random.

"In the case of the cockroach, a creature that has remained fundamentally the same for millions of years, adaptation has come slowly because a certain level of perfection had already been reached. The cockroach is a natural in the art of deception; remaining hidden in the darkness, and lurking in corners where other beings moving around them are caught unaware of their presence until it is already too late. They come equipped with an unassuming form that gives no indication of the strength they wield allowing them to remain unnoticed by most creatures. And, if you have ever attempted to kill a cockroach then you are already aware that the task is much more difficult than it should be." A few sparse chuckles of agreement echoed from the back of the classroom causing Mohinder to smile quietly to himself. The eager young men and women before him had no idea just how hard it could be to rid themselves of a parasite once it had latched on, refusing out of pure, malignant obstinance to let go after obtaining what it wanted.

"The cockroach is preternaturally resilient, able to survive nearly all manner of bodily harm, up to and including decapitation. They have even been found to be immune to the effects of radiation, and capable of withstanding the forces of a nuclear fall out that would kill any other being.

"However, these creatures are still subject to all of the same forces that dictate habit, their very nature seeming to follow the "if it isn't broken, don't fix it" philosophy. A cockroach will only ever breed another cockroach, and they will only ever serve one destructive function. Generation after generation every succeeding cockroach will resemble and re-enact the actions of their predecessor in a form of manifest destiny.

"But the question I submit to you today is, what happens when the cockroach does eventually evolve? What happens when a creature like that does inevitably encounter the sort of mutation that will drive their species forward, adapting and overcoming; possibly surpassing the growth of other species around them as their ancestors once did?"

"They would become unstoppable," answered an enthusiastic voice from the back row.

"Like a... super roach," a girl from his left added with a disgusted look on her face. All around the room students perked up from their note taking to witness Mohinder's disconnected nod of agreement. There was a distanced look in the doctor's eyes that distributed chills equally amongst the throng of students.

"After years of research in this particular area of study it has been discovered that this kind of rapid advancement is not only possible, but there appears to be a determinable cause to this effect. A remedial sort of activation switch." Mohinder once again took up his bit of chalk to write out the word "adrenaline" beneath his subject. Gazes and silently mouthed questions met him when Mohinder turned back to face them, carefully locking his hands behind his back so that the nervous tremors might go unnoticed.

"Fight or flight," the voice from the back explained, earning him thoughtful replies of "Oh" and "Ah".

"Precisely," the teacher affirmed. "When an individual is found to contain the potential for certain exceptional abilities or drastic mutations, they may also go without manifestation until an outer source triggers their use. One seemingly effective method of releasing this potential is none other than our most primitive survival mechanism."

"So... when a cockroach has a mutation and is faced with a kind of life or death situation, adrenaline floods their system triggering the use of a defensive tool they didn't have before?" A boy from the front row glanced up with knitted brows, his pen poised to quickly jot down any following information of importance.

"Something like that," Mohinder chuckled darkly. "An ability may also have..." he sighed heavily, rubbing the space between his eyes where the tension focused, "offensive applications."

"Just how bad would it have to be to create a scenario like this?"

"Traumatic," the doctor answered without hesitation. "We'll call this subject, Patient Zero."

1980

Gabriel Gray was an average, easily ignored four-year-old boy. His world consisted of toy cars that he moved over surfaces with vroom noises of his own creation, high hopes for a rare sugary treat, and a boundless imagination typical of young children. In his dreams he could be anything or anyone he wanted to be, a fire fighter, an astronaut, or President of the United States. The sky couldn't even serve as a limit.

His father was a cold and distant man, frequently away from the home, but his mother was a warm and loving soul with a wide, shining smile that beamed affection for her little angel. While Gabriel came in a physically weak, sometimes sickly package with need for thick eyeglasses to cure his poor sense of sight, and held a quick draw temper that could flare without warning or provocation usually resulting in tears of frustration, his mother showered him with generous amounts of love. Never mind his social inadequacies, timid demeanor, and general air of unexceptionalism, she fueled his ambitions and chased away his nightmares like any good mother would do.

There would come a fearful day when she could no longer shelter her baby from the world outside, from schoolyard bullies, ignorant teachers that wouldn't recognize his potential and urge Gabriel to remain firmly grounded, snobbish girls that would laugh cruelly and overlook his advances, even abuse at the hands of his own father. But until that day came she would faithfully serve as the focal point that his universe revolved around. Unfortunately for young Gabriel, that day would come too soon.

After a long drive in the summer heat, he was content to sit quietly at his table in the little air-conditioned diner with his toy car and frosty glass of milkshake while his father talked to the couple across the way. An indescribable sense of foreboding shadowed the family outing when his father called him over to the strange people with a false smile. He never smiled, and the sudden display of teeth came across as slightly menacing. In fear of a thrashing if he disobeyed the command though, Gabriel meekly came to his father's side only to be promptly shoved into the eager hands of a moony woman he didn't recognize.

"This is your mother now," his father dictated gruffly before turning on his heel and hastily exiting the diner. Gabriel looked up into the face of the woman cooing over him, announcing that he was her special little angel. She wasn't his mother. She couldn't be. The stranger had never held his hand when crossing the street, tickled him into a bout of hysterics, or cut the crusts from his sandwiches. She had never hummed him a lullaby, read him a story in silly voices, magically found missing shoes, or repaired a broken bridge of his glasses. She had never sheltered him from the violence of a father that would randomly wander home under the effects of some strange intoxicant that would darken his eyes and stir him into an excitable state of deranged glee. One singular thought possessed his fragile four-year-old mind. Gabriel wanted his mommy.

"Where's Gabriel?" she had the nerve to ask dreamily, coming out of an unnaturally induced nap at the sound of the car door slamming. Samson huffed out his agitation and brought the engine roaring into life without the use of an ignition key. Gabriel's mother worriedly sat up and looked over the back of her seat into the rear passenger area. Only the glare of sunlight gleaming off the surface of the leather seat greeted her inspection. Frantic as her husband began to pull out of the lot she inquired again, "Where's Gabriel?"

"We needed the money," was the only response she acquired.

Dread pooled in the depths of her stomach. "No!" she cried out, gripping the door release in an attempt to escape the vehicle, but the latch failed, the door being sealed shut by an invisible force. She cried out for her son, desperate to have him safely in her arms.

Gabriel ran out of the diner and trotted after his parents' car as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. He cried out for his mother witnessing an argument break out between his father and her. And then a long streak of blood splattered against the back window in time with the flick of his father's wrist. The body, a lifeless shell that had once housed his mother, was unceremoniously dumped from the car to flop onto the ground before being covered in a fine film of dust that was kicked up from the skidding tires of the car screeching away.

"Mommy?" Crimson droplets stained the dirt beneath spilled raven locks from the gaping rip in her forehead. "Mommy?" His tiny heart, previously thundering in his chest with enough force to threaten breaking through could have stopped completely and none would have noticed. Time itself could have stopped in that moment; a single broken tear rolling down his flushed cheek. "Mommy?"

The focus of his world was gone, obliterated by the power of one cruel thought. His universe spiraled out of control, pulsating in rhythm with the fragmentation of his existence, and then fell back into place like pieces of a puzzle that would take years to fully grasp. But little Gabriel had inherited nothing from his father if not a built-in state of resilience. In that moment that the surge of adrenaline flowed throughout his vascular system, experiencing a sense of potent fear, what may have only been potential before became a reality. A sleeping beast was awakened within; strands of genetic code unfurling in his veins, morphing and mutating to intuitively adapt. Self-preservation keenly suspended the immediate impact of the trauma, blocking out events to circumvent psychological damage. Hurt though he may have been, from that moment on Gabriel could never really be broken again. Instinct would always preserve him in one way or another. Hands took control of his narrow shoulders to steer him away from the wreckage. Mumbled voices drifted into his ears from some far away place. "Oh my God..." "Someone call the police." "We have to get out of here. Hurry." "He's gone into shock."

Hours later Gabriel sat quietly at a kitchen table with a red crayon scribbling over the blank pages of paper splayed out before him alongside a forgotten sandwich that was conspicuously missing its crusts. The gentle hum of electricity flowing through the refrigerator dissipated with a barely audible clinking sound, disturbing his stick figure reverie. Gabriel glanced up at the appliance, nudging his glasses back onto his nose, and squinted at the source of nuisance. He jumped down from his chair and proceeded to inspect the problem; studying the back of the refrigerator intently and running his fingers over the exposed mechanical portions. Mental images of internal parts swirled in his imagination, fitting together and forming an understanding of function.

"Oh, darn. Hunny, the refrigerator has gone out again," Virginia called out after entering the kitchen and discovering her newly adopted son's curiosity.

"I can fix it for you, Mommy," he smiled back at her.

"The instinct for survival is incredibly powerful and may manifest in any number of ways," Mohinder noted for his class. "And, as with the instinctual drive of certain... evolutionary imperatives," he cleared his throat stressfully, "may also coincide with adverse effects."

"Dr. Suresh, I'm not sure that I understand something. How would a cockroach be able to recognize a traumatic event that way? How could a bug even use a fight or flight response? I mean, it's not like they think the way a human does or anything."

"This is true. They are quite different from the rest of us," Mohinder nodded knowingly. "But the answers of that nature are almost always capable of surprising us."

"Of course," piped up another female student from somewhere in the middle of the classroom, "this is all assuming that this is even a real possibility. It's only theory after all."

"Yes," Mohinder smiled. "Assuming that it's real." Behind his back he made a white knuckled fist causing the tendons of his forearm to constrict with inhuman strength. "I once postulated that if God were a perfect being -"

"Then God would be a cockroach," the voice from the back finished his thought.

A bell signaling the end of the class period rang out from the hall. Students responsively collected their belongings and filtered back out of the educational facility much the same as they had previously entered. Though one lone student remained in the far row of the room, unmoved, with a sarcastic smirk curling the side of his mouth. "Sylar," Mohinder rumbled through gritted teeth, allowing his pleasant facade to drop.

"Dr. Suresh," the outspoken student answered back, also falling out of his guise. "That was quite an informative lecture. But do you really believe that this 'Patient Zero' is just some kind of cosmic 'oops'? Maybe it's just destiny."

"I refuse to believe that destiny could create such evil."

"A necessary evil," Sylar replied with a cruel smile. "The herd has to be culled and all."

The end.