"I remember why this is familiar. They're harmonic rods. Like Belly and I used to use to help objects cross between universes. And this was found in their Olivia's bag?" says Walter, and just as it looks like Peter is starting to figure something out -- did they forget she was going to be trying to cross back? -- the ground rumbles and shakes and the paddywagon rocks from side to side.
Peter draws his gun and approaches the back (hilariously, there's a cop extra in the background chatting away with someone like nothing just happened), and opens the door. He's shocked, and then tries to stop Broyles from seeing what's there. Broyles holds up for a moment, just long enough for me to think, "What exactly does Peter think Broyles might see that he hasn't seen as part of his work -- ohhhhh."
Broyles pushes past Peter to look in the back, and the horror registers on his face just before we see it: a mannequin that kinda looks like Broyles, scorched and missing limbs and very, very dead. Obvious phoniness of the dummy aside, quite the shocker. Nicely done. Thus endeth Col. Broyles, unfortunately.
Back over to the other side where Fauxlivia's arriving for work, accosted by Lincoln Lee to show off his now-scar-free and pain-free face: "It's like nothing ever happened." "Just like nothing ever happened," agrees Fauxlivia. Dialogue that works on so many levels! Two, I suppose!
Bad-Astrid comes over, sounding very worried as she asks if either of them have seen Col. Broyles, because he's late to work this morning. "Have you tried calling him?" asks Lee, and I swear I don't know why Bad-Astrid didn't take his head off for asking such an insulting question, but she sorta-calmly says that she tried calling him at home as well, but his wife said he didn't come home last night, which is very unlike him. Concern clouds Lee's face, and Fauxlivia stares up into Col. Broyles' empty office, looking like she doesn't know what happened but thinks something -- something not very good -- did.
Over here, Broyles studies his own doppelganger's body. Maybe contemplating using it to fake his own death over here? Then he closes the body's eyes, which you'd think would have been done by now.
Elsewhere, the owner of Typeset Antiques -- was he really not arrested or anything? -- is in some dark room lined with books and filing cabinets, with a man in a sweater vest readying a massive syringe. The shopkeep nervously rambles on about how he's never been a fan of needles, or doctors, or hospitals, because when you're sick as a kid, you come to hate them all.