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sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:30 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:30 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter One
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter One: Facing the Firestorm
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: A new side of Claude, a new family for Claire, a new job for Jessica, and a New York for Ando.
Notes: So, I decided, I'm boycotting the hiatus. I figure the only way to actually boycott a lack is to fill that lack with substance, and I'm blocked on my other writing. THUS. This fanfic picks up where episode eighteen left off, and will continue until the hiatus returns and we see how many of my wild and crazy theories come true. I'm asking your indulgence in a couple of things, and I know that -- but if you've read my fic before you know I can make things work when I get the chance. Believe me -- I plan to. *grins*
Warnings: Some very mild drug use in early chapters. In later chapters, graphic imagery (text and visual) of violent suicide.
Originally posted 3.10.07
Also available at AO3.
CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
One of his other students, years before Petrelli came along, asked Claude why he was such a shallow, petty thief. He could walk into a bank and steal millions, she said, enough to keep him fat and happy on a tropical island for the rest of his life. Why steal gloves from yuppies on the subway?
"I don't want to be fat and happy," he'd answered. "You get complacent, your teeth get dull, your claws fall off. I need my teeth and claws."
"Why?" she'd asked.
That was really the moment she'd failed, and if he'd been paying attention he'd have known it. He could have let her alone, told her that her powers weren't that important, sent her off before she committed to something she hadn't the brains to follow through on. If he'd noticed at that moment, there would have been no need to put her to the test, the sort of test he'd been putting Petrelli to when he threw him off the roof. Well, what was done was done -- she'd died, he hadn't.
Claude didn't tell his student why, but if he had been able to -- if he'd been able to voice that fear -- he would have said that he needed his teeth and claws for this moment. He'd known it would come sooner or later.
The moment when the Company would pick up his trail again.
His first instinct was to go to a bar and drink himself unconscious, but that was a bad one. Instead, he went to the busiest part of the city and started picking pockets, stockpiling cash. He selected a man who looked reasonably like him and took his driver's licence too. There were many places an invisible man could go without needing to present identification, but it never hurt to have a backup plan.
The problem with making the moral decision, seven years ago, was that now he had a few more moral decisions to make before he left town. He couldn't just bunk. He had responsibilities. Otherwise that sacrifice, losing not only his comfortable life but his friends and his partner, all that was pointless.
First and foremost were the pigeons. Bennett knew him well enough to put up pickets around the building in case he came back for them, and Bennett was just enough of a bastard to let them starve in their cages. Claude was too, if it came to a choice between him and a bunch of birds, but the pigeons were also important -- they weren't the extensive laboratories that the Company kept, but in their own humble way they were his experiment, his method of groping towards understanding in the darkness. Besides, they'd never hurt anyone.
He watched the building for nearly a day, keeping well back, staying among other people so that he wouldn't draw attention. There was a man posted on the roof, one near every door, and two on the fire escape. All of them had those blasted thermographic goggles.
Claude circled around to the blind face of the building, the face with no back door and no fire escape. It was a sheer thirty-story climb, and there wasn't even access to the rooftop patio from that direction, but it did have the advantage of surprise.
Slowly, with great care, Claude stepped up to the building and Disappeared. When there was no reaction from any hidden spy in the area, he concentrated and felt the same old rush as his feet lifted off the ground.
There were advantages to being an Empath.
One was that you didn't have to tell anyone.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
Claire sat at Peter Petrelli's kitchen table while his mother -- her grandmother -- made cocoa.
"It was a good plan," the Haitian said to her, his hands folded calmly in front of him on the table. He was so still, disturbingly still, as if he didn't even know the meaning of the word fidget.
Claire did. She fiddled with the edge of her shirt and crossed and re-crossed her legs nervously.
"Don't tell her that, you'll only encourage her," Claire's grandmother said. Odd to think of it that way; my grandmother. This strange dark-haired woman doing something complicated at the stove.
"It showed forethought and ability," the Haitian replied. "Not enough forethought, but some."
"Which is his way of saying you should have known the first place he would go after you disappeared would be my son's apartment," her grandmother said. "So you see, he's not exactly paying you a compliment."
"How long have you known about me?" Claire asked softly.
"Since you were born. Properly speaking, a little before."
"You knew I was alive?"
Mrs. Petrelli took a pan of milk off the stove and set it on a trivet. She added two spoonfuls of dark powder from a tin box nearby and began to whisk.
"My dear, there are moment in your life when people will condescend to you for your own good. Try to identify them and be content; this is one of them. The less you know about what I know, the better for you at this point," she said.
"Peter is my uncle," Claire said, struggling for understanding. She was oddly chagrined. She liked Peter. Like liked him. And he was her uncle, and that was kind of gross, wasn't it?
"Yes, dear." Her grandmother shook in various spices from a rack of bottles on the kitchen counter. "He does keep a well-stocked kitchen. Such a relief to have tidy children."
She poured the concoction into three mugs and set them down on the table. Claire sipped one quietly.
"You can have some cocoa and then go straight to bed. We'll decide the rest in the morning," her grandmother declared.
Claire had the oddest sensation that when she finally did meet her biological father, she was going to understand him a lot better for having met her grandmother first.
***
CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
He left the guard on the roof with a broken neck. Well, he knew going in he might get killed over some pigeons, it wasn't Claude's fault. He did decide not to touch the others; it wasn't as if he enjoyed killing.
With his picket disposed of, he calmly and systematically opened each cage, took out each bird, Told it to stay away, and released it. He wasn't any good as a Speaker, but pigeons didn't have much willpower to begin with.
He locked all the roost cages behind him, just to be sure, and left the same way he'd come.
On to priority number two: Petrelli.
***
NATHAN PETRELLI - LAS VEGAS
There was no sign of the blonde woman when Nathan returned to his hotel room. He felt numb, physically as well as mentally. When he touched the doorknob, the suitcase, the buttons on the telephone, it seemed like there was a smooth film between his fingers and the solid objects.
He didn't know what to do with the gun. He didn't have a permit for it. Finally, he took some packing paper out of his suitcase, wrapped the gun in it, and called the concierge.
"I have a package to be delivered to Mr. Linderman," he said, his voice sounding rather distant.
"I'll send someone up, sir," came the reply. Nathan hung up and sat patiently until there was a knock on his door.
"He'll be expecting it. I think," he said.
"Yessir," the man said. Nathan shut the door after him. Linderman already had his answer, of course; when the choice is shoot or submit, and you don't shoot, the other guy gets the point. Still, delivering up the gun to Linderman would be nicely symbolic.
He didn't know what to do next. Go home, he supposed. He wasn't sure what the FBI would do when their men turned up dead, but Linderman would deal with that, too.
He picked up the telephone and stared at it. Maybe Peter had managed to find Suresh. He dialed.
"Nathan, dear," someone answered. Definitely not Peter.
"Ma?" Nathan asked. Deep below the numbness, some murky emotion -- surprise, he supposed -- began to surface.
"Hi, sweetheart. Still in Las Vegas?"
"Yeah, I -- is Peter okay?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. He isn't here. I don't suppose you know where he might have gone?"
Nathan shook his head, then realised like an idiot that she couldn't see him. "No, Ma, I don't. I mean I do, but -- it's complicated."
"You boys can never make anything simple," she sighed. "Are you coming home soon?"
"Tomorrow -- why?"
"I have a family matter I'd like to consult you about."
Nathan rubbed his forehead. "I'm sure you know what to do."
"This concerns the whole family, even you."
"Sure. Are you staying at Peter's tonight?"
He heard his mother sigh. He knew that sigh. "I suppose I'd better."
"Call me if he shows up, willya?"
"Of course, dear. Sleep well."
"You too." Nathan hesitated. "Love you."
"Don't be silly, Nathan. Goodnight."
He hung up the phone and set it carefully on the nightstand. So this was life, then.
Following in his father's footsteps.
***
CLAUDE RAINS - NYC
Claude had got out of the habit of using any skills except his first and most treasured. Invisibility was enough; if you could disappear you rarely needed to Talk someone into something or fly or use telekinesis. All doors were open to you. Besides, he'd never liked self-identifying as an Empath. He was the Invisible Man, that was good enough for him.
So it had been years since he'd tried Precogging, or he'd have known Peter was coming before he saw him that day on the sidewalk. Claude was, it had to be admitted, pants at most of the telepathic arts. Flying was fine, and he'd spent enough time playing with it to be a splendid firestarter, but his brain wasn't wired to execute delicate mental commands. Perhaps it was because he and Peter used opposite techniques; perhaps if he'd tried keeping his memories close, instead of divorcing himself from his students, he'd have an easier time of it.
Too late.
Still, he opened his mind and tried to listen, tried to hear what he was sure would be a psychic yelp in the wilderness. Peter was too young and inexperienced to be anything but a screamer.
"Here, kitty kitty," he murmured, making his way slowly towards Peter's flat. There ought to be a picket there too, and if Peter had any sense at all he'd have done a runner, but perhaps Bennett didn't know where he lived yet. And surely --
There was a faint shriek on the edge of his senses, like a diamond cutting glass. Claude stopped and lifted his head like a dog on scent, nostrils flaring. A shriek of surprise, and yes, it sounded like Peter.
Then the shriek turned into a nuclear blast of sound, and Claude teleported out of sheer amazed shock. It was a scream of pain, one of his kind in pain -- more than simply one of his kind. Peter was his student, however new, however annoying; Peter was in trouble. Claude had a parent's immediate reaction to danger. He went to where Peter was.
It was dark and dingy and there had been a fight; he smelled blood on the air and saw a tableau that seemed to come from a surrealist painting. A dark-skinned man was pinned to the ceiling, his agony a thin oily streak across Claude's brain. No time for that; Peter was being held against one wall by a man with a presence so dark even the numb-sensed Claude could see it.
The man, whoever he was, was cutting Peter's head open and oh god it was like the Company surgeons all over again --
Claude fetched up some long, heavy thing to hand and brought it square across the man's spine, right at the most sensitive point, below the ribcage, above the hips. He jerked forward and Peter fell to the ground, bleeding like billyfuck. Claude lifted the pole (IV bag still hanging off one end) and brought it down with enough force to drive it straight through this man's head.
Except it stopped an inch short, and stayed there, quivering. Claude stared as the man rolled over and smiled up at him.
"Hi," he said, and flicked his fingers.
Claude stood his ground, but the pole didn't; it flew straight up, lodging in the plaster ceiling. The man narrowed his eyes as he stood. He cocked his head, and Claude felt himself jerk gently to the left.
Telekinetic, then. And unused to meeting this level of resistance, clearly, but Claude didn't have time for games. Undaunted, he darted his hand out and shoved the man aside before he could react. That was the bloody thing about people with talents; they forgot they had bodies, too.
The man tried to stop him again, even as he bent over Peter's body and picked him up. He felt sudden ice creep across his back. Literally; this man was trying to freeze him.
Oh, buggery. Another one. So much for being unique in the universe.
Whoever this man was, this new Empath, he thought the ice had worked. He chuckled even as Claude was melting it from underneath.
"Nice try. Now I just get two for the price of one...and I'm hungry," the man said, and that was when Claude straightened, swung his body around, and clubbed him in the face with Peter's legs. There was a dull crackling thud as his nose broke.
Claude would have liked to help the other bloke at the mercy of this psycho, but sod that; three Empaths in one place at one time was asking for the kind of feedback loop that could make your head explode from the inside out. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a safe place; when he opened them, he was standing in the hall outside Peter's flat, Peter still in his arms. Before anything else, he Disappeared. Not that this would help much if there were guards...
The hallway was quiet, dark, unpeopled. Claude set Peter down on his feet, holding him up with one arm.
"You awake?" he asked. Peter nodded, putting one hand up to the straight, clean gash on his forehead.
"You -- " he started, but Claude put a hand over his mouth.
"Don't start wi' me," he said. "Stay invisible. If someone's guardin' your flat we may have to bunk in a hurry."
They inched down the hall, slowly, blood dripping on the lino from Peter's wound. Claude didn't feel too terribly well himself, but it was better than having your brain et by some lunatic.
When he tried the door, it opened; he leaned back as it swung on its hinges, waiting for the taser shot. Silence instead, but not an empty silence. He peered around the frame, still invisible, while Peter leaned up against the wall. He was healing already; good boy.
On the couch that faced the doorway there was a dark figure; no goggles, just the glint of metal off his weird little charm. Claude remembered the Haitian. He remembered training the Haitian.
"Come in, Peter," the man said. Claude blinked. "You will be safe here. Your mother is here. You are not in any danger."
Claude Appeared and crossed his arms, glaring angrily at him.
"You fucking wanker," he said.
The Haitian smiled slightly. "Hello, Professor," he said. "You look well, for a dead man."
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE HAITIAN - ODESSA, TEXAS
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
The young black boy sat quietly on the stool in the little room, looking at Claude but not studying him.
"He doesn't really need any lessons," said the boss, regarding the boy calmly. "Other than honing and developing his power, which I'm not sure you can teach him."
"I can try. 'Sides, boys need to know more than powers," Claude answered. "It's a bad ol' world out there. Need to know how to fight, how to get around. And he needs to know how to communicate."
The boss shrugged. "We've had others in to look at him. He doesn't seem to do too well with teachers."
"You've got nothin' to lose," Claude pointed out.
"Sure. Yell when you're done," the boss said, and he left Claude alone with the boy.
Claude shoved his hands in his pockets and walked up to the kid, taking his measure. He sat down across from him and met his gaze. He held out his hand. The boy shook it listlessly.
"Can ya talk?" Claude asked. The boy continued to stare at him. "Yep, they said you couldn't, just thought I'd make sure. Any road, I know you're not stupid. Parlez-vous anglais? Ou français seulement? J'ai parle les deux. How much English do you know?"
The boy lifted his hand, wobbled it.
"Read and write?"
A headshake.
"Want to learn?"
The boy shrugged.
"Why not?"
The boy looked up at him. He could see puzzlement in his eyes; how do you answer that kind of a question? Especially if you couldn't talk?
Claude grinned.
"I think my point's been made," he said. The boy smiled hesitantly. "So. Do you or do you not want to learn to read and write?"
The same hesitancy, but this time a nod.
"Fine. Stick with the professor, I'll help you out. My name's Claude. Nice to meet you, Haiti."
***
MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
Mohinder didn't think anyone had noticed when the scruffy intruder hit Sylar with his IV pole and Mohinder crashed to the ground. He groaned softly, but nobody was paying the slightest attention; Peter was slumped against the wall, and the other two were engaged in some kind of quiet battle of wills.
The fire in his shoulders and hands was excruciating, but he thought he'd probably live; without Sylar's attention focused on him, the pressure on his ribcage and skull had lessened to the point where he was no longer crazed with pain. When the man took Peter and disappeared, he left Sylar unconscious for the moment. Mohinder was not about to let that chance slip past him.
He stumbled bleeding to his desk, falling over it and digging in the detritius for his laptop. His father's code was there, as well as the information on the genes that marked where the mutations began. He'd begun to run a search when Sylar attacked, so there'd be a partial list, and he couldn't give Sylar that.
Even as he gathered it into his hands, bits and pieces of it fell away. He cursed.
There was a crunching noise nearby; Sylar was beginning to come round. Mohinder felt blind terror grip him and as much as he would have liked to be the hero, the one who saved the day and killed the bad guy, he wasn't. Instead he bolted from the apartment, half-falling down the stairs and out into the street. Some stranger caught him by the arm and the last thing he heard as he passed out was a voice shouting "Call 911! Somebody beat the shit out of this dude!"
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"I've had better days than this," Claude said to the Haitian grimly, grabbing Peter and none-too-gently pulling him inside, kicking the door shut after him. "If you've come to take either one of us back to the Company -- "
"I have severed ties with the Company," the Haitian replied.
"Then why are you here?"
The Haitian didn't answer; he helped Peter to a chair and walked into the kitchen, returning with a wet dishtowel. Peter accepted it and cleaned off his face, wiping blood away from what was now a fading scar. The haircut didn't look too bad on him, actually.
"We can't stay here. Do you know how many fucking psychopaths are after us?" Claude demanded.
"Us?" The Haitian lifted his eyebrow.
"Fine, Bennett's after me and Bennett and a psychopath are after him."
"Sylar," the Haitian said.
"Come again?"
"There is a man by the name of Sylar. He has many powers. He escaped from Mr. Bennett."
"We should go back," Peter said thickly. "We should help Mohinder."
"D'you want to have your brain removed? 'Cause I could do that here," Claude answered.
"But he's -- "
"He's got a fighting chance with old what's-his-name down for the count, and I'm not running back into that mess just to save some idiot who didn't know how to get out of the way in the first place."
"What's going on?" someone asked from the doorway, and Claude looked up.
Jung, he knew, had formulated his ideas about synchronicity from an event wherein someone described to him a dream about a scarab beetle precisely at the same time as one landed on his window. Claude wasn't quite certain that he believed in a supernatural, magical, mystical synchronicity, but he knew that things had a way of coming together. Like called to like and when you believed in things like invisibility and telekinesis, because you could do them, you had to believe the universe had a plan. Chaos might be the dominant god but Order slowly slipped in when he could. How else did you explain entropy?
Order was fucking him unlubricated tonight.
The girl standing in the doorway was extraordinarily beautiful. She'd been a pretty child, but gawky and somewhat shy, and of course his view of her had always been marred by Bennett's presence. Watching her pathetically trying to please daddy, while daddy had to keep his distance for reasons totally unrelated to her, was an ugly process. Older now, and grown into a power he could only dimly feel at this distance, she was quite striking.
Her face lit up in a smile and she ran right past him, throwing her arms around Peter's neck.
"You're here!" she squealed, and then, "Are you okay?"
"Claire?" Peter asked muzzily. "Yeah, I'm fine..."
"What happened?" She looked at Claude, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. "Who're you?"
"Nobody," Claude replied immediately.
"You should be in bed," said the Haitian.
"Why are you here?" Peter murmured, looking from the Haitian to Claire and back. "What's going on?"
Claude watched a complicated set of emotions and silent questions telegraph back and forth between his partner's daughter and his former student. An amused, cynical part of his brain stood back and wondered how these darn kiddies grew up so blessed fast.
"Claire was in danger. I brought her here," the Haitian said.
"Danger?" Peter asked. "Again? She can't be here -- the -- the man who came to kill you -- he's in New York -- "
"Be easy, Peter Petrelli," the Haitian said. "For now, we are safe here."
"How d'you know that?" Claude asked.
"Because I've made sure of it," came a new voice. "Goodness, you children make a racket."
"Ma," Peter gasped, as Mrs. Petrelli swept into the room. "Aw, shit."
"Watch your tongue in front of your niece, Peter," she scolded.
"My what?" Peter asked. Claude was interested by this development too, but she ignored the question.
"Everyone's been very worried about you, apparently with good reason. Who's your friend?" she added, wrinkling her nose. Claude was aware that he might, after the past day or so, be a little whiffy, but there was no call to be rude about it.
"Just a passing samaritan," he said, backing towards the door. When things got too complicated, the best of all possible options was to disappear. "Happy to help."
He opened the door without looking at it, stepped out into the hallway, shut it again, and promptly Disappeared. As soon as he did, he heard footsteps and the door opening; Peter thrust his head out, but Claude had sensibly retreated around a corner and, after a moment, the door closed again.
***
JESSICA SANDERS - LAS VEGAS
Linderman's secretary put the gun in Jessica's hand. She looked down at it, then back at the woman.
"What the hell is this?" she asked.
"Your gun," the woman replied. She gave Jessica a little smirk. "Mr. Linderman no longer requires your services in the Petrelli affair."
"That's it?"
The woman sighed. "You failed to kill Mr. Petrelli. He acquired your weapon. He has very graciously returned it to us."
"So what do I do now?"
"Go home, Ms. Sanders. Wait for your next package. Meditate on your failure. Mr. Linderman doesn't need you right now."
Frustration burned through Jessica. That little bitch, that ungrateful little bitch who shared their body, had fucked things up again.
A light blinked on the woman's desk. Jessica watched as she picked up the telephone. She said a few words, smiled, and then hung up.
"You might have a chance to redeem yourself after all," she said, as a fax began spitting out pages nearby. "How would you like to take your family to New York, Ms. Sanders?"
***
HIRO AND ANDO - THE DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
THE FUTURE
The air felt gritty and greasy, but Ando hardly noticed. He was looking out at the vast expanse of New York City, much of it now untidy rubble, but in the distance --
Yes. The cranes were moving.
"They're rebuilding," he said to Hiro, pointing. Hiro followed his gaze. Even as they watched, one of the giant machines lifted a beam into place and nearly-invisible figures began to undo the cables.
Ando was a man who liked things tidy, who liked everything to have its appointed place. New York had appalled him with its disorderly mess of buildings and streets, much as some areas of Tokyo did. Ando was the sort of man who liked cubicles. And yet he found himself appalled at the idea that crossed his mind: that at least now New York could be rebuilt in a sensible and rational manner.
He was glad to feel appalled; that was the Ando who had rescued Hiro from the archives, the Ando he was becoming. Ando liked this new person much better.
"We didn't stop it," Hiro said, looking crushed.
"Yet," Ando suggested hopefully.
"I thought, as soon as I had the sword..." Hiro trailed off, leaning on the stone parapet. Behind him, a flock of pigeons fluttered down to the concrete, pecking amongst the ruins.
"Well, you haven't had it very long," Ando said. "Hiro, this place creeps me out. Can't you take us back?"
"Maybe we should find...someone," Hiro said doubtfully. "Find out what happened and then go back and stop it. Information is power," he added soberly.
"Who's there?" a voice called out in English, and both of them turned. Ando heard Hiro reach for the sword; it was already an instinct. "Don't fucking move."
Ando, who had put one hand on his gun, now raised both in the air; Hiro followed suit, stepping forward to stand next to Ando. There was a man with a bandanna tied around his head, falling down over the left side of his face. He held a gun in one hand.
"Fucking cops," he said, staring at Ando, still in his security uniform. "Fucking squatter squad!"
He raised the gun and Ando felt Hiro grasp him around the shoulders roughly. He heard the gun fire, felt the air split --
And opened his eyes to the smell of fresh, green growing things, rain, New York City exhaust. Hiro stood next to him, eyes still shut, teeth gritted. Ando looked around.
"Hah!" he said, punching Hiro in the shoulder. "Haha! You did it! We're back!"
Hiro opened his eyes cautiously. "We are?"
Ando gestured around him at the panoramic view of the city, whole and unexploded. His heart thumped with relief. Hiro began to laugh too.
"We're back! Hooray! We did it!" Hiro shouted, leaping around the rooftop. "Hello, New York City!"
Then it happened.
Ando's eyes widened as light flared in the distance, then smoke, then a raging rush of fire. He looked at Hiro and leapt to make contact. He had about two seconds in which to do so, but he fell short; Hiro disappeared even as he reached him.
Ando turned in despair to face the oncoming firestorm, realising that they were not back in New York when they should be, but rather in New York on November Eighth.
And they were not there. He was there. Alone.
Facing the firestorm.
Next time, on Heroes ("A Family Decision"):
Bennett knew how to put Matt's gift to use. Bennett was good at thinking ahead. Matt wasn't, and he knew it.
"In the meantime, help out a friend in need. I can be a good friend to you, Petrelli. Ask your brother."
In a crystal moment he comprehended everything: the road they had followed to reach this point, the inevitability of human destiny, the fact that Ando Masahashi would soon cease to exist -- and the fact that he, Ando, could face death unflinchingly.
"You think we ought to do what Ma wants? Get her out of the country?"
Niki enjoyed being the Mommy, so if Niki ever agreed to a logical sharing of the body like she should, Niki could be let out to look after the kid and the husband. All Jessica asked was that Niki not interfere with the part of their mutual life that made everything work.
"Tell him they're both gone, and if he wants to find me he knows where I am."
And a new hero enters the game, only barely aware of the role he will play:
His first conscious thought on waking was that, of all the stupid shit to see on your first trip out of reality, he saw a fucking Nissan Versa in a Las Vegas airport parking lot. His second thought was that his spirit walk had come, and Dad was going to be really pissed that he didn't graduate high school first.
Chapter Two
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: A new side of Claude, a new family for Claire, a new job for Jessica, and a New York for Ando.
Notes: So, I decided, I'm boycotting the hiatus. I figure the only way to actually boycott a lack is to fill that lack with substance, and I'm blocked on my other writing. THUS. This fanfic picks up where episode eighteen left off, and will continue until the hiatus returns and we see how many of my wild and crazy theories come true. I'm asking your indulgence in a couple of things, and I know that -- but if you've read my fic before you know I can make things work when I get the chance. Believe me -- I plan to. *grins*
Warnings: Some very mild drug use in early chapters. In later chapters, graphic imagery (text and visual) of violent suicide.
Originally posted 3.10.07
Also available at AO3.
CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
One of his other students, years before Petrelli came along, asked Claude why he was such a shallow, petty thief. He could walk into a bank and steal millions, she said, enough to keep him fat and happy on a tropical island for the rest of his life. Why steal gloves from yuppies on the subway?
"I don't want to be fat and happy," he'd answered. "You get complacent, your teeth get dull, your claws fall off. I need my teeth and claws."
"Why?" she'd asked.
That was really the moment she'd failed, and if he'd been paying attention he'd have known it. He could have let her alone, told her that her powers weren't that important, sent her off before she committed to something she hadn't the brains to follow through on. If he'd noticed at that moment, there would have been no need to put her to the test, the sort of test he'd been putting Petrelli to when he threw him off the roof. Well, what was done was done -- she'd died, he hadn't.
Claude didn't tell his student why, but if he had been able to -- if he'd been able to voice that fear -- he would have said that he needed his teeth and claws for this moment. He'd known it would come sooner or later.
The moment when the Company would pick up his trail again.
His first instinct was to go to a bar and drink himself unconscious, but that was a bad one. Instead, he went to the busiest part of the city and started picking pockets, stockpiling cash. He selected a man who looked reasonably like him and took his driver's licence too. There were many places an invisible man could go without needing to present identification, but it never hurt to have a backup plan.
The problem with making the moral decision, seven years ago, was that now he had a few more moral decisions to make before he left town. He couldn't just bunk. He had responsibilities. Otherwise that sacrifice, losing not only his comfortable life but his friends and his partner, all that was pointless.
First and foremost were the pigeons. Bennett knew him well enough to put up pickets around the building in case he came back for them, and Bennett was just enough of a bastard to let them starve in their cages. Claude was too, if it came to a choice between him and a bunch of birds, but the pigeons were also important -- they weren't the extensive laboratories that the Company kept, but in their own humble way they were his experiment, his method of groping towards understanding in the darkness. Besides, they'd never hurt anyone.
He watched the building for nearly a day, keeping well back, staying among other people so that he wouldn't draw attention. There was a man posted on the roof, one near every door, and two on the fire escape. All of them had those blasted thermographic goggles.
Claude circled around to the blind face of the building, the face with no back door and no fire escape. It was a sheer thirty-story climb, and there wasn't even access to the rooftop patio from that direction, but it did have the advantage of surprise.
Slowly, with great care, Claude stepped up to the building and Disappeared. When there was no reaction from any hidden spy in the area, he concentrated and felt the same old rush as his feet lifted off the ground.
There were advantages to being an Empath.
One was that you didn't have to tell anyone.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
Claire sat at Peter Petrelli's kitchen table while his mother -- her grandmother -- made cocoa.
"It was a good plan," the Haitian said to her, his hands folded calmly in front of him on the table. He was so still, disturbingly still, as if he didn't even know the meaning of the word fidget.
Claire did. She fiddled with the edge of her shirt and crossed and re-crossed her legs nervously.
"Don't tell her that, you'll only encourage her," Claire's grandmother said. Odd to think of it that way; my grandmother. This strange dark-haired woman doing something complicated at the stove.
"It showed forethought and ability," the Haitian replied. "Not enough forethought, but some."
"Which is his way of saying you should have known the first place he would go after you disappeared would be my son's apartment," her grandmother said. "So you see, he's not exactly paying you a compliment."
"How long have you known about me?" Claire asked softly.
"Since you were born. Properly speaking, a little before."
"You knew I was alive?"
Mrs. Petrelli took a pan of milk off the stove and set it on a trivet. She added two spoonfuls of dark powder from a tin box nearby and began to whisk.
"My dear, there are moment in your life when people will condescend to you for your own good. Try to identify them and be content; this is one of them. The less you know about what I know, the better for you at this point," she said.
"Peter is my uncle," Claire said, struggling for understanding. She was oddly chagrined. She liked Peter. Like liked him. And he was her uncle, and that was kind of gross, wasn't it?
"Yes, dear." Her grandmother shook in various spices from a rack of bottles on the kitchen counter. "He does keep a well-stocked kitchen. Such a relief to have tidy children."
She poured the concoction into three mugs and set them down on the table. Claire sipped one quietly.
"You can have some cocoa and then go straight to bed. We'll decide the rest in the morning," her grandmother declared.
Claire had the oddest sensation that when she finally did meet her biological father, she was going to understand him a lot better for having met her grandmother first.
***
CLAUDE RAINS - DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
He left the guard on the roof with a broken neck. Well, he knew going in he might get killed over some pigeons, it wasn't Claude's fault. He did decide not to touch the others; it wasn't as if he enjoyed killing.
With his picket disposed of, he calmly and systematically opened each cage, took out each bird, Told it to stay away, and released it. He wasn't any good as a Speaker, but pigeons didn't have much willpower to begin with.
He locked all the roost cages behind him, just to be sure, and left the same way he'd come.
On to priority number two: Petrelli.
***
NATHAN PETRELLI - LAS VEGAS
There was no sign of the blonde woman when Nathan returned to his hotel room. He felt numb, physically as well as mentally. When he touched the doorknob, the suitcase, the buttons on the telephone, it seemed like there was a smooth film between his fingers and the solid objects.
He didn't know what to do with the gun. He didn't have a permit for it. Finally, he took some packing paper out of his suitcase, wrapped the gun in it, and called the concierge.
"I have a package to be delivered to Mr. Linderman," he said, his voice sounding rather distant.
"I'll send someone up, sir," came the reply. Nathan hung up and sat patiently until there was a knock on his door.
"He'll be expecting it. I think," he said.
"Yessir," the man said. Nathan shut the door after him. Linderman already had his answer, of course; when the choice is shoot or submit, and you don't shoot, the other guy gets the point. Still, delivering up the gun to Linderman would be nicely symbolic.
He didn't know what to do next. Go home, he supposed. He wasn't sure what the FBI would do when their men turned up dead, but Linderman would deal with that, too.
He picked up the telephone and stared at it. Maybe Peter had managed to find Suresh. He dialed.
"Nathan, dear," someone answered. Definitely not Peter.
"Ma?" Nathan asked. Deep below the numbness, some murky emotion -- surprise, he supposed -- began to surface.
"Hi, sweetheart. Still in Las Vegas?"
"Yeah, I -- is Peter okay?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. He isn't here. I don't suppose you know where he might have gone?"
Nathan shook his head, then realised like an idiot that she couldn't see him. "No, Ma, I don't. I mean I do, but -- it's complicated."
"You boys can never make anything simple," she sighed. "Are you coming home soon?"
"Tomorrow -- why?"
"I have a family matter I'd like to consult you about."
Nathan rubbed his forehead. "I'm sure you know what to do."
"This concerns the whole family, even you."
"Sure. Are you staying at Peter's tonight?"
He heard his mother sigh. He knew that sigh. "I suppose I'd better."
"Call me if he shows up, willya?"
"Of course, dear. Sleep well."
"You too." Nathan hesitated. "Love you."
"Don't be silly, Nathan. Goodnight."
He hung up the phone and set it carefully on the nightstand. So this was life, then.
Following in his father's footsteps.
***
CLAUDE RAINS - NYC
Claude had got out of the habit of using any skills except his first and most treasured. Invisibility was enough; if you could disappear you rarely needed to Talk someone into something or fly or use telekinesis. All doors were open to you. Besides, he'd never liked self-identifying as an Empath. He was the Invisible Man, that was good enough for him.
So it had been years since he'd tried Precogging, or he'd have known Peter was coming before he saw him that day on the sidewalk. Claude was, it had to be admitted, pants at most of the telepathic arts. Flying was fine, and he'd spent enough time playing with it to be a splendid firestarter, but his brain wasn't wired to execute delicate mental commands. Perhaps it was because he and Peter used opposite techniques; perhaps if he'd tried keeping his memories close, instead of divorcing himself from his students, he'd have an easier time of it.
Too late.
Still, he opened his mind and tried to listen, tried to hear what he was sure would be a psychic yelp in the wilderness. Peter was too young and inexperienced to be anything but a screamer.
"Here, kitty kitty," he murmured, making his way slowly towards Peter's flat. There ought to be a picket there too, and if Peter had any sense at all he'd have done a runner, but perhaps Bennett didn't know where he lived yet. And surely --
There was a faint shriek on the edge of his senses, like a diamond cutting glass. Claude stopped and lifted his head like a dog on scent, nostrils flaring. A shriek of surprise, and yes, it sounded like Peter.
Then the shriek turned into a nuclear blast of sound, and Claude teleported out of sheer amazed shock. It was a scream of pain, one of his kind in pain -- more than simply one of his kind. Peter was his student, however new, however annoying; Peter was in trouble. Claude had a parent's immediate reaction to danger. He went to where Peter was.
It was dark and dingy and there had been a fight; he smelled blood on the air and saw a tableau that seemed to come from a surrealist painting. A dark-skinned man was pinned to the ceiling, his agony a thin oily streak across Claude's brain. No time for that; Peter was being held against one wall by a man with a presence so dark even the numb-sensed Claude could see it.
The man, whoever he was, was cutting Peter's head open and oh god it was like the Company surgeons all over again --
Claude fetched up some long, heavy thing to hand and brought it square across the man's spine, right at the most sensitive point, below the ribcage, above the hips. He jerked forward and Peter fell to the ground, bleeding like billyfuck. Claude lifted the pole (IV bag still hanging off one end) and brought it down with enough force to drive it straight through this man's head.
Except it stopped an inch short, and stayed there, quivering. Claude stared as the man rolled over and smiled up at him.
"Hi," he said, and flicked his fingers.
Claude stood his ground, but the pole didn't; it flew straight up, lodging in the plaster ceiling. The man narrowed his eyes as he stood. He cocked his head, and Claude felt himself jerk gently to the left.
Telekinetic, then. And unused to meeting this level of resistance, clearly, but Claude didn't have time for games. Undaunted, he darted his hand out and shoved the man aside before he could react. That was the bloody thing about people with talents; they forgot they had bodies, too.
The man tried to stop him again, even as he bent over Peter's body and picked him up. He felt sudden ice creep across his back. Literally; this man was trying to freeze him.
Oh, buggery. Another one. So much for being unique in the universe.
Whoever this man was, this new Empath, he thought the ice had worked. He chuckled even as Claude was melting it from underneath.
"Nice try. Now I just get two for the price of one...and I'm hungry," the man said, and that was when Claude straightened, swung his body around, and clubbed him in the face with Peter's legs. There was a dull crackling thud as his nose broke.
Claude would have liked to help the other bloke at the mercy of this psycho, but sod that; three Empaths in one place at one time was asking for the kind of feedback loop that could make your head explode from the inside out. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a safe place; when he opened them, he was standing in the hall outside Peter's flat, Peter still in his arms. Before anything else, he Disappeared. Not that this would help much if there were guards...
The hallway was quiet, dark, unpeopled. Claude set Peter down on his feet, holding him up with one arm.
"You awake?" he asked. Peter nodded, putting one hand up to the straight, clean gash on his forehead.
"You -- " he started, but Claude put a hand over his mouth.
"Don't start wi' me," he said. "Stay invisible. If someone's guardin' your flat we may have to bunk in a hurry."
They inched down the hall, slowly, blood dripping on the lino from Peter's wound. Claude didn't feel too terribly well himself, but it was better than having your brain et by some lunatic.
When he tried the door, it opened; he leaned back as it swung on its hinges, waiting for the taser shot. Silence instead, but not an empty silence. He peered around the frame, still invisible, while Peter leaned up against the wall. He was healing already; good boy.
On the couch that faced the doorway there was a dark figure; no goggles, just the glint of metal off his weird little charm. Claude remembered the Haitian. He remembered training the Haitian.
"Come in, Peter," the man said. Claude blinked. "You will be safe here. Your mother is here. You are not in any danger."
Claude Appeared and crossed his arms, glaring angrily at him.
"You fucking wanker," he said.
The Haitian smiled slightly. "Hello, Professor," he said. "You look well, for a dead man."
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE HAITIAN - ODESSA, TEXAS
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
The young black boy sat quietly on the stool in the little room, looking at Claude but not studying him.
"He doesn't really need any lessons," said the boss, regarding the boy calmly. "Other than honing and developing his power, which I'm not sure you can teach him."
"I can try. 'Sides, boys need to know more than powers," Claude answered. "It's a bad ol' world out there. Need to know how to fight, how to get around. And he needs to know how to communicate."
The boss shrugged. "We've had others in to look at him. He doesn't seem to do too well with teachers."
"You've got nothin' to lose," Claude pointed out.
"Sure. Yell when you're done," the boss said, and he left Claude alone with the boy.
Claude shoved his hands in his pockets and walked up to the kid, taking his measure. He sat down across from him and met his gaze. He held out his hand. The boy shook it listlessly.
"Can ya talk?" Claude asked. The boy continued to stare at him. "Yep, they said you couldn't, just thought I'd make sure. Any road, I know you're not stupid. Parlez-vous anglais? Ou français seulement? J'ai parle les deux. How much English do you know?"
The boy lifted his hand, wobbled it.
"Read and write?"
A headshake.
"Want to learn?"
The boy shrugged.
"Why not?"
The boy looked up at him. He could see puzzlement in his eyes; how do you answer that kind of a question? Especially if you couldn't talk?
Claude grinned.
"I think my point's been made," he said. The boy smiled hesitantly. "So. Do you or do you not want to learn to read and write?"
The same hesitancy, but this time a nod.
"Fine. Stick with the professor, I'll help you out. My name's Claude. Nice to meet you, Haiti."
***
MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
Mohinder didn't think anyone had noticed when the scruffy intruder hit Sylar with his IV pole and Mohinder crashed to the ground. He groaned softly, but nobody was paying the slightest attention; Peter was slumped against the wall, and the other two were engaged in some kind of quiet battle of wills.
The fire in his shoulders and hands was excruciating, but he thought he'd probably live; without Sylar's attention focused on him, the pressure on his ribcage and skull had lessened to the point where he was no longer crazed with pain. When the man took Peter and disappeared, he left Sylar unconscious for the moment. Mohinder was not about to let that chance slip past him.
He stumbled bleeding to his desk, falling over it and digging in the detritius for his laptop. His father's code was there, as well as the information on the genes that marked where the mutations began. He'd begun to run a search when Sylar attacked, so there'd be a partial list, and he couldn't give Sylar that.
Even as he gathered it into his hands, bits and pieces of it fell away. He cursed.
There was a crunching noise nearby; Sylar was beginning to come round. Mohinder felt blind terror grip him and as much as he would have liked to be the hero, the one who saved the day and killed the bad guy, he wasn't. Instead he bolted from the apartment, half-falling down the stairs and out into the street. Some stranger caught him by the arm and the last thing he heard as he passed out was a voice shouting "Call 911! Somebody beat the shit out of this dude!"
***
CLAUDE RAINS AND THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"I've had better days than this," Claude said to the Haitian grimly, grabbing Peter and none-too-gently pulling him inside, kicking the door shut after him. "If you've come to take either one of us back to the Company -- "
"I have severed ties with the Company," the Haitian replied.
"Then why are you here?"
The Haitian didn't answer; he helped Peter to a chair and walked into the kitchen, returning with a wet dishtowel. Peter accepted it and cleaned off his face, wiping blood away from what was now a fading scar. The haircut didn't look too bad on him, actually.
"We can't stay here. Do you know how many fucking psychopaths are after us?" Claude demanded.
"Us?" The Haitian lifted his eyebrow.
"Fine, Bennett's after me and Bennett and a psychopath are after him."
"Sylar," the Haitian said.
"Come again?"
"There is a man by the name of Sylar. He has many powers. He escaped from Mr. Bennett."
"We should go back," Peter said thickly. "We should help Mohinder."
"D'you want to have your brain removed? 'Cause I could do that here," Claude answered.
"But he's -- "
"He's got a fighting chance with old what's-his-name down for the count, and I'm not running back into that mess just to save some idiot who didn't know how to get out of the way in the first place."
"What's going on?" someone asked from the doorway, and Claude looked up.
Jung, he knew, had formulated his ideas about synchronicity from an event wherein someone described to him a dream about a scarab beetle precisely at the same time as one landed on his window. Claude wasn't quite certain that he believed in a supernatural, magical, mystical synchronicity, but he knew that things had a way of coming together. Like called to like and when you believed in things like invisibility and telekinesis, because you could do them, you had to believe the universe had a plan. Chaos might be the dominant god but Order slowly slipped in when he could. How else did you explain entropy?
Order was fucking him unlubricated tonight.
The girl standing in the doorway was extraordinarily beautiful. She'd been a pretty child, but gawky and somewhat shy, and of course his view of her had always been marred by Bennett's presence. Watching her pathetically trying to please daddy, while daddy had to keep his distance for reasons totally unrelated to her, was an ugly process. Older now, and grown into a power he could only dimly feel at this distance, she was quite striking.
Her face lit up in a smile and she ran right past him, throwing her arms around Peter's neck.
"You're here!" she squealed, and then, "Are you okay?"
"Claire?" Peter asked muzzily. "Yeah, I'm fine..."
"What happened?" She looked at Claude, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. "Who're you?"
"Nobody," Claude replied immediately.
"You should be in bed," said the Haitian.
"Why are you here?" Peter murmured, looking from the Haitian to Claire and back. "What's going on?"
Claude watched a complicated set of emotions and silent questions telegraph back and forth between his partner's daughter and his former student. An amused, cynical part of his brain stood back and wondered how these darn kiddies grew up so blessed fast.
"Claire was in danger. I brought her here," the Haitian said.
"Danger?" Peter asked. "Again? She can't be here -- the -- the man who came to kill you -- he's in New York -- "
"Be easy, Peter Petrelli," the Haitian said. "For now, we are safe here."
"How d'you know that?" Claude asked.
"Because I've made sure of it," came a new voice. "Goodness, you children make a racket."
"Ma," Peter gasped, as Mrs. Petrelli swept into the room. "Aw, shit."
"Watch your tongue in front of your niece, Peter," she scolded.
"My what?" Peter asked. Claude was interested by this development too, but she ignored the question.
"Everyone's been very worried about you, apparently with good reason. Who's your friend?" she added, wrinkling her nose. Claude was aware that he might, after the past day or so, be a little whiffy, but there was no call to be rude about it.
"Just a passing samaritan," he said, backing towards the door. When things got too complicated, the best of all possible options was to disappear. "Happy to help."
He opened the door without looking at it, stepped out into the hallway, shut it again, and promptly Disappeared. As soon as he did, he heard footsteps and the door opening; Peter thrust his head out, but Claude had sensibly retreated around a corner and, after a moment, the door closed again.
***
JESSICA SANDERS - LAS VEGAS
Linderman's secretary put the gun in Jessica's hand. She looked down at it, then back at the woman.
"What the hell is this?" she asked.
"Your gun," the woman replied. She gave Jessica a little smirk. "Mr. Linderman no longer requires your services in the Petrelli affair."
"That's it?"
The woman sighed. "You failed to kill Mr. Petrelli. He acquired your weapon. He has very graciously returned it to us."
"So what do I do now?"
"Go home, Ms. Sanders. Wait for your next package. Meditate on your failure. Mr. Linderman doesn't need you right now."
Frustration burned through Jessica. That little bitch, that ungrateful little bitch who shared their body, had fucked things up again.
A light blinked on the woman's desk. Jessica watched as she picked up the telephone. She said a few words, smiled, and then hung up.
"You might have a chance to redeem yourself after all," she said, as a fax began spitting out pages nearby. "How would you like to take your family to New York, Ms. Sanders?"
***
HIRO AND ANDO - THE DEVEAUX BUILDING, NYC
THE FUTURE
The air felt gritty and greasy, but Ando hardly noticed. He was looking out at the vast expanse of New York City, much of it now untidy rubble, but in the distance --
Yes. The cranes were moving.
"They're rebuilding," he said to Hiro, pointing. Hiro followed his gaze. Even as they watched, one of the giant machines lifted a beam into place and nearly-invisible figures began to undo the cables.
Ando was a man who liked things tidy, who liked everything to have its appointed place. New York had appalled him with its disorderly mess of buildings and streets, much as some areas of Tokyo did. Ando was the sort of man who liked cubicles. And yet he found himself appalled at the idea that crossed his mind: that at least now New York could be rebuilt in a sensible and rational manner.
He was glad to feel appalled; that was the Ando who had rescued Hiro from the archives, the Ando he was becoming. Ando liked this new person much better.
"We didn't stop it," Hiro said, looking crushed.
"Yet," Ando suggested hopefully.
"I thought, as soon as I had the sword..." Hiro trailed off, leaning on the stone parapet. Behind him, a flock of pigeons fluttered down to the concrete, pecking amongst the ruins.
"Well, you haven't had it very long," Ando said. "Hiro, this place creeps me out. Can't you take us back?"
"Maybe we should find...someone," Hiro said doubtfully. "Find out what happened and then go back and stop it. Information is power," he added soberly.
"Who's there?" a voice called out in English, and both of them turned. Ando heard Hiro reach for the sword; it was already an instinct. "Don't fucking move."
Ando, who had put one hand on his gun, now raised both in the air; Hiro followed suit, stepping forward to stand next to Ando. There was a man with a bandanna tied around his head, falling down over the left side of his face. He held a gun in one hand.
"Fucking cops," he said, staring at Ando, still in his security uniform. "Fucking squatter squad!"
He raised the gun and Ando felt Hiro grasp him around the shoulders roughly. He heard the gun fire, felt the air split --
And opened his eyes to the smell of fresh, green growing things, rain, New York City exhaust. Hiro stood next to him, eyes still shut, teeth gritted. Ando looked around.
"Hah!" he said, punching Hiro in the shoulder. "Haha! You did it! We're back!"
Hiro opened his eyes cautiously. "We are?"
Ando gestured around him at the panoramic view of the city, whole and unexploded. His heart thumped with relief. Hiro began to laugh too.
"We're back! Hooray! We did it!" Hiro shouted, leaping around the rooftop. "Hello, New York City!"
Then it happened.
Ando's eyes widened as light flared in the distance, then smoke, then a raging rush of fire. He looked at Hiro and leapt to make contact. He had about two seconds in which to do so, but he fell short; Hiro disappeared even as he reached him.
Ando turned in despair to face the oncoming firestorm, realising that they were not back in New York when they should be, but rather in New York on November Eighth.
And they were not there. He was there. Alone.
Facing the firestorm.
Next time, on Heroes ("A Family Decision"):
Bennett knew how to put Matt's gift to use. Bennett was good at thinking ahead. Matt wasn't, and he knew it.
"In the meantime, help out a friend in need. I can be a good friend to you, Petrelli. Ask your brother."
In a crystal moment he comprehended everything: the road they had followed to reach this point, the inevitability of human destiny, the fact that Ando Masahashi would soon cease to exist -- and the fact that he, Ando, could face death unflinchingly.
"You think we ought to do what Ma wants? Get her out of the country?"
Niki enjoyed being the Mommy, so if Niki ever agreed to a logical sharing of the body like she should, Niki could be let out to look after the kid and the husband. All Jessica asked was that Niki not interfere with the part of their mutual life that made everything work.
"Tell him they're both gone, and if he wants to find me he knows where I am."
And a new hero enters the game, only barely aware of the role he will play:
His first conscious thought on waking was that, of all the stupid shit to see on your first trip out of reality, he saw a fucking Nissan Versa in a Las Vegas airport parking lot. His second thought was that his spirit walk had come, and Dad was going to be really pissed that he didn't graduate high school first.
Chapter Two
Say "No" to Hiatus!
When he touched the doorknob, the suitcase, the buttons on the telephone, it seemed like there was a smooth film between his fingers and the solid objects.
I loved that detail - very vivid and fits perfectly with the situation.
You've done a very nice job with the show's format and mood - I look forward to the next episode!
Re: Say "No" to Hiatus!
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Especially since I'm dreading they'll just forget about him all together when the show'll return in April.
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Ando may be unspecial, but he does have a GUN. :D
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That last scene in Peter's apartment was perfect. "Order was fucking him unlubricated tonight" -- laughed so much. I could so see Claude saying that (if the show was on a channel other than NBC). I also love how you wrote Mama/Grandma Petrelli. :)
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One question: what are you trying to say with that last French sentence? Because I do not think it means what you think it means.
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You have Claude's voice down wonderfully, by the way.
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Google gave me "tout le doux" for "both", which is what I was trying to say. She told me it should be les deux and I just misread and took out tout.
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Heroes is on six week hiatus, and I thought, what better time is there to write fic? You can't be jossed for at least six weeks!
You win for most recent use of "Jossed" I've seen in a long time :D One of my favorite net-isims! And, I just *heart* Joss :P
I am struggling against your Heros evilness. Evil! I have resisted ALL TEMPTATION to get into this show. My friends beg me to watch the pilot, my sweetie stayed up till dawn 3 consecutive nights when NBC had the whole first half up in streaming format & begged me to watch them.
I HAVE RESISTED!!!!!!!!
But....I must read everything Sam writes. Cause it's *good* I have a weak spot for good.
dammit!
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Facing the firestorm.
That. Was. Cruel.
Thank you for a mid-hiatus treat though! It's definitely good to see where you're taking the plot from here, and it will be interesting to see how much is similar in the end. Though... The idea of Claude as an empath amuses me to no end.
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I was confused about the Mohinder thing -- are you saying he's got powers too, or was Claude just confused?
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Though I thought that Sylar didn't get Eden's power since she shot herself in the head.
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*loves and squeezes*
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Awesomeness.
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When a
crisishiatus comes, a hero will step forward and save the fans!no subject
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Can't wait for the next ep!
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Also, I am intrigued by your upcoming OC! ... Not that, you know. I've ever seen any of Heroes. But I think I can limp by and enjoy things just from what I've heard on my FList. *grins*
I did like the story, but then I think I've told you about my weakness for invisible men, so anything along those lines is probably enough to hook me.
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*dangles temptingly*
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The Claude-as-empath thing is, I admit, throwing me out of the story a little, partly because I know they're not gonna do it on the show (too many multi-powers already). I'm willing to follow you through it, though. His thoughts on Chaos and Order were perfect, and his voice in general is spot-on.
I'm intrigued by the new hero. Native American (I presume) with Nissan Versa snark? Sold!
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I read your comment and slapped my head. "OF COURSE! HE SHOULD BE NATIVE AMERICAN!" and I would totally go back and rewrite him as one if I felt I knew enough about California Native American cultures to do so....
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Hee! I admit, I saw "spirit walk" and my brain went straight to the shaman tradition in the Southwest. One of my high school classes had a unit on pictographs/petroglyphs every year just we'd have an excuse for a fieldtrip to Big Bend National Park and the White Shaman site on the Pecos River (which is incredibly cool). So if the character ever needs a research project
on manatees, that might be interesting *g*no subject
I absolutely love Claude. He's a selfish prick but you've gotta love him.
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Nitpick:
"My dear, there are moment in your life when people will condescend to you for your own good.s", yes?
Also:
Peter was too young and inexperienced to be anything but a screamer.
Ahahahaha. :D
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Really good writing. Claude is spot-on, and the idea that he's an empath but just doesn't really use it much is genius.
Thanks you!
(Here via a rec from a friend who knew I was desperately in need of a Claude fix. Will be catching up on your whole story arc over the next few days. Yay!)
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(and I'll pass on the thanks :)