sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:33 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:33 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Three
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Three: But Can You Fix It?
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence.
Summary: Sylar is angry, Mohinder is damaged, Nathan is special, Hiro and Ando are illegal wage-slaves, Jack isn't kinky, and Isaac just wants to be left alone.
Notes: I haven't properly thanked my betas, so I should now.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
simon edited the first two and gave some very valuable plot input as well as proofing. This chapter was edited by heidi8, who likewise had valuable insights and was immensely helpful.
Additionally, an artist called Utilityknife has stepped forward with a vast improvement on my photoshopped manips for Isaac's artwork. All credit goes to utilityknife for the art. There's a link to the photobucket account from the image.
Originally posted 3.15.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
SYLAR - NYC
Sylar didn't understand.
He was unused to failing, at least when it came to killing other people. Petrelli had thwarted him twice now, or anyway had been present at both of his failures. He didn't know who had attacked him -- some ally in their futile push to keep him from attaining his evolutionary peak.
He awoke alone in Mohinder's apartment, nursing a few bruised ribs and a headache. Peter was gone; Mohinder was gone; whoever had attacked him was gone, and Sylar was furious.
He bellowed his rage at the walls, tearing through the room to try and find the laptop. He tore down the map, tore up half the paperwork he came across, threw anything breakable against a wall. When he finally caught his breath he stood, shoulders heaving, in the middle of the wreckage.
"Mohinder Suresh," he said, each syllable dripping with hatred.
And he went out into the city.
He'd killed the father, after all; it wouldn't be so hard to kill the son.
Funny world. Mohinder had followed so closely in his father's footsteps, almost as if Sylar were guiding both of them. And when a child rebelled against a guiding hand, sometimes they needed punishment.
He would take care of Suresh first. Then he would find Petrelli and the other man, and he'd consume them body and soul. Then the cheerleader -- yes, he'd go back for her. After that...the possibilities were endless.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"Well, Nathan?" Mom said, looking at him with cruel expectation. "Have you boys decided to choose for my granddaughter without my input?"
Nathan knew that he and Peter were different. It wasn't actually that Dad had loved him more, it was just that he was more like Dad, and Peter was an odd, alien creature to both Dad and Nathan. Peter didn't like playing games and wasn't very good at them; Peter was easily bored by the cut and thrust of debate if the principles involved didn't concern him directly. Peter didn't care about theories if there were actual people around to care about.
Thing was, someone had to care about the bigger picture, and Nathan did like to play games. He sank his teeth into this one all the more firmly because he was playing against Mom.
"As if we could," he said, leaning over to kiss his mother on the forehead. As he did so, he cut his eyes at Claire, hoping she'd get the message: shut up and stay put. "No, Peter and I were just saying, we should respect your wishes in the matter."
He glanced at Claire again. Peter was gripping her arm tightly, just below the table.
"That's very smart of you Nathan, though I sense there's a 'but' coming," Mom said.
"Well, there is and there isn't. We -- Peter and I -- both think that if she leaves the country she's going to need even more protection. She won't speak the language, and how do we know this -- what's his name, Peter?"
"Sylar," Peter said.
"This Sylar guy isn't going to jump ship and go after her? He did once already."
His mother watched him. There was a cynical sort of resignation in her eyes already, which was a good sign.
"So, Peter and I have decided that wherever she goes, one of us should go with her," Nathan finished. "Or both, preferably. I know what you're going to say, there's the campaign, but really, Ma. My family is what's most important to me right now. And we'll, you know. We'll break it to Heidi somehow."
His mother had quit smoking years ago, but if she were smoking, right that minute, she'd be grinding her cigarette out in the ashtray.
"I told you, weeks ago," she said calmly. "I told you not to see the girl, that you'd get one look at those big innocent eyes and you'd turn into a gibbering idiot. Well, you've proven me right, Nathan, congratulations."
"He turned into an idiot too," Nathan said, jerking his head at Peter, who scowled.
"Yes, I'm aware of that." Mom sighed. "I don't understand why you insist on staying, Claire, or why your father and uncle insist on indulging you, but I suppose I shall have to learn to live with it."
Claire squeaked and, to Nathan's delight, hugged him first. True, he was closer than Peter, but the point was, Claire hugged him first, then Peter. Then her grandmother, and what a strange sight that was. Nathan realised that Claire had her grandmother's nose.
This child, this headstrong girl with far more in common with Peter than himself, this blonde girl, was his flesh and blood.
His mother released her granddaughter. "But she can't -- "
"-- stay here," the Petrelli brothers chorused in unison.
"Neither can Peter, not with this man chasing after him," Nathan continued. "I'll have my guys at the Justice Department find you a place to stay."
"You do that -- I have some errands to run," Peter said. He rose, kissing his mother on the cheek. "I'll be back before dinner."
"Peter -- " Mom gripped his sleeve convulsively. Both men looked at her. "Don't go alone."
"It's fine, Ma," Peter said. "I'll be safe."
"Take Nathan, or -- "
"Not me," the Haitian said, even before she gestured at him. "I have business of my own once the girl is safe."
Nathan saw, with surprise, that his mother suddenly looked very small, and very old. Her sons were conspiring against her, her granddaughter was in danger, and -- well, whatever the Haitian was to her, he was betraying her too.
"Peter's all right. He'll be careful, and I don't think he'll be alone for long," Nathan said, glancing at Peter.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Ando waited two days for Hiro, stoically, rarely moving from the spot in which the not-Hiro had left him. He removed the badge from his uniform shirt, pawned his radio, and used the money to buy his meals off the hot-dog cart, sleeping in a nearby homeless shelter at night. His suitcase was still in the Versa which was still parked in long-term airport parking in Las Vegas, but at least it was safe there.
On the third day, the day Nathan Petrelli returned to New York (not that Ando could know that) and the day his hope and patience were beginning to fail, Hiro ran into him. Literally.
Ando had realised that the building he was standing near was the one with the cement roof, the one they'd been on when New York had gone up in flames. He half-expected Hiro would run out the door and into him, but Hiro ran sideways into him instead, as if he were going to the door.
Hiro picked himself up, hurriedly apologised, and was about to run on when Ando stopped him. Hiro paused, stared at him, beamed widely, and hugged him tightly.
"Ando, you're safe!" he cried. "I'm so sorry! How did you get away?"
"You saved me!" Ando said joyously. "The other you, with the sword!"
Hiro's eyes grew wide and impressed. "I did?"
"Yes! Where are you going?"
"To the rooftop to try and save you! I teleported to Cen-tu-rol Parku by mistake!"
"Let's get out of the crowds," Ando said urgently. "I'll tell you everything. Where should we go?"
Hiro considered this, and then his face lit up.
"Mr. Isaac!"
***
PETER PETRELLI - NYC
Peter was a nurse. Granted, he was a hospice nurse, but he'd done his time in the hospital system and he knew where most of the major ones were in New York. He took his hospital ID with him when he left, and twenty minutes later he was sitting at a computer, scrolling through admissions records. If Mohinder was gone from his apartment, as Claude had told him via Nathan, then he was either in the hospital or at the mercy of Sylar. If he was with Sylar, there was nothing Peter could do. If he was in the hospital --
Bingo.
The database threw up four Indian John Doe admissions in the past twelve hours, two of them apparently cabdrivers in a head-on collision. One was a homeless man being treated for exposure; one was a mugging victim. Peter printed out the last record -- hospital address, room number, supervising doctor -- and logged out.
"Thanks," he said to the pretty nurse at the admissions desk. He threw on his coat, bolted out the door, and hailed a cab.
***
HIRO, ANDO, AND ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
Mr. Isaac must make decent money to live where he did, even if it was cold and drafty and not very well-furnished. The view from the windows outside his workshop was superb, and Hiro always paused, dawdling along the hallway, to look at the city. Hiro knew that he was the kind of man who could be happy anywhere, if only he had a reason; urban Tokyo or suburban Texas, it was all one to him as long as there were places to explore, people to meet. He found New York enthralling, but the love of city came from the love of the people in it, not the other way around.
Mr. Isaac's workshop was oddly quiet, though they could see him working through the window. Hiro hesitated at the door.
"Should we go in?" Ando asked. "He's painting."
"I wonder what it is this time," Hiro replied. "Perhaps if we come in quietly. He looks nearly done anyway."
He knocked gently on the door, then opened it; Mr. Isaac didn't look up.
"Mr. Isaac?" he said quietly, coming down the stairs. "Mr. Isaac, it is Hiro and Ando."
Still no reply. Ando tried to peer around the painter's body to see what he was painting. From where Hiro stood, it looked like a car. In fact, it looked kind of like the --
"Is that our Versa?" Ando asked, squinting.
"Mr. Isaac, why are you painting our Versa?" Hiro asked.
"That's not us driving," Ando said in an undertone.
"Mr. Isaac, we are very sorry to be intrude," Hiro began, "But we were hoping -- "
"Shut up," Mr. Isaac said between clenched teeth.
"Um, sorry?" Hiro tried.
"SHUT UP!"
Mr. Isaac turned around then, fetching up a canvas knife from a nearby tray as he did so. Hiro saw the knife first and leaned back in time to avoid having his throat slit; Ando was already backing towards the stairs.
Beyond the artist waving a canvas knife in his face, Hiro saw the painting. It was their Versa, zooming along a night-black road somewhere. Driven by a blond man, a very obviously not-Japanese man.
Then he saw Mr. Isaac's white, unseeing eyes.
He turned and ran, Ando a step ahead of him, and neither of them stopped until they were downstairs on the street again.
"I don't think he wants us to stay with him," Ando said, breathing heavily. Hiro clutched a stitch in his side. "What do we do now? Our Versa's been stolen!"
Hiro panted. "Nothing we can...do about that....got to find somewhere....to stay first."
Ando bit his lip. Hiro looked at him.
"What?" he asked.
"What about Nathan Petrelli?" Ando asked, pointing over Hiro's shoulder. A row of posters, all bearing the Flying Man's grinning image, looked down on them both.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
The dark-skinned man under all the wires could have been Mohinder, but it was hard to tell. His face was swollen, his nose broken, and parts of his forehead were swathed in bandages. Peter had to get down on eye level and look at his profile to be sure.
"Are you a friend?" the doctor asked, sympathetically.
"Sort of," Peter said. "Is he going to be okay?"
"He's had a few pretty serious hits to the head," the doctor said. "We don't know yet."
"You don't know?"
The doctor frowned. "This coma he's in...could last a few days, a week, could be the rest of his life. We simply don't have enough information yet. He, uh. Do you know if he does drugs at all?"
"Drugs?" Peter asked. "Why would you...?"
"Well, they picked him up with an empty syringe in his pocket, and he wouldn't let go of his computer."
"He had his computer with him?"
"Sure, we've got it in property lockup now. Not that it'll be functional, I think. Is he your boyfriend?"
Peter shook his head. "Just a friend. Listen...I think the guys who did this might not give up until they do some real damage, you know? I don't know if he's safe."
"Well, hospital security is pretty good, and we can restrict access to his room..."
Peter thought hard. Security wouldn't stop Sylar. But then, Mohinder was no good to Sylar unconscious, and without the information in his files.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll need to make some calls -- can I have a moment alone before I go?"
The doctor nodded and went off to register the new information Peter had given him. Peter, as soon as he was alone, laid his hands on Mohinder's arm. He thought about that cop he met in Odessa. Parker? Boardman? Parkman, that one. He thought about how afraid and sick and scared he'd been, and how Parkman had slammed some asprin down in front of him -- a seemingly hostile gesture that still bespoke some urge to look after people. He thought about Parkman's surprise when they started hearing each others' thoughts --
Peter opened his mind and Listened, unaware that several hundred miles away, Matt Parkman was trying very hard to make someone else hear him. He tried to hear if there was the faintest response from Mohinder on any level, but all he managed to hear was the nurse outside, thinking about how hot he was. Flattering, but not exactly helpful.
He sighed and stopped. Instead he thought about Claude, and the immediate surge of annoyance and curiousity made him Disappear almost immediately.
He knew where most hospitals kept their property lockup, and he knew how to find Mohinder's belongings. There were some advantages to being a nurse, after all.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT -- ODESSA, TEXAS
Parkman. Parkman. Parkman.
It wasn't working.
Matt knew he didn't have the hang of it, but it was like the dyslexia. He'd always been certain, if he just tried a little bit harder, if he looked at something in a slightly different way, he'd get it. He knew if he just adjusted his head...
Matt closed his eyes, thought of his name, and tried to shove it out of his skull, into Bennett's head.
The sound of Bennett's lips parting, a crackling, dry kind of noise, was the sweetest sound Matt ever heard.
"Parkman," Bennett said, in exactly the inflection Matt had thought it.
***
NATHAN PETRELLI - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan's Justice-Department buddy had warned him that Claire's digs wouldn't be the finest, but he had hoped it would at least be nicer than what they got.
"This is witness protection?" Nathan had asked, eyeing the fading wallpaper and sagging furniture.
"When you win your race, get us some funding for the penthouse suite," Richard grunted in reply. "Who's the girl?"
"Friend of my brother's. She's in a little over her head," Nathan said, and Richard had merely nodded. "Peter may show up. Try not to shoot him, okay?"
"Sure. Nice kid."
"Do not let this girl out of your sight," Nathan murmured.
"Didn't plan on it," Richard replied.
"Thanks. I'll be checking in."
He went to Claire, who was standing at the window, and hesitantly touched her shoulder.
"Hey, sorry to leave you here," he said.
"It's safe, right?" she asked. "And Peter's coming."
"Yeah," Nathan said, trying not to sound bitter. "I think he'll be around this evening. Do you -- want me to come back? To visit?"
"Are you special?" Claire asked, looking up at him.
"Uh. Special?" he stammered.
"Like us. Me and Peter. And my mom. Are you special? Different?"
"Different how?"
"You know how."
Nathan leaned over, making sure Richard couldn't hear. "You can't fly, can you?"
"No. Can you?"
"Sometimes," Nathan admitted. Claire smiled.
"Can you come this afternoon?"
"Not today. I'll come by after breakfast tomorrow," he'd promised. It was maybe a dumb promise to make, but she seemed happy, and that was what mattered.
That had been an hour ago, but it was hard to get it off his mind. Still, he had work to do, and this campaign wasn't going to run itself. Especially since there were bound to be questions, sooner or later, about the dead FBI agents and why Nathan hadn't said anything about them.
He was leaning over a table, making adjustments to the post-election agenda, when he heard trouble approaching. It was funny the way you could hear it coming, sometimes.
"Sorry -- oh, so sorry. Vote Petrelli! Excuse me. Ex-cuse me. Sorry. Vote Petrelli! Nasan Petrelli for congress!"
Nathan looked up, slowly. Hiro Nakamura was making his way through campaign headquarters, edging around eager volunteers and hard-working temps. He had a sword strapped to his back, and Ando was with him.
"Gentlemen, if I could have five minutes," he said, and his aides evaporated. Hiro arrived breathlessly at the table.
"Vote Petrelli!" he said, bowing in greeting. Nathan bowed back.
"I thought you were in Las Vegas," he said.
"We sought you were in Las Vegas," Hiro replied.
"I flew home."
Hiro grinned and made a gesture that resembled a man taking off from earth. Nathan cocked an eyebrow.
"In a plane," he clarified. "I see you got your sword."
"The real thing," Hiro agreed proudly, reaching for it. "You see -- ?"
"No! No, uh, taking a samurai sword out of its sheath is not a great idea when you're talking to a politician," Nathan said quickly. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Hiro and Ando looked sorrowfully at each other. "We are..." Hiro pondered the proper wording.
"Homeless," Ando said helpfully. "Also broke."
"I see."
"We left our Versa in Las Vegas."
"That's a shame."
"We sink you give us a place to stay," Hiro said, smiling. "Brozerhood of heroes! Please?"
"Ah...I'm all out of...justice...league...fortresses at the moment," Nathan said. "But I think I can help you out."
Hiro beamed.
"You know how in...movies, heroes have alter egos?" Nathan said.
"Clark Kent! Bruce Wayne!"
"Yeah, exactly. Well, my alter ego is Congressional Candidate Petrelli, and I kinda need to be him a lot right now. So I'm going to give you two alter egos as temporary staff members, and that way you can earn enough to get a hotel room. Week's advance. How about it?"
"VOTE PETRELLI!" Hiro shouted. Nathan was just a little bit pleased that most of the people in the room, on hearing it, echoed back with a cheer.
"Just keep it down about the flying, okay?" he said.
***
PETER PETRELLI - NYC
"But can you fix it?" Peter asked.
The guy at Geek Squad gave him a narrow look. "Listen, I'm not the one who drop-kicked their laptop."
"Neither did I! I just need some information that's on there," Peter said, gesturing at the mess of wires and plastic bits that had once been Mohinder's computer. "Anything you can offload. Anything at all."
The man pushed a button on the keyboard next to him. Something went whirr.
"I can save certain sectors of the disk. I can't guarantee that what I save won't be your buddy's extensive collection of Star Trek fanfiction," he answered.
"Whatever you can get," Peter said.
He watched, perplexed, as the man fiddled with wires and punched commands into his keyboard. He took a cheap flash drive, shoved it into a port, and frowned at the screen.
"Weird," he said.
"What?" Peter asked sharply.
"Looks like the dude was doing some serious pirating when whatever happened...happened. He had like eight downloads going."
"From where?"
The man squinted. "I can save the partial files. Maybe not pirating, most of them are HTML and PDF, looks like. Lot of medical databases."
Peter watched as he began opening files and typing in more commands. Lists of names...new lists of names. He saw his own name flicker by, and then an actual photograph of Nathan.
Mohinder was making a list. A list of people like him.
No wonder Sylar had been torturing him.
"Hey," he said casually, "What happens with the parts after you get everything off? I mean, do you buy them, or what?"
"Buy this crap? You can give it to us and we'll recycle it, or you can get it back. Everything from the hard drive'll go on CD-ROM or you can buy the flash drive."
An hour and a half later, with the portable drive in his pocket and a considerably lighter wallet, Peter stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused thoughtfully. He took the old hard drive out of his pocket, set it down, and stomped on it a couple of times. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Then he gathered up the pieces, threw half of them into a trash can, and dropped the rest down the first open sewer grate he came to.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TX
Parkman told Bennett not to talk, and Bennett must have got the message; he could feel silent expectation, and then a question.
Can you hear me? Can you talk back?
Matt frowned down at his hands. I think so, he thought, and then he pushed.
I heard that, Bennett said, surprised. Where are you?
Next cell over.
How much do you know?
Why you're locked up, Parkman said. What happened in New York. Then he paused. I'm sorry about your family.
There was an anguished noise from the other room, audible, as Bennett replied. Claire's still alive. She has to be. I have to get to her.
Well, it was as good a motivation as any for escape.
Parkman?
Just thinking, Matt replied. Each time it got easier. Each time he was more confident that his words were getting through. There has to be a way out. Some kind of trap door built into the system.
There's one, Bennett answered. But it's not exactly pleasant.
***
JACK BAKER - SOMEWHERE IN UTAH
Jack stopped at a diner for dinner, and also to buy a map. The Versa had some kick, he'd say that for Nissan, and he couldn't keep driving forever without at least anticipating what was to come. His instincts had taken him this far, but he wasn't sure how long this whole spirit-guide thing would last.
"Where you goin', hon?" the waitress asked, pouring him a cup of coffee.
"New York City," he answered politely. "I'm on a quest."
"Oh yeah? What's in New York City?"
"Two Japanese guys I need to find," he answered.
"This isn't some kinky internet thing, is it?"
"No ma'am. I have their car, that's all."
She smiled, left the coffee pot with him, and moved on. Jack decided it was time to review the day's catch.
The airplane to Vegas had yielded two pens, fifteen dollars, three hair clips, and a Sylar-brand watch. The parking garage alone had given up enough money to pay for the Versa's long-term parking, and after he told the parking dude precisely where the Versa was and what was in it, the dude had given him the key, no problem-o. He'd found the other suitcase that belonged in the Versa and taken off east. He'd stopped three times on the drive to take his bearings, and found two awesome cow skulls.
He hoped his parents weren't worrying. Jack had decided that going on walkabout, even if it was driveabout, meant he probably shouldn't keep his cellphone on. He had it, because he wasn't an idiot, but it was switched off. It probably interfered with all the psychic vibrations or something. They shouldn't worry too much, his letter had been pretty clear. Dear Parents, I'm going on walkabout. Don't worry, I have money and I packed a sandwich. Love, Jack.
Jack knew that someone needed this car, and probably all the shit in the backseat. The luggage tags were in Japanese, which was how he knew the dudes he was going to find were probably Japanese. He didn't know how he knew they were in New York, but they were. So, if the Japanese dudes wouldn't come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the Japanese dudes.
He figured, what with the road work going on in Kansas, it'd be smarter to aim north and bypass it entirely. There was an awesome themed hotel in Iowa he could sleep at tomorrow night, if he wanted. He planned to be in New York City by sundown, day after tomorrow. He had another good eight hours of driving time if he stopped and slept from midnight to six.
His fingers, almost unconsciously, dug into the gap between the booth's seat and the wall. They came up with a box of crayons.
The ways of the universe were wonderful and strange. Jack had turned himself over to his spirit walk, and the gods had sent him crayons. That was pretty awesome.
Next time, on Heroes ("Dreaming Life"):
"I need you to guard someone for me."
That alien self-containment, the disinterest in -- in power, in playing the goddamn game -- all the things that had perplexed Nathan about Peter were present in Claire, and he began to realise that perhaps to Heidi and his sons and his mother he seemed like an alien too.
"I don't want to die in Texas." "Oh, what they're going to do to us is much worse than dying."
A guy with a sword meant that someone else was watching over Suresh -- Petrelli, or the man who'd come to Petrelli's rescue. Which might, in fact, mean that these two men were special also. And that meant they were prey.
Claire looked at him with a peculiar expression that he couldn't place; she did have a sweet smile.
He will wake up in a few minutes, in the darkness of the New York City warehouse, in the life he chose when he could have had that golden-green yard in Odessa.
Chapter Four
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence.
Summary: Sylar is angry, Mohinder is damaged, Nathan is special, Hiro and Ando are illegal wage-slaves, Jack isn't kinky, and Isaac just wants to be left alone.
Notes: I haven't properly thanked my betas, so I should now.
simon edited the first two and gave some very valuable plot input as well as proofing. This chapter was edited by heidi8, who likewise had valuable insights and was immensely helpful. Additionally, an artist called Utilityknife has stepped forward with a vast improvement on my photoshopped manips for Isaac's artwork. All credit goes to utilityknife for the art. There's a link to the photobucket account from the image.
Originally posted 3.15.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
SYLAR - NYC
Sylar didn't understand.
He was unused to failing, at least when it came to killing other people. Petrelli had thwarted him twice now, or anyway had been present at both of his failures. He didn't know who had attacked him -- some ally in their futile push to keep him from attaining his evolutionary peak.
He awoke alone in Mohinder's apartment, nursing a few bruised ribs and a headache. Peter was gone; Mohinder was gone; whoever had attacked him was gone, and Sylar was furious.
He bellowed his rage at the walls, tearing through the room to try and find the laptop. He tore down the map, tore up half the paperwork he came across, threw anything breakable against a wall. When he finally caught his breath he stood, shoulders heaving, in the middle of the wreckage.
"Mohinder Suresh," he said, each syllable dripping with hatred.
And he went out into the city.
He'd killed the father, after all; it wouldn't be so hard to kill the son.
Funny world. Mohinder had followed so closely in his father's footsteps, almost as if Sylar were guiding both of them. And when a child rebelled against a guiding hand, sometimes they needed punishment.
He would take care of Suresh first. Then he would find Petrelli and the other man, and he'd consume them body and soul. Then the cheerleader -- yes, he'd go back for her. After that...the possibilities were endless.
***
THE PETRELLI FAMILY - NYC
"Well, Nathan?" Mom said, looking at him with cruel expectation. "Have you boys decided to choose for my granddaughter without my input?"
Nathan knew that he and Peter were different. It wasn't actually that Dad had loved him more, it was just that he was more like Dad, and Peter was an odd, alien creature to both Dad and Nathan. Peter didn't like playing games and wasn't very good at them; Peter was easily bored by the cut and thrust of debate if the principles involved didn't concern him directly. Peter didn't care about theories if there were actual people around to care about.
Thing was, someone had to care about the bigger picture, and Nathan did like to play games. He sank his teeth into this one all the more firmly because he was playing against Mom.
"As if we could," he said, leaning over to kiss his mother on the forehead. As he did so, he cut his eyes at Claire, hoping she'd get the message: shut up and stay put. "No, Peter and I were just saying, we should respect your wishes in the matter."
He glanced at Claire again. Peter was gripping her arm tightly, just below the table.
"That's very smart of you Nathan, though I sense there's a 'but' coming," Mom said.
"Well, there is and there isn't. We -- Peter and I -- both think that if she leaves the country she's going to need even more protection. She won't speak the language, and how do we know this -- what's his name, Peter?"
"Sylar," Peter said.
"This Sylar guy isn't going to jump ship and go after her? He did once already."
His mother watched him. There was a cynical sort of resignation in her eyes already, which was a good sign.
"So, Peter and I have decided that wherever she goes, one of us should go with her," Nathan finished. "Or both, preferably. I know what you're going to say, there's the campaign, but really, Ma. My family is what's most important to me right now. And we'll, you know. We'll break it to Heidi somehow."
His mother had quit smoking years ago, but if she were smoking, right that minute, she'd be grinding her cigarette out in the ashtray.
"I told you, weeks ago," she said calmly. "I told you not to see the girl, that you'd get one look at those big innocent eyes and you'd turn into a gibbering idiot. Well, you've proven me right, Nathan, congratulations."
"He turned into an idiot too," Nathan said, jerking his head at Peter, who scowled.
"Yes, I'm aware of that." Mom sighed. "I don't understand why you insist on staying, Claire, or why your father and uncle insist on indulging you, but I suppose I shall have to learn to live with it."
Claire squeaked and, to Nathan's delight, hugged him first. True, he was closer than Peter, but the point was, Claire hugged him first, then Peter. Then her grandmother, and what a strange sight that was. Nathan realised that Claire had her grandmother's nose.
This child, this headstrong girl with far more in common with Peter than himself, this blonde girl, was his flesh and blood.
His mother released her granddaughter. "But she can't -- "
"-- stay here," the Petrelli brothers chorused in unison.
"Neither can Peter, not with this man chasing after him," Nathan continued. "I'll have my guys at the Justice Department find you a place to stay."
"You do that -- I have some errands to run," Peter said. He rose, kissing his mother on the cheek. "I'll be back before dinner."
"Peter -- " Mom gripped his sleeve convulsively. Both men looked at her. "Don't go alone."
"It's fine, Ma," Peter said. "I'll be safe."
"Take Nathan, or -- "
"Not me," the Haitian said, even before she gestured at him. "I have business of my own once the girl is safe."
Nathan saw, with surprise, that his mother suddenly looked very small, and very old. Her sons were conspiring against her, her granddaughter was in danger, and -- well, whatever the Haitian was to her, he was betraying her too.
"Peter's all right. He'll be careful, and I don't think he'll be alone for long," Nathan said, glancing at Peter.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Ando waited two days for Hiro, stoically, rarely moving from the spot in which the not-Hiro had left him. He removed the badge from his uniform shirt, pawned his radio, and used the money to buy his meals off the hot-dog cart, sleeping in a nearby homeless shelter at night. His suitcase was still in the Versa which was still parked in long-term airport parking in Las Vegas, but at least it was safe there.
On the third day, the day Nathan Petrelli returned to New York (not that Ando could know that) and the day his hope and patience were beginning to fail, Hiro ran into him. Literally.
Ando had realised that the building he was standing near was the one with the cement roof, the one they'd been on when New York had gone up in flames. He half-expected Hiro would run out the door and into him, but Hiro ran sideways into him instead, as if he were going to the door.
Hiro picked himself up, hurriedly apologised, and was about to run on when Ando stopped him. Hiro paused, stared at him, beamed widely, and hugged him tightly.
"Ando, you're safe!" he cried. "I'm so sorry! How did you get away?"
"You saved me!" Ando said joyously. "The other you, with the sword!"
Hiro's eyes grew wide and impressed. "I did?"
"Yes! Where are you going?"
"To the rooftop to try and save you! I teleported to Cen-tu-rol Parku by mistake!"
"Let's get out of the crowds," Ando said urgently. "I'll tell you everything. Where should we go?"
Hiro considered this, and then his face lit up.
"Mr. Isaac!"
***
PETER PETRELLI - NYC
Peter was a nurse. Granted, he was a hospice nurse, but he'd done his time in the hospital system and he knew where most of the major ones were in New York. He took his hospital ID with him when he left, and twenty minutes later he was sitting at a computer, scrolling through admissions records. If Mohinder was gone from his apartment, as Claude had told him via Nathan, then he was either in the hospital or at the mercy of Sylar. If he was with Sylar, there was nothing Peter could do. If he was in the hospital --
Bingo.
The database threw up four Indian John Doe admissions in the past twelve hours, two of them apparently cabdrivers in a head-on collision. One was a homeless man being treated for exposure; one was a mugging victim. Peter printed out the last record -- hospital address, room number, supervising doctor -- and logged out.
"Thanks," he said to the pretty nurse at the admissions desk. He threw on his coat, bolted out the door, and hailed a cab.
***
HIRO, ANDO, AND ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
Mr. Isaac must make decent money to live where he did, even if it was cold and drafty and not very well-furnished. The view from the windows outside his workshop was superb, and Hiro always paused, dawdling along the hallway, to look at the city. Hiro knew that he was the kind of man who could be happy anywhere, if only he had a reason; urban Tokyo or suburban Texas, it was all one to him as long as there were places to explore, people to meet. He found New York enthralling, but the love of city came from the love of the people in it, not the other way around.
Mr. Isaac's workshop was oddly quiet, though they could see him working through the window. Hiro hesitated at the door.
"Should we go in?" Ando asked. "He's painting."
"I wonder what it is this time," Hiro replied. "Perhaps if we come in quietly. He looks nearly done anyway."
He knocked gently on the door, then opened it; Mr. Isaac didn't look up.
"Mr. Isaac?" he said quietly, coming down the stairs. "Mr. Isaac, it is Hiro and Ando."
Still no reply. Ando tried to peer around the painter's body to see what he was painting. From where Hiro stood, it looked like a car. In fact, it looked kind of like the --
"Is that our Versa?" Ando asked, squinting.
"Mr. Isaac, why are you painting our Versa?" Hiro asked.
"That's not us driving," Ando said in an undertone.
"Mr. Isaac, we are very sorry to be intrude," Hiro began, "But we were hoping -- "
"Shut up," Mr. Isaac said between clenched teeth.
"Um, sorry?" Hiro tried.
"SHUT UP!"
Mr. Isaac turned around then, fetching up a canvas knife from a nearby tray as he did so. Hiro saw the knife first and leaned back in time to avoid having his throat slit; Ando was already backing towards the stairs.
Beyond the artist waving a canvas knife in his face, Hiro saw the painting. It was their Versa, zooming along a night-black road somewhere. Driven by a blond man, a very obviously not-Japanese man.
Then he saw Mr. Isaac's white, unseeing eyes.
He turned and ran, Ando a step ahead of him, and neither of them stopped until they were downstairs on the street again.
"I don't think he wants us to stay with him," Ando said, breathing heavily. Hiro clutched a stitch in his side. "What do we do now? Our Versa's been stolen!"
Hiro panted. "Nothing we can...do about that....got to find somewhere....to stay first."
Ando bit his lip. Hiro looked at him.
"What?" he asked.
"What about Nathan Petrelli?" Ando asked, pointing over Hiro's shoulder. A row of posters, all bearing the Flying Man's grinning image, looked down on them both.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
The dark-skinned man under all the wires could have been Mohinder, but it was hard to tell. His face was swollen, his nose broken, and parts of his forehead were swathed in bandages. Peter had to get down on eye level and look at his profile to be sure.
"Are you a friend?" the doctor asked, sympathetically.
"Sort of," Peter said. "Is he going to be okay?"
"He's had a few pretty serious hits to the head," the doctor said. "We don't know yet."
"You don't know?"
The doctor frowned. "This coma he's in...could last a few days, a week, could be the rest of his life. We simply don't have enough information yet. He, uh. Do you know if he does drugs at all?"
"Drugs?" Peter asked. "Why would you...?"
"Well, they picked him up with an empty syringe in his pocket, and he wouldn't let go of his computer."
"He had his computer with him?"
"Sure, we've got it in property lockup now. Not that it'll be functional, I think. Is he your boyfriend?"
Peter shook his head. "Just a friend. Listen...I think the guys who did this might not give up until they do some real damage, you know? I don't know if he's safe."
"Well, hospital security is pretty good, and we can restrict access to his room..."
Peter thought hard. Security wouldn't stop Sylar. But then, Mohinder was no good to Sylar unconscious, and without the information in his files.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll need to make some calls -- can I have a moment alone before I go?"
The doctor nodded and went off to register the new information Peter had given him. Peter, as soon as he was alone, laid his hands on Mohinder's arm. He thought about that cop he met in Odessa. Parker? Boardman? Parkman, that one. He thought about how afraid and sick and scared he'd been, and how Parkman had slammed some asprin down in front of him -- a seemingly hostile gesture that still bespoke some urge to look after people. He thought about Parkman's surprise when they started hearing each others' thoughts --
Peter opened his mind and Listened, unaware that several hundred miles away, Matt Parkman was trying very hard to make someone else hear him. He tried to hear if there was the faintest response from Mohinder on any level, but all he managed to hear was the nurse outside, thinking about how hot he was. Flattering, but not exactly helpful.
He sighed and stopped. Instead he thought about Claude, and the immediate surge of annoyance and curiousity made him Disappear almost immediately.
He knew where most hospitals kept their property lockup, and he knew how to find Mohinder's belongings. There were some advantages to being a nurse, after all.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT -- ODESSA, TEXAS
Parkman. Parkman. Parkman.
It wasn't working.
Matt knew he didn't have the hang of it, but it was like the dyslexia. He'd always been certain, if he just tried a little bit harder, if he looked at something in a slightly different way, he'd get it. He knew if he just adjusted his head...
Matt closed his eyes, thought of his name, and tried to shove it out of his skull, into Bennett's head.
The sound of Bennett's lips parting, a crackling, dry kind of noise, was the sweetest sound Matt ever heard.
"Parkman," Bennett said, in exactly the inflection Matt had thought it.
***
NATHAN PETRELLI - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan's Justice-Department buddy had warned him that Claire's digs wouldn't be the finest, but he had hoped it would at least be nicer than what they got.
"This is witness protection?" Nathan had asked, eyeing the fading wallpaper and sagging furniture.
"When you win your race, get us some funding for the penthouse suite," Richard grunted in reply. "Who's the girl?"
"Friend of my brother's. She's in a little over her head," Nathan said, and Richard had merely nodded. "Peter may show up. Try not to shoot him, okay?"
"Sure. Nice kid."
"Do not let this girl out of your sight," Nathan murmured.
"Didn't plan on it," Richard replied.
"Thanks. I'll be checking in."
He went to Claire, who was standing at the window, and hesitantly touched her shoulder.
"Hey, sorry to leave you here," he said.
"It's safe, right?" she asked. "And Peter's coming."
"Yeah," Nathan said, trying not to sound bitter. "I think he'll be around this evening. Do you -- want me to come back? To visit?"
"Are you special?" Claire asked, looking up at him.
"Uh. Special?" he stammered.
"Like us. Me and Peter. And my mom. Are you special? Different?"
"Different how?"
"You know how."
Nathan leaned over, making sure Richard couldn't hear. "You can't fly, can you?"
"No. Can you?"
"Sometimes," Nathan admitted. Claire smiled.
"Can you come this afternoon?"
"Not today. I'll come by after breakfast tomorrow," he'd promised. It was maybe a dumb promise to make, but she seemed happy, and that was what mattered.
That had been an hour ago, but it was hard to get it off his mind. Still, he had work to do, and this campaign wasn't going to run itself. Especially since there were bound to be questions, sooner or later, about the dead FBI agents and why Nathan hadn't said anything about them.
He was leaning over a table, making adjustments to the post-election agenda, when he heard trouble approaching. It was funny the way you could hear it coming, sometimes.
"Sorry -- oh, so sorry. Vote Petrelli! Excuse me. Ex-cuse me. Sorry. Vote Petrelli! Nasan Petrelli for congress!"
Nathan looked up, slowly. Hiro Nakamura was making his way through campaign headquarters, edging around eager volunteers and hard-working temps. He had a sword strapped to his back, and Ando was with him.
"Gentlemen, if I could have five minutes," he said, and his aides evaporated. Hiro arrived breathlessly at the table.
"Vote Petrelli!" he said, bowing in greeting. Nathan bowed back.
"I thought you were in Las Vegas," he said.
"We sought you were in Las Vegas," Hiro replied.
"I flew home."
Hiro grinned and made a gesture that resembled a man taking off from earth. Nathan cocked an eyebrow.
"In a plane," he clarified. "I see you got your sword."
"The real thing," Hiro agreed proudly, reaching for it. "You see -- ?"
"No! No, uh, taking a samurai sword out of its sheath is not a great idea when you're talking to a politician," Nathan said quickly. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Hiro and Ando looked sorrowfully at each other. "We are..." Hiro pondered the proper wording.
"Homeless," Ando said helpfully. "Also broke."
"I see."
"We left our Versa in Las Vegas."
"That's a shame."
"We sink you give us a place to stay," Hiro said, smiling. "Brozerhood of heroes! Please?"
"Ah...I'm all out of...justice...league...fortresses at the moment," Nathan said. "But I think I can help you out."
Hiro beamed.
"You know how in...movies, heroes have alter egos?" Nathan said.
"Clark Kent! Bruce Wayne!"
"Yeah, exactly. Well, my alter ego is Congressional Candidate Petrelli, and I kinda need to be him a lot right now. So I'm going to give you two alter egos as temporary staff members, and that way you can earn enough to get a hotel room. Week's advance. How about it?"
"VOTE PETRELLI!" Hiro shouted. Nathan was just a little bit pleased that most of the people in the room, on hearing it, echoed back with a cheer.
"Just keep it down about the flying, okay?" he said.
***
PETER PETRELLI - NYC
"But can you fix it?" Peter asked.
The guy at Geek Squad gave him a narrow look. "Listen, I'm not the one who drop-kicked their laptop."
"Neither did I! I just need some information that's on there," Peter said, gesturing at the mess of wires and plastic bits that had once been Mohinder's computer. "Anything you can offload. Anything at all."
The man pushed a button on the keyboard next to him. Something went whirr.
"I can save certain sectors of the disk. I can't guarantee that what I save won't be your buddy's extensive collection of Star Trek fanfiction," he answered.
"Whatever you can get," Peter said.
He watched, perplexed, as the man fiddled with wires and punched commands into his keyboard. He took a cheap flash drive, shoved it into a port, and frowned at the screen.
"Weird," he said.
"What?" Peter asked sharply.
"Looks like the dude was doing some serious pirating when whatever happened...happened. He had like eight downloads going."
"From where?"
The man squinted. "I can save the partial files. Maybe not pirating, most of them are HTML and PDF, looks like. Lot of medical databases."
Peter watched as he began opening files and typing in more commands. Lists of names...new lists of names. He saw his own name flicker by, and then an actual photograph of Nathan.
Mohinder was making a list. A list of people like him.
No wonder Sylar had been torturing him.
"Hey," he said casually, "What happens with the parts after you get everything off? I mean, do you buy them, or what?"
"Buy this crap? You can give it to us and we'll recycle it, or you can get it back. Everything from the hard drive'll go on CD-ROM or you can buy the flash drive."
An hour and a half later, with the portable drive in his pocket and a considerably lighter wallet, Peter stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused thoughtfully. He took the old hard drive out of his pocket, set it down, and stomped on it a couple of times. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Then he gathered up the pieces, threw half of them into a trash can, and dropped the rest down the first open sewer grate he came to.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - ODESSA, TX
Parkman told Bennett not to talk, and Bennett must have got the message; he could feel silent expectation, and then a question.
Can you hear me? Can you talk back?
Matt frowned down at his hands. I think so, he thought, and then he pushed.
I heard that, Bennett said, surprised. Where are you?
Next cell over.
How much do you know?
Why you're locked up, Parkman said. What happened in New York. Then he paused. I'm sorry about your family.
There was an anguished noise from the other room, audible, as Bennett replied. Claire's still alive. She has to be. I have to get to her.
Well, it was as good a motivation as any for escape.
Parkman?
Just thinking, Matt replied. Each time it got easier. Each time he was more confident that his words were getting through. There has to be a way out. Some kind of trap door built into the system.
There's one, Bennett answered. But it's not exactly pleasant.
***
JACK BAKER - SOMEWHERE IN UTAH
Jack stopped at a diner for dinner, and also to buy a map. The Versa had some kick, he'd say that for Nissan, and he couldn't keep driving forever without at least anticipating what was to come. His instincts had taken him this far, but he wasn't sure how long this whole spirit-guide thing would last.
"Where you goin', hon?" the waitress asked, pouring him a cup of coffee.
"New York City," he answered politely. "I'm on a quest."
"Oh yeah? What's in New York City?"
"Two Japanese guys I need to find," he answered.
"This isn't some kinky internet thing, is it?"
"No ma'am. I have their car, that's all."
She smiled, left the coffee pot with him, and moved on. Jack decided it was time to review the day's catch.
The airplane to Vegas had yielded two pens, fifteen dollars, three hair clips, and a Sylar-brand watch. The parking garage alone had given up enough money to pay for the Versa's long-term parking, and after he told the parking dude precisely where the Versa was and what was in it, the dude had given him the key, no problem-o. He'd found the other suitcase that belonged in the Versa and taken off east. He'd stopped three times on the drive to take his bearings, and found two awesome cow skulls.
He hoped his parents weren't worrying. Jack had decided that going on walkabout, even if it was driveabout, meant he probably shouldn't keep his cellphone on. He had it, because he wasn't an idiot, but it was switched off. It probably interfered with all the psychic vibrations or something. They shouldn't worry too much, his letter had been pretty clear. Dear Parents, I'm going on walkabout. Don't worry, I have money and I packed a sandwich. Love, Jack.
Jack knew that someone needed this car, and probably all the shit in the backseat. The luggage tags were in Japanese, which was how he knew the dudes he was going to find were probably Japanese. He didn't know how he knew they were in New York, but they were. So, if the Japanese dudes wouldn't come to Mahomet, Mahomet would go to the Japanese dudes.
He figured, what with the road work going on in Kansas, it'd be smarter to aim north and bypass it entirely. There was an awesome themed hotel in Iowa he could sleep at tomorrow night, if he wanted. He planned to be in New York City by sundown, day after tomorrow. He had another good eight hours of driving time if he stopped and slept from midnight to six.
His fingers, almost unconsciously, dug into the gap between the booth's seat and the wall. They came up with a box of crayons.
The ways of the universe were wonderful and strange. Jack had turned himself over to his spirit walk, and the gods had sent him crayons. That was pretty awesome.
Next time, on Heroes ("Dreaming Life"):
"I need you to guard someone for me."
That alien self-containment, the disinterest in -- in power, in playing the goddamn game -- all the things that had perplexed Nathan about Peter were present in Claire, and he began to realise that perhaps to Heidi and his sons and his mother he seemed like an alien too.
"I don't want to die in Texas." "Oh, what they're going to do to us is much worse than dying."
A guy with a sword meant that someone else was watching over Suresh -- Petrelli, or the man who'd come to Petrelli's rescue. Which might, in fact, mean that these two men were special also. And that meant they were prey.
Claire looked at him with a peculiar expression that he couldn't place; she did have a sweet smile.
He will wake up in a few minutes, in the darkness of the New York City warehouse, in the life he chose when he could have had that golden-green yard in Odessa.
Chapter Four
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Also, you for the win. Just in general. Well, specifically, Hiro's Ingrish (Mystery Sock!) made me laugh.
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HA! Brilliant. I love this line.
Jack had turned himself over to his spirit walk, and the gods had sent him crayons. That was pretty awesome.This may be even better than the justice leage fortress line. I wish my spirit guides or whatever would send me crayons. One of those huge boxes with about 150 different colors. Awesome.
I'm extremely in love with this fic and I can not wait till the next installment! I'm very curious to hear more about Jack, he's quite an interesting character with possibly the most useful power ever.
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And I can hear Nathan speak every line of your dialogue for him. Spot-on!
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Alright -- the thought of Mohinder with a ST slash collection is making me laugh. A lot.
Thank you for the next installment.
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Jack amuses me.
Also that would be a pretty damn awesome power. Except if he can't turn it off, it would get a little overwhelming in a place like New York...
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It's going to be really hard to watch you get Jossed. :(
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(Anonymous) 2007-03-17 03:39 am (UTC)(link)But please consider using this (http://i160.photobucket.com/albums/t185/utilityknife/cbadge_hiatus/cbadge_ch03.jpg) until someone makes you a better one, because quick-n-dirty photo-manips do not belong in such an awesome story!
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(Anonymous) 2007-03-17 04:03 pm (UTC)(link)(I'd love to do a Tim-Sale-esque version of your chapter two manip, by the way, but I don't recognize the dude in it. If y'wanted to direct me to whatever source photo you used, I'd be more than willing to take a stab at it.)
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The source I used is pretty irrelevant, I just wanted someone blond, so this is perfect. I rather like that you can't see his face, actually.
If you're interested in doing other paintings for the fic, I plan to have Isaac's art be something of a continuing theme -- I don't really know how to write him very well, so I thought I'd let his paintings speak for themselves. Would you care to collab with me? No pressure, of course, but I'd love to have you onboard if you'd like.
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(Anonymous) 2007-03-17 08:53 pm (UTC)(link)That said, helping you out with this would be kinda the artistic highlight of my month (although it does blow my plans to avoid hyperventilation via the creepy glory-hole method of anonymous art-gifting). E-mail me (utility.knife@gmail.com) when y'need me, man, I'm at yer service.
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Also, Jack is somewhat upsetting. I'm not sure why, but the eccentricity keeps screaming "SCARY WEIRDO DUDE" at me.
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I may write Nathan a bit too awesome. *sighs* I do tend to do that.
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Jack had turned himself over to his spirit walk, and the gods had sent him crayons. That was pretty awesome.
Loved this line.
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Jack is great. I'm looking forward to seeing him more fully fleshed out and tested.
Hiro+Nathan are as great together as they are on the show, and Sylar is delightfully creepy, even without the eyebrows of DOOM; I confess to being rather nervous for Mohinder's sake.
About the only thing in all three segments that hasn't rung quite true (as an aside, I love what you're doing with Claude, although for some reason his image in my head seems to be played by Remus Lupin!) was this bit with Nathan: I know what you're going to say, there's the campaign, but really, Ma. My family is what's most important to me right now. And we'll, you know. We'll break it to Heidi somehow. I've been watching the show again from the start, and for Nathan to throw his career aside like that is . . . startling. I'm not criticizing, just saying that I'm looking forward to seeing how and why Nathan shifted to that place - how Claire managed to penetrate his ambitions in a way that Peter couldn't.
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As for Nathan -- perhaps I wasn't making it clear enough, but he's definitely not throwing his career away or anything like it. He's saying that to his mother with the understanding that she'll see through it -- he's making a statement that she'll comprehend, that this is something important to him. If she called his bluff...he'd let her send Claire away.
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Hee, I'm certainly not in a position to talk!
If she called his bluff...he'd let her send Claire away.
That makes a lot of sense. I wonder why I didn't pick up on it the first time. Now I'm thinking about what it means that Mama P didn't call his bluff. I suspect that she's like Hiro: she knows Nathan's a fluffy marshmallow underneath, and that family's always been his weakest spot; she just doesn't know exactly how weak.
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Also, I read "Sweet Home" during another gap in "Laacon's Children," and it was so amazing. Keep up the good work!
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(Anonymous) 2007-03-28 08:12 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
First? I am already in love with Jack, and I love his abilities. And the Gods sending him crayons.
And Grandma Petrelli's saying that sometimes people condescend to you for your own good was very in-character and also highly amusing...I may make an icon.
Nathan and Hiro, especially interacting Nathan and Hiro, are made of win.
Claire is remarkably in-voice.
Justice league fortresses. *cracks up*
The idea of Mohinder as a Trekkie amuses me greatly.
Nathan being glad that she hugged him first, and then rationalising that he was nearer, and oh...I can't wait to see this dynamic played out. I really hope they get there in the show, too.
Sam, you are my Super-Hiro
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"He turned into an idiot too," Nathan said, jerking his head at Peter, who scowled.
Abso-freakin'-lutely brilliant.