sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:36 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:36 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Six
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Six: Family Photos
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Parkman and Bennett get to town, Peter gets a surprise, Hiro gets free HBO, Jessica gets a date, Jack gets chased, and Claude gets dinner.
Notes: Thanks and credit to Utility Knife for Isaac's painting; if you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 3.26.07
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - SOMEWHERE IN WEST TEXAS
"Did we really have to steal a car?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Bennett answered briefly.
"Yeah, okay, maybe, but the guy's wallet -- "
"We needed cash. We're going to have to buy gas, we're going to have to eat. We can't keep this car forever, either."
Matt sighed and looked down at his hands. A month ago he'd been a policeman, a pillar of the community, a hard working guy having issues with his marriage, just like a million other guys. Now he was a fugitive from a multinational corporation, a fugitive from the law, a felon, a pickpocket, and a psychic.
"We're going as far as Austin," Bennett said, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "From there we can get a flight to New York."
"We're just going to steal a plane, huh?" Matt asked.
"I have a contingency plan."
"Guys like you always do."
Bennett frowned. "Yes. We do. There's a safety-deposit box in Austin with false identification and enough cash to get me safely out of the country. I don't think anyone's going to buy that you're my son, but it won't be hard to get you some. I know where to look."
"I need to call my wife."
"The Company will be watching her. You can't risk it," Bennett snapped.
"She's pregnant and she's probably worried sick," Matt said.
"She's still alive," Bennett replied.
Matt didn't speak for the rest of the drive to Austin.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER PETRELLI - NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, MID-MANHATTAN BRANCH
The fourth floor of the New York Public Library was filled with the clattering of keyboards and rustle of newspaper pages. The low noise made Peter nervous, as did the very public location, but he didn't feel safe opening these files anywhere else.
He sat in front of a computer monitor, feeling the weight of the little flash-drive in his pocket. He touched the mouse, idly making it dart back and forth across the screen. He'd been putting it off all day, but he didn't think he could go see Claude without having at least looked at the information on it. Claude would ask him about it. Well, probably.
He took the drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the port on the side of the monitor, watching as the computer searched for the hardware, found it, installed it, and asked him what he wanted to do.
Well, here went nothing.
Peter opened the jump-drive folder and was confronted with a handful of files and dozens of other folders. "Downloads" was one, and that was probably the lists Mohinder was compiling; most of the rest looked like folders that Mohinder had designated himself, which had been downloaded intact from the hard drive.
One folder caught his eye -- Petrelli.
He blinked and double-clicked, peering at the window that opened up. There were a handful of publicity photos of Nathan, pulled off his website, and one or two photos of Peter that he recognised as images a friend had put up on a Myspace. There was a Word file, too, but when he opened it there was nothing but little white boxes.
He closed it and scanned more titles, looking for other names, but none of them rang a bell --
Family Photos.
Peter cocked his head. Whose family?
He opened the folder and was confronted with a series of thumbnail images, some of Mohinder, some of a woman who was clearly his mother. Others showed him holding a young woman around the waist, and there were a few of a grave older man Peter recognised from the back of Activating Evolution: Chandra Suresh.
This was Mohinder's family. The woman was probably a girlfriend. God, his mother probably didn't know he was in the hospital. And that he might not wake up.
He shook his head and closed the window, finally opening the Downloads folder. There were five files: two PDF and three HTML. None of them were titled with anything other than serial numbers.
Each file cut off early, some halfway through a record, but there was enough information in them for Peter to wonder if Claude hadn't been right; this should be locked up somewhere. Just looking at the lists of names, addresses, blood types, spouses, children...
He didn't recognise any of the names, except for his own and Nathan's. Most of them were in North America. Some were just names, with the address listed as "unknown".
There were at least a hundred names, even with only a partial list. Probably hundreds of people like him, potentially like him.
Peter inhaled sharply, feeling a resistance in his chest, as though his ribcage wasn't quite big enough for his lungs. Suddenly they weren't names, they were people, his people, some family out there that shared something common deep in their DNA.
He could hear Nathan and Claude laughing at him, but he didn't care. Someone would have to find these people and show them who they were. Maybe it shouldn't be him, but someone should. Someone should tell them they weren't freaks, they weren't alone.
Someone should warn them about Sylar.
Peter closed the files and pulled the drive out of its port, holding it tightly in his hand. Then he shoved it back in his pocket and left, feeling for it every few minutes until he arrived safely -- invisibly -- at the apartment.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - NYC
"I have cuts all over my fingers from handbills," Ando complained, sitting on the hotel bed and studying his fingers. Hiro unslung his sword and hung it on one of the hotel-room chairs. "And I think Petrelli is overpaying us."
"We're very valuable," Hiro replied.
"We didn't show up until noon."
"We were guarding Mr. Mohinder," Hiro reminded him. Ando grinned.
"Yeah, that was pretty cool," he said. "But Hiro..."
"Yes?"
"How long do we stay here?" Ando asked, crossing his legs and turning to look at his friend. "We want to help Peter Petrelli, right? But do we have to stay here until he explodes? I saw the explosion. I don't want to see it again."
Hiro sat on the other bed, fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. They'd have to buy new clothes soon too; they couldn't go on wearing these forever.
"I think we're waiting," he replied. "For a sign."
"A sign?" Ando asked. Hiro nodded sagely. "How long do we wait?"
Hiro grinned at him. "I have time."
Ando groaned and flopped back on the bed. Hiro laughed.
"Tomorrow we'll go see Mr. Isaac again, maybe," he said. "In the meantime..."
Ando looked at him expectantly. Hiro held up the remote control.
"Free HBO!"
***
JESSICA SANDERS - NYC
"This is Nathan."
Jessica smiled into the telephone. She'd had a very productive day and now she was sitting in a salon, getting a manicure from a woman who only barely spoke English and talking on the telephone with one of the more virile men in New York City.
"Mr. Petrelli?" she asked, trying out her best Niki voice.
"Yes, who's this?" the man on the other end of the line asked.
"It's Niki -- we met in Las Vegas," she said. There was a long silence.
"We did," he said, noncommittally.
"Listen, I need to talk to you," she continued. "I have some information you should have."
"Well, I'm always available to meet with my constituency," Nathan said. "Especially those with a vested interest in the success of the Petrelli campaign."
"What about the success of a man named Linderman?" she asked. He laughed into the phone.
"Him I can take or leave," he said.
"Then we should meet. When can I see you?"
"Ah, well," he replied, and his voice broke slightly. "How urgent is it?"
"I'm free tomorrow."
"All right. Any idea where?"
She smiled, imagining him setting up a date to meet with a beautiful, sexy blonde in front of half his staff.
"I have a hotel room," she said. She hoped that, on the other end of the line, his pretty olive skin was blushing.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC
"I gotta go out this evening," Peter said, seating himself on the sagging, shabby couch and balancing his dinner plate on one knee. Claire, already sitting on the chair nearby, was wolfing down the rice-a-roni he'd made as if it was the first food she'd seen in a week. "Probably won't be back till late, you shouldn't wait up."
"Guess I can't come with, huh," Claire asked. Peter shook his head. "Where are you going? Hot date?"
Peter laughed. "Not exactly. There's this guy...it's complicated."
"Oh," Claire said, looking disappointed.
"What's oh?" Peter asked, digging into the rice.
"Oh no -- I mean, it's nothing, I just didn't realise you were gay," she said.
Peter felt the grains of rice lodge in his windpipe as he inhaled in surprise. He coughed, thumped his chest, and almost spilled his water.
"Are you okay?" she asked, worried. "I don't care, I know I'm from Texas but I swear we're not all bible-waving Republicans -- "
"No," he blurted hoarsely. "Sorry, it's just -- I'm not gay," he said, coughing up another few grains of rice.
"You aren't?" she asked.
"No, it's not like that. You know the guy who brought me home?"
"You're not helping your case," she said dryly. He rolled his eyes.
"He's teaching me. I'm -- dangerous...not to you, just, it's -- "
"Complicated," she chimed in when he said the word. He grinned.
"Anyway, I wanna tell you about that. I think you should know. So -- maybe tomorrow, yeah?"
"Okay," she said. "Can I...help at all?"
He gave her a thoughtful look, then dug in his pocket and pulled out the jump drive. "Take care of that for me, wouldja?"
"Are you sure -- "
"Hey, you're indestructible, right? It should be safe with you," he replied. She gave him a big wide grin.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - AUSTIN, TEXAS
"Oh, shit."
Bennett looked up from his plate of food -- it couldn't really be called dinner if you weren't eating it, and his appetite was permanently gone. He was trying to focus on Claire, on finding Claire, but the idea that his son was gone forever, that his wife was gone forever...
He shook his head and followed Parkman's gaze across the crowded little sports bar to the television. Where he saw...Parkman. A photograph of Parkman with someone who must be his wife, then another of the ex-police officer in uniform.
MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING EX-OFFICER, the subheading read.
"Shit, they're gonna find me," Parkman said, ducking his head and trying to crawl into the booth's woodwork. "Someone's gonna call in and Primatech's gonna come after me -- "
"Shut up," Bennett ordered. You'd think a police officer would make for a slightly more competent travel companion.
"Hey, if they find me they find you -- "
"Shut up and let me think," Bennett said.
They had another four hours to go before his contact could come through with a false ID for Parkman, and after that another two before the next flight out to New York. There was a lot one could do in six hours, but radical plastic surgery wasn't an option. Still...
"Eat up," Bennett barked. "Let's pay and get out of here. Then we need to find a drugstore."
"A drugstore?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Bennett answered. "I need a razor."
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - MANHATTAN
Peter found the warehouse without too much difficulty, considering Claude's vague directions. He felt the whole time as though he were being watched but he knew, now, how to differentiate between what was real and what was just his own brain, psyching himself up. He was certain that if anyone was watching, it was only Claude. He kept invisible, just to be safe.
The factory was unlit and locked, but it didn't take Peter long to find a broken window. He half-thought the place would be filled with junkies and bums -- it was pretty warm and out of the wind -- but it was echoingly empty inside, the floor strewn with debris. The only light, streaming through another broken ground-floor window, fell on a flight of stairs.
Peter sighed, wondering if Claude could possibly be more cryptic than he already was, and climbed the stairs. The second floor was much cleaner, wide and bare except where machinery had been shoved or piled against the walls. The broken windows here were boarded over, and when he examined them closely he saw that something had been melted along the seams to stop the drafts -- rubber, or maybe plastic.
He made himself visible again and looked around. Definitely a good place for Claude to practice throwing him against sharp objects and through windows.
He didn't hear footsteps on the floor below or on the stairs, but he heard a slight crackle as Claude became visible. He turned quickly, waiting for the attack.
It never came.
Claude stood in the middle of the floor, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly tilted. He was still wearing the new coat -- longer, dark brown, good for winter Peter supposed. He stretched out one hand and flicked a switch, and a few high-up floodlamps came on, throwing pools of pale white light on the floor.
"I came," Peter said.
"So I see," Claude answered.
"I want some answers from you."
"Well, that's the pickle, isn't it?" Claude said, picking up a piece of piping, twirling it around in one hand idly. "I can teach you, or I can give you answers. Not both."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't feel like it."
Claude feinted forward with the pipe and Peter jerked back, though they were still too far apart for him to have been hurt. Claude shook his head.
"I'm not offering you storytime," he continued. "What we have here is a social contract. I teach you how to keep from blowin' up, and you don't blow up. Granted, you've got the upper hand, on account of holding a whole city hostage to your adolescent angst."
"And you care about the city," Peter said, sidestepping when Claude began to circle him.
"I'm not going to stand by while it gets blown up."
"What's the difference?"
"I wouldn't expect you to know," Claude sighed, and let go of the pipe. It continued to spin in midair. Peter felt his jaw drop.
"So you are an Empath," he said.
"Yes," Claude said briefly. "And that means your schooling's about to get a lot more interesting."
The pipe slammed forward into Peter's chest, knocking him flat. He heard ribs crack, and thought of Claire; in an instant they crackled back into place.
He pushed himself up, just in time to dodge a piece of wood flung at him from a pile ten feet from where Claude stood.
"How does it work for you?" he asked, catching a second board. He didn't want to think of Sylar, but the man did have the ability to fend off the kind of attack he was facing. A bolt began to unscrew itself from the board in his hands. "You eat peoples' brains too?" he asked, hedging for time.
"That's an amateur's trick," Claude replied. Peter glanced down and saw that the other man's shoes were two inches off the ground. "You and I know better."
The bolt jerked out of the board and flung itself at Claude, pelting him in the head. Blood slid down his temple. He grinned.
"That's more like it," he said. "Try not to impale me, lad; I don't heal like you do."
"Don't you pick up my powers?" Peter asked. Claude shook his head and pulled a spike out of the rubbish. "And is there maybe another way to teach me this without beating the shit out of me?"
"This way's the most fun," Claude answered, and stabbed Peter through the shoulder.
***
JACK BAKER - KEOSAUQUA, IOWA
By the time he checked in, around eleven o'clock that night, Jack was beat. He'd never done a cross-country drive before, certainly not in three days, and while six hours of sleep was generally enough to get him through school, he'd begun to worry about dozing off as he drove.
He sat down at the little desk in the Noir Room of the Keosauqua Theme Motel and took out a postcard from one of the desk's pigeonholes. He could send a postcard to his parents, and maybe another to the rugrats so that they'd feel special. If he thought really hard about it, he could see where each one of them was. Two hours earlier there; Mom and Dad were getting ready for bed, the twins were reading comics under the covers, the girls were giggling in the bathroom while they played at doing their hair...
Jack felt a stab of homesickness, and finished up the postcards as fast as he could. He could go out and get a soda somewhere and still be back by midnight; he wanted to be around other people for a little while before hitting the sack.
The Denny's next to the motel was remarkably full of people, but then he supposed in a town like Keosauqua there wasn't much else to do after ten at night. His waiter was pretty cool, though.
"Coffee?" the guy asked.
"Please," Jack said. "And a big, like, plate of something fried."
"Munchies?"
Jack sniggered. "Not yet."
"Dude, smoke it outside, okay?"
"Nah, don't worry, I'm driving, I'm sober. Hey, man, by the way..." Jack caught the waiter's sleeve as he turned to go. "Your glasses are on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."
The man frowned at him. "What?"
"The glasses you're missing. Look on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."
The waiter jerked his sleeve away and nearly ran off. Jack sighed. Maybe he could have handled that better, but it had been kind of a sudden urge. It was supposed to bring good karma and all that.
He saw through the meal hatch that the waiter was talking with the line cook, and after a minute the cook disappeared, returning with a pair of glasses. Both men stared at Jack for long enough that Jack pretended to be really fucking engrossed with the History Of Keosauqua printed on the paper placemat.
With virtually no crime, Keosauqua is a community of friendly neighbors. The town is the geographical center of the Van Buren Community School District and the site of its junior-senior high school. Indian Hills Community College local extension center...
"Hey, kid."
Jack looked up and smiled at the waiter. "Found your glasses, huh?"
"Yeah -- how'd you know?"
"Dunno. Got a talent for it."
"You know that's a little bit creepy, right?" the waiter asked.
"Sorry, man. I just thought you'd like to have your glasses back."
The waiter sniffed and stalked off. Jeez, some gratitude.
"Hey, that was pretty cool," said a new voice, and Jack looked across the back of his booth. Three girls about his age, and two of their boyfriends, were sitting behind him. One of the girls grinned at him. "Is it like a party trick?"
"Sure thing," Jack said. "Hey, you lose anything recently?"
One of the girls looked at her boyfriend and giggled. Aw, Jesus, whatever.
"I lost twenty bucks out of my wallet yesterday," the other boyfriend said. "You know where it fell?"
Jack looked intently at him, then closed his eyes and tried to Know.
"It's in your girlfriend's purse," he heard himself say, and then his eyes flew open.
"What did you fuckin' say?" the guy asked.
"Nothing. Just a joke," Jack began, but the dude was standing up and he was fucking huge.
"Are you saying my girlfriend's stealing from me, dickhead?"
Jack stood up too, toe to toe with the guy, and looked him in the eye.
Then he ran.
He vaulted over a chair, dodged around two waiters who appeared out of nowhere, and slammed straight through the rear exit. Knowing where everything was did give you a slight advantage in an escape situation.
He darted around the building, slid behind a shrub, and watched as both boyfriends, one of the waiters, and a chef carrying a spatula ran past. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting until they were back inside before creeping out again. He didn't think anyone had ever crossed the parking lot between Denny's and the Keosauqua Theme Motel at light speed, but he made a valiant try.
Man. What did he do in a past life to deserve that?
***
PETER AND CLAUDE - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - NYC
"You electrocuted me!" Peter said indignantly.
Claude looked nonplussed. "You seem to have survived it."
"Did you know those wires were live?" Peter asked, pointing at the wall. A handful of wires crackled and sparked where Peter had fallen against them, pulling them down and taking a direct electrical shock that had put him out for almost five minutes. Smoke was still rising off his shirt.
"Fifty-fifty chance," Claude said with a shrug.
"Jesus, I liked that shirt," Peter grumbled, pulling off the tattered remains. The warehouse wasn't exactly warm, and he had gooseflesh all over his shoulders.
"Yeah, shame about that," Claude answered, not really sounding as if he thought it was a shame at all. "Next time, stop me. Or stop the electricity. You've got telekinesis. Use it."
"I caught on fire!" Peter shouted.
"That reminds me, I could murder a kebab," Claude mused. "Right, school's out for the night. You're paying, shirtless wonder."
"I'm not buying you dinner!" Peter said, shrugging into his jacket and following Claude to the stairs.
"Fine, then I'm not putting out," Claude retorted with a grin. "If you don't buy it I'll just steal it."
"You're an asshole."
Claude ducked through the broken window and emerged into the dark New York street, putting on his big floppy hat as he did so. "Run along home if you must. I'm getting some grub."
Peter felt his traitorous stomach rumble. Claude, pretending not to notice, took off in the direction of midtown, his coat flapping out behind him. Peter sighed, then ran to catch up.
"When do you want to meet again?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"You're awfully eager to get the snot kicked out of you," Claude replied. "Especially by someone you think is an arsehole."
"Yeah, well. You're an asshole, but you're all I've got."
"Given up on your brother then, hmm? And the pretty blonde? And your girl, the one who can't choose between you and the addict?" Claude asked. Peter felt that more than he'd felt it when Claude shoved a spike through him.
"She's dead," he said quietly. Claude stopped, so Peter did too. The older man turned to look at him. "Simone. She died."
"What happened?" he asked. Peter rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"Isaac," he muttered. "After they found us I figured he must have shown them where we were. We had a fight. He had a gun."
"I don't quite see how him pointing a gun at you ends in the girl's death."
"I was invisible," Peter whispered. "She walked in the door, he fired. End of story."
Something oddly close to compassion flickered in Claude's eyes for just a second. Then his face seemed to harden.
"Teach you to go round getting involved with people," he said, and walked on.
"Simone's dead," Peter called after him.
"Yeah, and you're not. Don't make it pointless, eh?"
Peter balled his fists and caught up to him for a second time. Claude led him into a more well-light part of town, busier, louder; lots of nightclubs and cafes. He stopped at a window in a wall and leaned his elbows on the counter.
"Two meat kebabs, bottle of beer, large fries, pita with hummus," Claude said. "He's paying."
The man behind the counter looked at Peter, who sighed and dug in his pocket for his wallet. It was obscenely cheap, considering the amount of food that was passed to Claude through the window, but then "meat" was not a very reassuring designation, and the beer bottle had no label on it. Claude led the way, Peter following curiously, to a darkened doorway nearby. He settled down in the crook of the doorframe and jerked his head at the other side.
"Make yourself at home," he said, passing one of the kebabs and the carton of fries to Peter. He dabbed a triangle of pita in the hummus, pulled half his kebab off the skewer, and made himself a peculiar kind of sandwich, eating noisily.
Peter ate the meat off his own skewer with care, trying not to stab himself on the sharp end. This was a little weird.
"So tell me," Claude said, pausing to chew, "About this list you've laid your hands on."
"I looked at it this afternoon. There's at least a hundred names on there. People like us."
"Doubt that," the other man replied. "Doubt that very much."
"What, you think it's not true?"
Claude shook his head. "You and I," he said, gesturing between them, "know and accept what we are. Most of them are going to be like your brother."
"Leave Nathan alone, he never did anything to you," Peter replied, annoyed.
"You're going to go all out, eh?" Claude asked. "Find everyone on this list, build a happy family?"
Peter felt very small, sometimes, next to Claude. He picked at the french fries, ashamed of being so predictable. When he looked up again, Claude was watching him.
"Tell me about the girl in your flat, Naughty Nathan's daughter," Claude said finally, taking another enormous bite of food.
"You tell me. You ran away when she showed up."
"Too many people in one place. Why complicate matters? You didn't need me."
"Her name's Claire Bennett," Peter murmured. "She's like us."
"Again, with the "like us" crap. Just come out and say it, Petrelli. She's mutated; she's abnormal; she's a freak."
"Is that what you think we are?" Peter asked.
"Doesn't matter what I think." Claude finished his food and shoved the beer bottle's cap into a crack in the step they were sitting on, opening it and taking a long pull. "What matters is what is, and how some people will say it and some won't. So she's got power, eh?"
"She's indestructible. She's the one I learned it from, in Texas." Peter took the beer when Claude offered it, sipping cautiously.
"The one with the sad little smile," Claude said, grinning mockingly.
"Do you have to treat everything that way?" Peter asked. "Do you have to make it so...cheap?"
"Someone has to fiddle while Rome burns."
"That doesn't even make sense. She's a good kid. Someone's after her, her dad sent her here to be safe. Well, not here. She came here. She thought I could protect her."
Claude's expression was oddly unreadable -- no cynicism, no anger, no emotion at all.
"Funny old world," he said quietly, and finished the beer.
Next time, on Heroes ("Lost And Found")
"I know, I know, you're indestructible, but I don't think there'd be enough left of you -- not if you're as close as you were in the dreams."
Their faces were dangerously close, and he knew it, and still he didn't move when she swayed forward and kissed him.
"Are you a Superman fan, Mr. Petrelli? Courting the comic-book vote?"
"Well, you probably are a freak, but you're not the only freak, is kinda my point," Jack replied.
"So you didn't, you know." Nathan made a circle next to his ear with one finger. Peter mimicked it. "You know, with your...brain."
He had a limited amount of money, but if it would shut Parkman up he'd buy the man a goddamn hat.
Everyone was looking for something, mostly things Jack could feel pinging on his radar, glowing distantly. Love, sex, car keys, a decent cup of coffee, a parking space, a fix, a couple bucks for dinner. Even things Jack knew he couldn't find, like a sense of purpose or a way to add an extra hour onto the day.
Chapter Seven
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Parkman and Bennett get to town, Peter gets a surprise, Hiro gets free HBO, Jessica gets a date, Jack gets chased, and Claude gets dinner.
Notes: Thanks and credit to Utility Knife for Isaac's painting; if you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 3.26.07
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - SOMEWHERE IN WEST TEXAS
"Did we really have to steal a car?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Bennett answered briefly.
"Yeah, okay, maybe, but the guy's wallet -- "
"We needed cash. We're going to have to buy gas, we're going to have to eat. We can't keep this car forever, either."
Matt sighed and looked down at his hands. A month ago he'd been a policeman, a pillar of the community, a hard working guy having issues with his marriage, just like a million other guys. Now he was a fugitive from a multinational corporation, a fugitive from the law, a felon, a pickpocket, and a psychic.
"We're going as far as Austin," Bennett said, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "From there we can get a flight to New York."
"We're just going to steal a plane, huh?" Matt asked.
"I have a contingency plan."
"Guys like you always do."
Bennett frowned. "Yes. We do. There's a safety-deposit box in Austin with false identification and enough cash to get me safely out of the country. I don't think anyone's going to buy that you're my son, but it won't be hard to get you some. I know where to look."
"I need to call my wife."
"The Company will be watching her. You can't risk it," Bennett snapped.
"She's pregnant and she's probably worried sick," Matt said.
"She's still alive," Bennett replied.
Matt didn't speak for the rest of the drive to Austin.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER PETRELLI - NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY, MID-MANHATTAN BRANCH
The fourth floor of the New York Public Library was filled with the clattering of keyboards and rustle of newspaper pages. The low noise made Peter nervous, as did the very public location, but he didn't feel safe opening these files anywhere else.
He sat in front of a computer monitor, feeling the weight of the little flash-drive in his pocket. He touched the mouse, idly making it dart back and forth across the screen. He'd been putting it off all day, but he didn't think he could go see Claude without having at least looked at the information on it. Claude would ask him about it. Well, probably.
He took the drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the port on the side of the monitor, watching as the computer searched for the hardware, found it, installed it, and asked him what he wanted to do.
Well, here went nothing.
Peter opened the jump-drive folder and was confronted with a handful of files and dozens of other folders. "Downloads" was one, and that was probably the lists Mohinder was compiling; most of the rest looked like folders that Mohinder had designated himself, which had been downloaded intact from the hard drive.
One folder caught his eye -- Petrelli.
He blinked and double-clicked, peering at the window that opened up. There were a handful of publicity photos of Nathan, pulled off his website, and one or two photos of Peter that he recognised as images a friend had put up on a Myspace. There was a Word file, too, but when he opened it there was nothing but little white boxes.
He closed it and scanned more titles, looking for other names, but none of them rang a bell --
Family Photos.
Peter cocked his head. Whose family?
He opened the folder and was confronted with a series of thumbnail images, some of Mohinder, some of a woman who was clearly his mother. Others showed him holding a young woman around the waist, and there were a few of a grave older man Peter recognised from the back of Activating Evolution: Chandra Suresh.
This was Mohinder's family. The woman was probably a girlfriend. God, his mother probably didn't know he was in the hospital. And that he might not wake up.
He shook his head and closed the window, finally opening the Downloads folder. There were five files: two PDF and three HTML. None of them were titled with anything other than serial numbers.
Each file cut off early, some halfway through a record, but there was enough information in them for Peter to wonder if Claude hadn't been right; this should be locked up somewhere. Just looking at the lists of names, addresses, blood types, spouses, children...
He didn't recognise any of the names, except for his own and Nathan's. Most of them were in North America. Some were just names, with the address listed as "unknown".
There were at least a hundred names, even with only a partial list. Probably hundreds of people like him, potentially like him.
Peter inhaled sharply, feeling a resistance in his chest, as though his ribcage wasn't quite big enough for his lungs. Suddenly they weren't names, they were people, his people, some family out there that shared something common deep in their DNA.
He could hear Nathan and Claude laughing at him, but he didn't care. Someone would have to find these people and show them who they were. Maybe it shouldn't be him, but someone should. Someone should tell them they weren't freaks, they weren't alone.
Someone should warn them about Sylar.
Peter closed the files and pulled the drive out of its port, holding it tightly in his hand. Then he shoved it back in his pocket and left, feeling for it every few minutes until he arrived safely -- invisibly -- at the apartment.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - NYC
"I have cuts all over my fingers from handbills," Ando complained, sitting on the hotel bed and studying his fingers. Hiro unslung his sword and hung it on one of the hotel-room chairs. "And I think Petrelli is overpaying us."
"We're very valuable," Hiro replied.
"We didn't show up until noon."
"We were guarding Mr. Mohinder," Hiro reminded him. Ando grinned.
"Yeah, that was pretty cool," he said. "But Hiro..."
"Yes?"
"How long do we stay here?" Ando asked, crossing his legs and turning to look at his friend. "We want to help Peter Petrelli, right? But do we have to stay here until he explodes? I saw the explosion. I don't want to see it again."
Hiro sat on the other bed, fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. They'd have to buy new clothes soon too; they couldn't go on wearing these forever.
"I think we're waiting," he replied. "For a sign."
"A sign?" Ando asked. Hiro nodded sagely. "How long do we wait?"
Hiro grinned at him. "I have time."
Ando groaned and flopped back on the bed. Hiro laughed.
"Tomorrow we'll go see Mr. Isaac again, maybe," he said. "In the meantime..."
Ando looked at him expectantly. Hiro held up the remote control.
"Free HBO!"
***
JESSICA SANDERS - NYC
"This is Nathan."
Jessica smiled into the telephone. She'd had a very productive day and now she was sitting in a salon, getting a manicure from a woman who only barely spoke English and talking on the telephone with one of the more virile men in New York City.
"Mr. Petrelli?" she asked, trying out her best Niki voice.
"Yes, who's this?" the man on the other end of the line asked.
"It's Niki -- we met in Las Vegas," she said. There was a long silence.
"We did," he said, noncommittally.
"Listen, I need to talk to you," she continued. "I have some information you should have."
"Well, I'm always available to meet with my constituency," Nathan said. "Especially those with a vested interest in the success of the Petrelli campaign."
"What about the success of a man named Linderman?" she asked. He laughed into the phone.
"Him I can take or leave," he said.
"Then we should meet. When can I see you?"
"Ah, well," he replied, and his voice broke slightly. "How urgent is it?"
"I'm free tomorrow."
"All right. Any idea where?"
She smiled, imagining him setting up a date to meet with a beautiful, sexy blonde in front of half his staff.
"I have a hotel room," she said. She hoped that, on the other end of the line, his pretty olive skin was blushing.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNETT - NYC
"I gotta go out this evening," Peter said, seating himself on the sagging, shabby couch and balancing his dinner plate on one knee. Claire, already sitting on the chair nearby, was wolfing down the rice-a-roni he'd made as if it was the first food she'd seen in a week. "Probably won't be back till late, you shouldn't wait up."
"Guess I can't come with, huh," Claire asked. Peter shook his head. "Where are you going? Hot date?"
Peter laughed. "Not exactly. There's this guy...it's complicated."
"Oh," Claire said, looking disappointed.
"What's oh?" Peter asked, digging into the rice.
"Oh no -- I mean, it's nothing, I just didn't realise you were gay," she said.
Peter felt the grains of rice lodge in his windpipe as he inhaled in surprise. He coughed, thumped his chest, and almost spilled his water.
"Are you okay?" she asked, worried. "I don't care, I know I'm from Texas but I swear we're not all bible-waving Republicans -- "
"No," he blurted hoarsely. "Sorry, it's just -- I'm not gay," he said, coughing up another few grains of rice.
"You aren't?" she asked.
"No, it's not like that. You know the guy who brought me home?"
"You're not helping your case," she said dryly. He rolled his eyes.
"He's teaching me. I'm -- dangerous...not to you, just, it's -- "
"Complicated," she chimed in when he said the word. He grinned.
"Anyway, I wanna tell you about that. I think you should know. So -- maybe tomorrow, yeah?"
"Okay," she said. "Can I...help at all?"
He gave her a thoughtful look, then dug in his pocket and pulled out the jump drive. "Take care of that for me, wouldja?"
"Are you sure -- "
"Hey, you're indestructible, right? It should be safe with you," he replied. She gave him a big wide grin.
***
MATT PARKMAN AND MR. BENNETT - AUSTIN, TEXAS
"Oh, shit."
Bennett looked up from his plate of food -- it couldn't really be called dinner if you weren't eating it, and his appetite was permanently gone. He was trying to focus on Claire, on finding Claire, but the idea that his son was gone forever, that his wife was gone forever...
He shook his head and followed Parkman's gaze across the crowded little sports bar to the television. Where he saw...Parkman. A photograph of Parkman with someone who must be his wife, then another of the ex-police officer in uniform.
MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING EX-OFFICER, the subheading read.
"Shit, they're gonna find me," Parkman said, ducking his head and trying to crawl into the booth's woodwork. "Someone's gonna call in and Primatech's gonna come after me -- "
"Shut up," Bennett ordered. You'd think a police officer would make for a slightly more competent travel companion.
"Hey, if they find me they find you -- "
"Shut up and let me think," Bennett said.
They had another four hours to go before his contact could come through with a false ID for Parkman, and after that another two before the next flight out to New York. There was a lot one could do in six hours, but radical plastic surgery wasn't an option. Still...
"Eat up," Bennett barked. "Let's pay and get out of here. Then we need to find a drugstore."
"A drugstore?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Bennett answered. "I need a razor."
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - MANHATTAN
Peter found the warehouse without too much difficulty, considering Claude's vague directions. He felt the whole time as though he were being watched but he knew, now, how to differentiate between what was real and what was just his own brain, psyching himself up. He was certain that if anyone was watching, it was only Claude. He kept invisible, just to be safe.
The factory was unlit and locked, but it didn't take Peter long to find a broken window. He half-thought the place would be filled with junkies and bums -- it was pretty warm and out of the wind -- but it was echoingly empty inside, the floor strewn with debris. The only light, streaming through another broken ground-floor window, fell on a flight of stairs.
Peter sighed, wondering if Claude could possibly be more cryptic than he already was, and climbed the stairs. The second floor was much cleaner, wide and bare except where machinery had been shoved or piled against the walls. The broken windows here were boarded over, and when he examined them closely he saw that something had been melted along the seams to stop the drafts -- rubber, or maybe plastic.
He made himself visible again and looked around. Definitely a good place for Claude to practice throwing him against sharp objects and through windows.
He didn't hear footsteps on the floor below or on the stairs, but he heard a slight crackle as Claude became visible. He turned quickly, waiting for the attack.
It never came.
Claude stood in the middle of the floor, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly tilted. He was still wearing the new coat -- longer, dark brown, good for winter Peter supposed. He stretched out one hand and flicked a switch, and a few high-up floodlamps came on, throwing pools of pale white light on the floor.
"I came," Peter said.
"So I see," Claude answered.
"I want some answers from you."
"Well, that's the pickle, isn't it?" Claude said, picking up a piece of piping, twirling it around in one hand idly. "I can teach you, or I can give you answers. Not both."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't feel like it."
Claude feinted forward with the pipe and Peter jerked back, though they were still too far apart for him to have been hurt. Claude shook his head.
"I'm not offering you storytime," he continued. "What we have here is a social contract. I teach you how to keep from blowin' up, and you don't blow up. Granted, you've got the upper hand, on account of holding a whole city hostage to your adolescent angst."
"And you care about the city," Peter said, sidestepping when Claude began to circle him.
"I'm not going to stand by while it gets blown up."
"What's the difference?"
"I wouldn't expect you to know," Claude sighed, and let go of the pipe. It continued to spin in midair. Peter felt his jaw drop.
"So you are an Empath," he said.
"Yes," Claude said briefly. "And that means your schooling's about to get a lot more interesting."
The pipe slammed forward into Peter's chest, knocking him flat. He heard ribs crack, and thought of Claire; in an instant they crackled back into place.
He pushed himself up, just in time to dodge a piece of wood flung at him from a pile ten feet from where Claude stood.
"How does it work for you?" he asked, catching a second board. He didn't want to think of Sylar, but the man did have the ability to fend off the kind of attack he was facing. A bolt began to unscrew itself from the board in his hands. "You eat peoples' brains too?" he asked, hedging for time.
"That's an amateur's trick," Claude replied. Peter glanced down and saw that the other man's shoes were two inches off the ground. "You and I know better."
The bolt jerked out of the board and flung itself at Claude, pelting him in the head. Blood slid down his temple. He grinned.
"That's more like it," he said. "Try not to impale me, lad; I don't heal like you do."
"Don't you pick up my powers?" Peter asked. Claude shook his head and pulled a spike out of the rubbish. "And is there maybe another way to teach me this without beating the shit out of me?"
"This way's the most fun," Claude answered, and stabbed Peter through the shoulder.
***
JACK BAKER - KEOSAUQUA, IOWA
By the time he checked in, around eleven o'clock that night, Jack was beat. He'd never done a cross-country drive before, certainly not in three days, and while six hours of sleep was generally enough to get him through school, he'd begun to worry about dozing off as he drove.
He sat down at the little desk in the Noir Room of the Keosauqua Theme Motel and took out a postcard from one of the desk's pigeonholes. He could send a postcard to his parents, and maybe another to the rugrats so that they'd feel special. If he thought really hard about it, he could see where each one of them was. Two hours earlier there; Mom and Dad were getting ready for bed, the twins were reading comics under the covers, the girls were giggling in the bathroom while they played at doing their hair...
Jack felt a stab of homesickness, and finished up the postcards as fast as he could. He could go out and get a soda somewhere and still be back by midnight; he wanted to be around other people for a little while before hitting the sack.
The Denny's next to the motel was remarkably full of people, but then he supposed in a town like Keosauqua there wasn't much else to do after ten at night. His waiter was pretty cool, though.
"Coffee?" the guy asked.
"Please," Jack said. "And a big, like, plate of something fried."
"Munchies?"
Jack sniggered. "Not yet."
"Dude, smoke it outside, okay?"
"Nah, don't worry, I'm driving, I'm sober. Hey, man, by the way..." Jack caught the waiter's sleeve as he turned to go. "Your glasses are on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."
The man frowned at him. "What?"
"The glasses you're missing. Look on top of the big fridge in the kitchen."
The waiter jerked his sleeve away and nearly ran off. Jack sighed. Maybe he could have handled that better, but it had been kind of a sudden urge. It was supposed to bring good karma and all that.
He saw through the meal hatch that the waiter was talking with the line cook, and after a minute the cook disappeared, returning with a pair of glasses. Both men stared at Jack for long enough that Jack pretended to be really fucking engrossed with the History Of Keosauqua printed on the paper placemat.
With virtually no crime, Keosauqua is a community of friendly neighbors. The town is the geographical center of the Van Buren Community School District and the site of its junior-senior high school. Indian Hills Community College local extension center...
"Hey, kid."
Jack looked up and smiled at the waiter. "Found your glasses, huh?"
"Yeah -- how'd you know?"
"Dunno. Got a talent for it."
"You know that's a little bit creepy, right?" the waiter asked.
"Sorry, man. I just thought you'd like to have your glasses back."
The waiter sniffed and stalked off. Jeez, some gratitude.
"Hey, that was pretty cool," said a new voice, and Jack looked across the back of his booth. Three girls about his age, and two of their boyfriends, were sitting behind him. One of the girls grinned at him. "Is it like a party trick?"
"Sure thing," Jack said. "Hey, you lose anything recently?"
One of the girls looked at her boyfriend and giggled. Aw, Jesus, whatever.
"I lost twenty bucks out of my wallet yesterday," the other boyfriend said. "You know where it fell?"
Jack looked intently at him, then closed his eyes and tried to Know.
"It's in your girlfriend's purse," he heard himself say, and then his eyes flew open.
"What did you fuckin' say?" the guy asked.
"Nothing. Just a joke," Jack began, but the dude was standing up and he was fucking huge.
"Are you saying my girlfriend's stealing from me, dickhead?"
Jack stood up too, toe to toe with the guy, and looked him in the eye.
Then he ran.
He vaulted over a chair, dodged around two waiters who appeared out of nowhere, and slammed straight through the rear exit. Knowing where everything was did give you a slight advantage in an escape situation.
He darted around the building, slid behind a shrub, and watched as both boyfriends, one of the waiters, and a chef carrying a spatula ran past. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting until they were back inside before creeping out again. He didn't think anyone had ever crossed the parking lot between Denny's and the Keosauqua Theme Motel at light speed, but he made a valiant try.
Man. What did he do in a past life to deserve that?
***
PETER AND CLAUDE - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS - NYC
"You electrocuted me!" Peter said indignantly.
Claude looked nonplussed. "You seem to have survived it."
"Did you know those wires were live?" Peter asked, pointing at the wall. A handful of wires crackled and sparked where Peter had fallen against them, pulling them down and taking a direct electrical shock that had put him out for almost five minutes. Smoke was still rising off his shirt.
"Fifty-fifty chance," Claude said with a shrug.
"Jesus, I liked that shirt," Peter grumbled, pulling off the tattered remains. The warehouse wasn't exactly warm, and he had gooseflesh all over his shoulders.
"Yeah, shame about that," Claude answered, not really sounding as if he thought it was a shame at all. "Next time, stop me. Or stop the electricity. You've got telekinesis. Use it."
"I caught on fire!" Peter shouted.
"That reminds me, I could murder a kebab," Claude mused. "Right, school's out for the night. You're paying, shirtless wonder."
"I'm not buying you dinner!" Peter said, shrugging into his jacket and following Claude to the stairs.
"Fine, then I'm not putting out," Claude retorted with a grin. "If you don't buy it I'll just steal it."
"You're an asshole."
Claude ducked through the broken window and emerged into the dark New York street, putting on his big floppy hat as he did so. "Run along home if you must. I'm getting some grub."
Peter felt his traitorous stomach rumble. Claude, pretending not to notice, took off in the direction of midtown, his coat flapping out behind him. Peter sighed, then ran to catch up.
"When do you want to meet again?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"You're awfully eager to get the snot kicked out of you," Claude replied. "Especially by someone you think is an arsehole."
"Yeah, well. You're an asshole, but you're all I've got."
"Given up on your brother then, hmm? And the pretty blonde? And your girl, the one who can't choose between you and the addict?" Claude asked. Peter felt that more than he'd felt it when Claude shoved a spike through him.
"She's dead," he said quietly. Claude stopped, so Peter did too. The older man turned to look at him. "Simone. She died."
"What happened?" he asked. Peter rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"Isaac," he muttered. "After they found us I figured he must have shown them where we were. We had a fight. He had a gun."
"I don't quite see how him pointing a gun at you ends in the girl's death."
"I was invisible," Peter whispered. "She walked in the door, he fired. End of story."
Something oddly close to compassion flickered in Claude's eyes for just a second. Then his face seemed to harden.
"Teach you to go round getting involved with people," he said, and walked on.
"Simone's dead," Peter called after him.
"Yeah, and you're not. Don't make it pointless, eh?"
Peter balled his fists and caught up to him for a second time. Claude led him into a more well-light part of town, busier, louder; lots of nightclubs and cafes. He stopped at a window in a wall and leaned his elbows on the counter.
"Two meat kebabs, bottle of beer, large fries, pita with hummus," Claude said. "He's paying."
The man behind the counter looked at Peter, who sighed and dug in his pocket for his wallet. It was obscenely cheap, considering the amount of food that was passed to Claude through the window, but then "meat" was not a very reassuring designation, and the beer bottle had no label on it. Claude led the way, Peter following curiously, to a darkened doorway nearby. He settled down in the crook of the doorframe and jerked his head at the other side.
"Make yourself at home," he said, passing one of the kebabs and the carton of fries to Peter. He dabbed a triangle of pita in the hummus, pulled half his kebab off the skewer, and made himself a peculiar kind of sandwich, eating noisily.
Peter ate the meat off his own skewer with care, trying not to stab himself on the sharp end. This was a little weird.
"So tell me," Claude said, pausing to chew, "About this list you've laid your hands on."
"I looked at it this afternoon. There's at least a hundred names on there. People like us."
"Doubt that," the other man replied. "Doubt that very much."
"What, you think it's not true?"
Claude shook his head. "You and I," he said, gesturing between them, "know and accept what we are. Most of them are going to be like your brother."
"Leave Nathan alone, he never did anything to you," Peter replied, annoyed.
"You're going to go all out, eh?" Claude asked. "Find everyone on this list, build a happy family?"
Peter felt very small, sometimes, next to Claude. He picked at the french fries, ashamed of being so predictable. When he looked up again, Claude was watching him.
"Tell me about the girl in your flat, Naughty Nathan's daughter," Claude said finally, taking another enormous bite of food.
"You tell me. You ran away when she showed up."
"Too many people in one place. Why complicate matters? You didn't need me."
"Her name's Claire Bennett," Peter murmured. "She's like us."
"Again, with the "like us" crap. Just come out and say it, Petrelli. She's mutated; she's abnormal; she's a freak."
"Is that what you think we are?" Peter asked.
"Doesn't matter what I think." Claude finished his food and shoved the beer bottle's cap into a crack in the step they were sitting on, opening it and taking a long pull. "What matters is what is, and how some people will say it and some won't. So she's got power, eh?"
"She's indestructible. She's the one I learned it from, in Texas." Peter took the beer when Claude offered it, sipping cautiously.
"The one with the sad little smile," Claude said, grinning mockingly.
"Do you have to treat everything that way?" Peter asked. "Do you have to make it so...cheap?"
"Someone has to fiddle while Rome burns."
"That doesn't even make sense. She's a good kid. Someone's after her, her dad sent her here to be safe. Well, not here. She came here. She thought I could protect her."
Claude's expression was oddly unreadable -- no cynicism, no anger, no emotion at all.
"Funny old world," he said quietly, and finished the beer.
Next time, on Heroes ("Lost And Found")
"I know, I know, you're indestructible, but I don't think there'd be enough left of you -- not if you're as close as you were in the dreams."
Their faces were dangerously close, and he knew it, and still he didn't move when she swayed forward and kissed him.
"Are you a Superman fan, Mr. Petrelli? Courting the comic-book vote?"
"Well, you probably are a freak, but you're not the only freak, is kinda my point," Jack replied.
"So you didn't, you know." Nathan made a circle next to his ear with one finger. Peter mimicked it. "You know, with your...brain."
He had a limited amount of money, but if it would shut Parkman up he'd buy the man a goddamn hat.
Everyone was looking for something, mostly things Jack could feel pinging on his radar, glowing distantly. Love, sex, car keys, a decent cup of coffee, a parking space, a fix, a couple bucks for dinner. Even things Jack knew he couldn't find, like a sense of purpose or a way to add an extra hour onto the day.
Chapter Seven
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btw, what ship is the ship referenced in your icon? I'm dying to know!
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-blue
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Hiro and Ando make a great buddy team.
I gotta wonder what was in the Petrelli file that was erased.
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I wrote like three chapters today, the latest of which is titled "Four Breakfasts and Jack's Funeral".
Not literally. Just...Jack, don't be a dumbass! :D
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Perfect!
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DUDE.
I think I just fell in love with you.
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"I'm not buying you dinner!" Peter said, shrugging into his jacket and following Claude to the stairs.
"Fine, then I'm not putting out," Claude retorted with a grin.
Even in gen, it is impossible to avoid this. :D Keep up the great work--I love this story!
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For the record, I support this notion utterly.
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Part of me would love to see this actually be the way it works out but I have a feeling I may be a little disappointed...
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This fantastic I look forward to the next installment.
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YES.
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~shini
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~shini
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~shini
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And of course his reaction to the list would be I have to protect them all.
And Claude's method of handling Simone's death was just--wow.
Jessica teasing Nathan gave me a flicker of liking her.
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"Yeah, shame about that," Claude answered, not really sounding as if he thought it was a shame at all. "Next time, stop me. Or stop the electricity. You've got telekinesis. Use it."
"I caught on fire!" Peter shouted.
That's their relationship in miniature.
I love it!
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Well, that's not strictly true, but ... ;)
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And yeah, it really is very satisfying!