sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:38 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:38 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Eight
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Eight: Plot Twist
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Bennett gets a shock, Isaac gets a fix, Ando and Hiro get their car back, Jack gets dinner, and Claude gets hit in the head (twice).
Notes: Thanks to Heidi for beta-reading on this, and thanks and credit to Utility Knife for Isaac's paintings (especially Young Claude; isn't it splendid?). If you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 4.1.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS
"So," Peter said, climbing the stairs to the second level, "What are we kicking my ass with today? Sticks? Boards? Fire?"
Claude, standing at one of the windows with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, turned and scythed Nathan's black hat through the air. Peter caught it clumsily and studied it, perplexed.
"You can return that to your brother with my compliments," Claude said. "He'll know what it means."
Peter set the hat down on a nearby bit of machinery and looked at him expectantly. Claude walked to a pile of sharp, rusty-edged objects leaning against one wall and began to pick and choose among them.
"Does this ever go anywhere?" Peter asked, stepping left when Claude stepped right, already automatically on the defensive.
"You tell me," Claude replied. "Can you defend yourself? When you decide to blow a hole in the eastern seaboard, you're not going to have time to think or plan. If you can't think on your feet, you'll die on them."
He feinted a strike on Peter's shoulder with the sharp end of the spar and then hit him across the ribcage with the dull, rounded other end. Peter doubled over and Claude nicked just his earlobe with the sharp side.
"Where'd you learn to fight?" Peter asked, raising his hand to block another strike. To Claude's surprised pleasure, the spar never made it as far as his palm, quivering a few inches away.
"Manchester Council Estates," Claude answered.
"What?"
"The projects," Claude clarified, whapping him smartly upside the head. "Come on, you're not a punching bag, fight back. Come on!"
"I'm trying!" Peter said, but he was flinching away every time Claude feinted. No good; clearly he'd been too nice to the boy recently. Feeding the puppy was a mistake.
"Useless!" Claude shouted, aiming between Peter's legs. "Stop defending, start attacking!"
Peter snarled and leapt for him; Claude wasn't as young as he used to be and flipping Peter back against a wall nearly made him lose his wind. Peter's reaction was more what he wanted, but Peter was too comfortable with momentary rage for Claude's approval. Besides, there was more to fighting than physical control.
He decided on the spur of the moment; he lowered his usual defences and turned to face Peter again, projecting outwards.
Fight, boy! he commanded, which proved to be a mistake. Peter only flinched, but the echo of what he'd said hit Claude so hard he fell backwards, blown off his feet.
"Jesus!" Peter said, leaping forward. Claude clutched his head, which had taken a nasty rap on the concrete, and felt himself curl into a fetal ball. He felt Peter's hands, too, first on his ribcage trying to roll him off his side, then on his wrist, taking his pulse. He ignored them and concentrated, clearing his mind and dampening down the way the Haitian had taught him. After a second, none but the pain of the fall remained. He shook his head and sat up. There were worse things.
Peter was touching his back now, helping him sit upright, and cupping his face with his other hand. Claude tilted his head for just a moment, surprised by how intent Peter's stare was, until he realised he was being checked to make sure his pupils weren't dilated.
"I'm all right," he snarled, trying to take deep breaths. Peter backed away, which helped. They stayed there, Claude resting his head in his hands, Peter standing back and watching him cautiously, until Peter cleared his throat.
"You spoke to me," he said, awed. "I didn't know you could do that."
"You echoed," Claude replied. It hurt to talk. "Ever met a telepath before?"
"Umm..." Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I think so. In Texas. Maybe."
Claude pushed himself to his feet, the back of his head throbbing. He rubbed it, which only made it hurt more, but the pain cleared his mind.
"Who, in Texas?" he asked.
"Some guy...when they were interrogating me."
"Who was interrogating you?" Claude barked, then caught his breath when pain stabbed through his skull. Clear the head, clear the head...
"Just the cops," Peter said. His eyes were wide and frightened.
"Someone heard you? Your thoughts?"
"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing one arm. Claude swayed and Peter jerked forward, but he shoved him back with one hand.
"I'm all right," he repeated, stumbling to the stairs up to the third level. He sat down on them just as the room started to go fuzzy before his eyes. Peter followed, still keeping a safe distance.
"What happened?" Peter asked. "What'd I do?"
"I opened up. Wanted to see how you'd take it," Claude said, breathing deeply. "You echoed it back when my guard was down. Not bad."
"Thanks," Peter mumbled.
"No more fighting today," Claude continued. The pain was fading, making him conscious of other bruises. He stretched out his left arm and felt his elbow click, the joints realigning after catching most of his weight.
"Okay," Peter agreed, brows knitting. "Seriously, are you hurt? I'm a nurse, y'know."
"Nothing broken," Claude answered. "I'll live."
Peter kept watching him, waiting, until the world swam back into focus and the urge to throw up became only a distant nausea.
"Right," Claude said. "I think I've been going about this wrong."
Peter spread his hands questioningly. Claude beckoned him close, and Peter leaned forward, for once looming over him instead of the reverse.
"You aren't afraid of gettin' hurt," Claude said. "Don't blame ya; you heal. Fear's a good motivator, but you have to find the right fear. This isn't it. Got to be another one."
"Another...fear?"
Claude, without warning, reached out and gripped Peter by the back of the neck, pressing his other palm to Peter's forehead. He opened his own mind and found the part of Peter that had come from the painter, the Precog.
"See it," he whispered, and Peter's eyes whited out.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
MATT, BENNETT, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO
"You," Isaac Mendez said, when he answered the door at Bennett's knock. He didn't open the door wide enough to admit either of them, barely wide enough to put his head through to talk to Bennett. He was sweating and his face had the drawn, desperate look that Matt recognised from crackhouse busts and 3am call-outs.
Mendez nodded his head at Matt. " 'Nother trick pony? What's this one do?"
"Reads minds," Bennett answered crisply.
"Yeah. Great," Mendez answered. "Listen, I'm kinda busy for card tricks right now -- "
"We need to come in. I need you to do something for me," Bennett said.
"I don't work for free anymore," Mendez said.
"You mean you're chasing," Bennett said.
"Get me a fix..." Mendez grinned ingratiatingly.
"I'm not buying you heroin," Bennett retorted.
"Sorry. Can't paint right now."
Bennett caught the door before it could close. "Won't, you mean. And oh, yes you will."
He shoved the door, knocking Mendez back against the rail of the stairs. Matt watched, stunned, as he walked through the open door and put his hand around the artist's throat, choking him.
"You are going to show me your paintings," he said through gritted teeth, "And you are going to find my daughter."
"Fuck you," Mendez managed, and Bennett tightened his grip.
"Hey!" Matt said, grabbing Bennett's shoulder as Mendez started to choke. "HEY! LET HIM GO!"
He put himself between the two men, facing Bennett. "You kill him, you definitely won't get what you want."
Bennett wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring furiously at Mendez.
"Let's just, let's just take a minute here," Matt said. "Mendez, we're gonna go through your paintings. We'll talk about, uh, commissions after we've seen what you've been doing. So you can stay out of the way or you can help us look through them. Either way, nobody's getting any heroin right now."
Mendez began to laugh. It was horrible, one of those cynical mirthless laughs that people tried after they'd been arrested. Matt hated the sound. Mendez tilted his head back and laughed and laughed, and when Matt turned around he saw the mural on the floor for the first time.
Bennett, who had seen something else, brushed past him and walked down the stairs, crossing the floor like it was linoleum, and not an enormous depiction of a bomb destroying New York. He stopped in front of a pair of easels at the far end, each with a large canvas on it.
Matt, horrified and perplexed, followed him down, leaving Mendez to fall in a twitching heap against one of the railing supports.
The first painting made his head hurt almost immediately; it was a painting of himself and Bennett, right down to Matt's shaved head. In the painting, the two of them were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in that painting, they were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in that painting...
He pulled his gaze away from it and looked at the other one, the one Bennett was staring at as if his doom was written in it. Bennett's pretty blonde daughter was clearly the woman in the painting, but Matt didn't know who the man standing behind her was.
Bennett did, though. It was in his mind as clear as if he'd said it aloud.
Jesus oh sweet Jesus Christ, Bennett thought, lifting a hand to hover his fingers over his daughter's face. She's with Claude. Oh Jesus, she's alive, and she's with Claude.
***
CLAUDE RAINES AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS
EIGHT YEARS AGO
"All right, before you go in," Claude said, blocking the doorway with his body and holding up his palms. "It looks worse than it is."
"What have you two fools -- " Mrs. Bennett began, punching him in the shoulder.
"Ow!" Claude gave her an injured look.
"It's all right, Claude," Bennett called from his hospital bed. Claude glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged and stood aside. The rest of the Bennett family poured into the room, gratifyingly eager to be at the patriarch's bedside. Bennett smiled at his wife as he rested a hand on his son's head, then his daughter's, trying to reassure them.
"Oh, honey, look at you," his wife said, smoothing his hair down, away from the stupendous black eye on the left side of his face. "What on earth possessed you to go rock climbing? Claude!"
"This isn't his fault," Bennett said. "He warned me, didn't you, Claude."
"I told him not to," Claude said. To be fair, he had warned him not to go up alone against someone with lighting-fast reflexes.
"The guys from Boise-Cascade challenged me. Had to defend Primatech's reputation," Bennett said with a wan smile. His head was killing him. "I only fell about fifteen feet."
"Oh only," she scolded. "Claude, you are still responsible for him!"
"What d'you want me to do, catch him?" Claude asked.
"Save him from himself," she sighed. Claire clambered up the side of the bed to hug her daddy, and he flinched when she hit a sore spot (or two, or five).
"All right, kids, let's go, daddy needs his rest." His wife bent down and kissed his forehead affectionately. "Get better. We'll be back tomorrow to pick you up, kay?"
"Love you," he said, holding her hand tightly. She patted his fingers, then let him go. Claude lifted Claire to the floor, then waited until the others were out in the hallway. When Bennett beckoned, he leaned over the bed.
"You got your arse kicked," he teased.
"Watch I don't kick yours," Bennett said. "Listen, I need a favor."
"Name it," Claude said, serious now.
"Go home with them," Bennett said in a low, urgent voice.
"Wife like yours, they don't need much protectin' she can't provide," Claude answered, amused. Bennett opened his mouth, but Claude shushed him. "Already practically got her makin' up the spare room bed for me, don't fret."
"You're a good friend, Claude."
"Aye, I know it," Claude grinned. "You lot are the closest I have, boy-o."
"Look after Claire and Lyle."
"You're concussed, not dyin'."
"Claude."
"Right, all right." Claude leaned in close, his eyes serious in a carefully casual face. "I'll protect 'em like they were my own kids, you know that. Always have, always will," he added, and then he was gone, off down the corridor, promising to tell Bennett's children all about his rock-climbing-wall accident if only Mrs. Bennett would cook her famous chicken casserole for dinner.
Bennett relaxed on the pillow. Claude was his friend, and Bennett knew the man had a knack for getting out of the kind of trouble Bennett tended to get into.
If Claude was with them, they were safe.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
BENNETT, PARKMAN, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO
"If I paint," Isaac said, pulling Bennett's attention away from the painting, "What's to stop me painting whatever I want? I could show her to you dead, I could show you dead. Unless I'm high, you just don't know. Get me a fix, then we'll talk."
Bennett stared at him.
"I think, back in the day, they called this a Mexican Standoff," Isaac said, giggling.
"Parkman," Bennett barked. "Stay here. I'm going to go buy our friend some painting supplies. If he tries to run, knock him out."
He saw from Parkman's expression that he wasn't about to attack someone in cold blood, junkie or otherwise. Isaac didn't see that, though, and perception was what counted.
Bennett locked the door behind him.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - LUCKY DOG CAFE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan Petrelli paid them personally, in cash and by the day, and neither Hiro nor Ando had any illusions about taking their pay out of some kind of petty cash fund. Still, it did cover the hotel, and three square meals a day.
Not that this particular dinner was square, precisely.
"French fries," Hiro said, folding up his menu. "And bowl of chili."
"Club sandwich," Ando added.
"Fries or coleslaw?" the waitress asked.
"Coleslaw."
"Coke?"
"No, thank you," Hiro said. The waitress ambled off, and the two men were left with their water glasses and sore feet.
"They make better chili in Texas," Hiro declared.
"I know, you keep saying," Ando replied. "My feet are killing me."
"It was a good day's work," Hiro mused.
"We earned our pay, anyway," Ando said. "I think we walked every block in New York."
"Oh no, not even close!" Hiro said joyously.
"We could really use the Versa," Ando sighed.
Before Hiro could reply, there was a discreet cough. Both of them looked up.
A young blond man -- more like a boy -- was standing at their table. He bowed.
"That's the guy!" Ando said. "The guy from Mr. Isaac's painting!"
"Uh, hi," the boy said. "Hello. Do you speak English? I hope you speak English. I've, um, brought you a car."
Ando looked at Hiro. Hiro smiled knowingly.
"Plot-tuwistu," he said.
***
MOHINDER SURESH
The hospital heart monitor beeps like a metronome -- steady, regular, no aberration or variation.
His chart is updated regularly every few hours, like a mathematical equation which balances out to zero gain on each side. No change. In another day, maybe two, they'll take the handsome young man down to radiology for tests -- brainwave function, MRI, CT.
All normal, at least for a coma patient. Trauma healing nicely. No visitors.
Normal, normal, normal. Ordinary and regular. No flaws, no mutations. Nothing in the slightest way extraordinary about him.
Tick, tick goes his heart, and the monitor replies in the quiet room, beep, beep.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS
Peter woke on the floor of the factory, momentarily blinded by the floodlamp that shone down on him. He pushed himself to his elbows, trying to place where he was and why he was there.
God, the vision.
It had never been so clear or so precise, the vision of the explosion. He couldn't fathom what would empty out a major midtown intersection at midday, what would make all those people leave their cars; perhaps it was only a metaphor. Maybe so, since he still saw Isaac carrying Simone away from him, and Simone was dead.
He shook his head. The intense detail with which he'd seen Nathan's flesh melt from his fast-charring skull, the way Claire's muscles were stripped away, the blistering on Claude's skin just before it burst into flame...it was as if he were suddenly able to take what he'd seen indistinctly before and put a microscope over any given part of it. And behind it, there seemed like there was something else, another image trying to break through -- just the smell of scorched earth and the feel of some kind of physical contact, but there was something underlying the surface vision.
He had the dim awareness that this was why the vision had echoed forward to him -- it wasn't coming from the moment of explosion but from this moment, when the intensity of it was multiplied by the thousands. This time, the impact was so great that it was sending ripples outwards through time, just like Claude had said --
Claude.
"Fuck," Peter said, scrambling to his feet, bloodying his palms on the hard concrete in the process. They healed over as he staggered upright, looking around. Claude was sprawled out against the stairs, his head crooked to one side and his eyes shut. Blood dripped from a gash on his scalp where it had knocked against a stair-edge.
Peter approached carefully, because with Claude you just never fucking knew, but when he touched Claude's arm he got no response at all. He checked his pulse and breathing, made sure his pupils weren't blown, then carefully turned him over.
The cut was across his temple, just above his ear. It wasn't deep, but like all scalp wounds it was a bleeder. Peter found a tissue in his pocket and cleared away some of the blood, then pressed the tissue over the wound. Claude's whole body jerked and Peter found himself flung across the room before he could even open his mouth. He hit the wall so hard his wind was knocked out of him.
He picked himself up and gasped for breath, then sighed with relief as his lungs filled with air. Claude was sitting upright, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it.
"Hey, it's me," Peter said, holding up both hands as he came forward. "Just trying to get a good look at the cut, okay?"
Claude's eyes didn't immediately focus. When they did, he frowned and tried to get up, slipping down the stairs. He caught himself on the railing and stood unsteadily as Peter approached.
"You gonna throw me against a wall again?" Peter asked.
"No," Claude muttered.
"Gimme a look?"
Claude sat down again heavily, and Peter realised just how much he benefited from being able to heal like Claire did. He'd forgotten there was a time when he couldn't shake off a beating and re-socket his shoulder joint with no more thought than he'd use cracking a knuckle.
"We should get it cleaned out. You won't need stitches," Peter said, bending over the wound, tilting Claude's head to one side.
"Water upstairs," Claude muttered. Peter went up the steps two at a time and found an open door to a locker-room at the top, complete with toilets, showers, and a line of sinks below a long mirror.
There was a toothbrush on the nearest sink.
Peter realised this wasn't just some meeting-place to kick his ass in; Claude lived here, in this abandoned factory.
He considered filling the undoubtedly bacteria-ridden cup next to the toothbrush with water, then tried opening the lockers. One of them had a bottle of rubbing alcohol in it, and another a stack of what he took to be fabric scraps; when he unwound one he realised that Claude made a habit of stealing scarves. The bastard probably had an entire box of peoples' car keys sitting around somewhere, too.
He sifted through them -- some were clearly expensive and new, and one looked like it had to be at least ten feet long, like a gag gift. He took one of the less grimy-looking ones and went back down the stairs. Claude was still sitting on the bottom one, but he looked more alert than he had a moment before. Peter poured alcohol onto the end of the scarf and was about to disinfect the cut when Claude jerked back.
"What are you, my mother?" he asked, frowning. He took the end of the scarf and did it himself, pulling the wound open wider in the process. Peter sighed. Claude had to do things the hard way.
"See anything interesting?" Claude asked, wincing.
"I saw a lot," Peter said. "Why'd you do that?"
"Told you. Fear of pain wasn't working."
"Fear of you getting smacked in the head going to work better?"
Claude did give him a grin for that one. He folded up the scarf and steepled his fingers.
"What did you see?" he asked.
Peter looked down, wishing his hair was still long so that he could hide behind it. "The explosion again. Clearer this time, though. I saw -- Nathan dying. Claire dying. You, dying."
"And?"
"And I don't want that to happen?" Peter ventured. "I see things so clearly now. Is that what you wanted?"
"For you to see how everyone else is goin' to suffer if you don't get yourself under control?" Claude asked. "Whyever would I want you to see that."
"Yeah, well." Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. "It worked."
"So, starting now, that's why you work. That's why you fight. I'll start punching other people in the head if I have to," Claude added, and Peter grinned a little.
"Why are you really doing this?" he asked suddenly, and Claude looked up at him. "Saving New York, okay, I get that, but you wouldn't care this much. Destroying a city's too abstract. Nobody can really get their head around it. So there has to be another reason. Don't -- just, don't make fun of me," Peter said, as Claude opened his mouth. "Just once, okay, give me a straight answer."
Claude closed his mouth and stared up at him. "Why does it matter?"
"Because it does, Claude!" Peter exploded. "Why doesn't it to you?"
"Comes with the territory," Claude muttered.
"What does that even mean?"
"D'you think I enjoy beating people?" Claude asked.
"Probably!"
"D'you think I enjoy getting my head bashed in?"
"You're not answering me!"
"D'you think if you can't control your temper right now, you'll be able to control anything more than that, ever?" Claude asked, and Peter realised he'd been checkmated by a man who at the moment wasn't entirely able to walk. He exhaled, then sat on the step below Claude, resting his forehead against his palms.
"For just a second let's stop thinking about saving New York," he said.
"You haven't got that luxury."
"I'm trying to get my head on straight, okay?"
Claude was silent for long enough that Peter looked up to make sure he hadn't passed out again. He was staring ahead, not really at anything, turning the scarf over in his hands.
"When you're a kid, you think it's about savin' the world," he said. "When you grow up, you think it's about savin' yourself. Neither one seems real, anyway. Can't get your head around it. You think that nothing you do really has consequences. Until suddenly, one day, it does."
He frowned, still not looking at Peter. "Bet you hated school, didn't you."
"Mostly."
"You're the one found me, Petrelli. You're the one followed me, not the other way round. When you ask for a teacher, you're makin' a bargain. You owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"Yes you do. You owe your best effort, which I will concede you think you're giving. You owe trust and obedience, which are not incidentally your strong points."
"Hey, I trust people who don't throw me off buildings."
"For your own good," Claude replied. "You're missing the point. Again."
"So tell me, Sensei, since I'm supposed to trust and obey you, what the point is."
Claude tested the wound, examining the last traces of blood on his fingers. He offered his hand to Peter. "I owe you too."
"What, blood?" Peter asked.
"Yes, if needed. I'm the teacher. You're my responsibility. If New York goes the way of Hiroshima, it's my fault, now."
"But not really."
"Yes," Claude said. "Really."
"But that's -- "
"You are my student. You are my responsibility."
Peter peered at him. "This is really important to you. Students and teachers."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"One of the benefits of being the teacher," Claude said, pushing himself to his feet, "is that I get to choose what answers I give."
Peter caught his arm, holding onto the sleeve. Claude gave him a withering look.
"When are we meeting again?" he asked.
"Who said we were finished?" Claude replied, and flung him down the stairs.
Peter began to fall and closed his eyes and stopped, right before he hit the steps. He found himself floating in midair, tilted up slightly, arms flailing for balance. Claude reached out and grasped the toe of his sneaker, then shoved.
Peter sighed as he tumbled through the air.
It was going to be a long evening.
***
JACK, ANDO, AND HIRO - LUCKY DOG CAFE
Jack had a moment of anxiety over whether the Japanese dudes could speak English, but both of them seemed like they could get along pretty well, and they looked friendly.
"Please, sit down," one of them said. "A car for us?"
"Well, you know. Your car," Jack said. "Your Versa."
"Our Versa?"
"Yeah! I found it in Vegas and was like, dude, these guys in New York need me. I'm Jack, by the way, Jack Baker," he said, offering his hand.
"Jack! Very nice to meet you. I am Hiro Nakamura," said Hiro, shaking his hand. "This is Ando Masahashi. We are from Tokyo."
"Awesome. I'm from Ojai. Here's your keys," Jack said, holding out the Versa's key fob.
"How did you know?" Ando asked, accepting them.
"It's my walkabout," Jack answered. "Like, a quest."
"A quest," the guy named Hiro said, nodding to his pal.
"Like, okay, a few days ago? I woke up? And I could...find stuff," Jack said, faltering only when he realised how weird it sounded. "All kinds of stuff."
"You are special," Hiro said significantly.
"Well, yeah," Jack agreed. He noticed that there was a dollar bill and a map of the New York Subway under his seat, and shifted subtly in order to reach them.
"Like me. I bend time and space," Hiro said.
Jack squinted. "Are you joking?"
"I don't joke!" Hiro indicated the sword -- hey, cool, a sword! -- propped against the seat next to him. "This is the sword of Kensei. Great Japanese hero. It helps me to bend time and space."
"Like, stop time?"
"Yes!"
"Totally? Really? That's awesome!" Jack said.
"Awesome," Hiro echoed, giving Ando a significant look. Ando smiled.
"Listen, I have a question for you," Jack continued, and both men immediately composed themselves to pay close, serious attention. Jack was impressed. These dudes were cool.
"You don't have some kind of deep wisdom to impart or anything, do you?" Jack said. "Some ancient learning or a vision or something?"
Ando frowned. Hiro shook his head.
"That's cool. I just thought, you know, you might be able to help. See, my quest's not done yet."
"Not done yet?" Ando asked.
"Yeah. I had this vision, to go to New York and bring you your car. And on the way to New York, I saw another vision, of this girl."
Both men grinned.
"You laugh, but she's the one I'm here to find. She's my soulmate."
"Soulmate," Hiro said, in an awed voice. "Soul-mate?"
"Like, person you're meant to be with."
"Like Ando!" Hiro said enthusiastically.
"Ummm...sure, if you swing that way," Jack agreed. "Anyway, she's here and I gotta find her. But this power, it doesn't really work too well in New York. There's just, you know. So much lost stuff. So I thought maybe you had a magic thing for me or something. Like your sword."
Hiro shook his head mournfully.
"That's cool. Hey, listen, it's been totally Eastern, but I've gotta find a place to stay and my soulmate and stuff. See you around, yeah? The Versa's parked just around the corner on the right."
"Wait!" Hiro said, grasping his sleeve as he rose. "You are on a quest! We will help."
"You will?" Jack asked.
"Yes!"
"Hey -- that's really decent of you," Jack said, touched. "You don't have to, you know, just because of the car."
"It is not because of the car," Hiro said seriously. "It is because you are different. Like us."
"Rock on. So like -- you wanna eat and then go? Let's eat and then go," Jack said, sitting down again. "Okay, cool. So, what brings you to New York?"
"Destiny," Hiro intoned.
"Seriously," Jack agreed. "This is like a comic book or something."
"You like comic books?" Hiro asked.
"Yeah! I mean I read all of Sandman, JLA, love the new X-Men -- hey, I bet you read Fullmetal Alchemist, huh?" Jack asked.
"Fool...metal...?" Hiro looked perplexed.
"Hagane," Ando coughed.
"Right! Hagane no Renkin-something," Jack said. Hiro's eyes lit up.
Oh, New York was going to kick ass.
Next time on Heroes ("Empire State"):
"Is he like, horribly disfigured or something?" Jack asked, then realised perhaps he should modulate the gleeful fascination in his voice.
"I've dosed you with Ketamine," she continued. "That's why you feel drugged. You are."
This woman, who left her baby to die in a fire, who had stolen money from her own blood, did not deserve to be a mother.
He made a note to himself to acquire a gun as soon as possible, if they survived the next ten minutes.
The world was just full of possibilities, horizons as wide as the view from the top, and only Niki was standing in her way.
"Scuse me," he said to the businessman in the groovy retro glasses who was standing nearby. "Can I bum a smoke?"
Chapter Nine
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Bennett gets a shock, Isaac gets a fix, Ando and Hiro get their car back, Jack gets dinner, and Claude gets hit in the head (twice).
Notes: Thanks to Heidi for beta-reading on this, and thanks and credit to Utility Knife for Isaac's paintings (especially Young Claude; isn't it splendid?). If you'd like to give feedback on the art, the address to send to is utility.knife@gmail.com.
Originally posted 4.1.07
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS
"So," Peter said, climbing the stairs to the second level, "What are we kicking my ass with today? Sticks? Boards? Fire?"
Claude, standing at one of the windows with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, turned and scythed Nathan's black hat through the air. Peter caught it clumsily and studied it, perplexed.
"You can return that to your brother with my compliments," Claude said. "He'll know what it means."
Peter set the hat down on a nearby bit of machinery and looked at him expectantly. Claude walked to a pile of sharp, rusty-edged objects leaning against one wall and began to pick and choose among them.
"Does this ever go anywhere?" Peter asked, stepping left when Claude stepped right, already automatically on the defensive.
"You tell me," Claude replied. "Can you defend yourself? When you decide to blow a hole in the eastern seaboard, you're not going to have time to think or plan. If you can't think on your feet, you'll die on them."
He feinted a strike on Peter's shoulder with the sharp end of the spar and then hit him across the ribcage with the dull, rounded other end. Peter doubled over and Claude nicked just his earlobe with the sharp side.
"Where'd you learn to fight?" Peter asked, raising his hand to block another strike. To Claude's surprised pleasure, the spar never made it as far as his palm, quivering a few inches away.
"Manchester Council Estates," Claude answered.
"What?"
"The projects," Claude clarified, whapping him smartly upside the head. "Come on, you're not a punching bag, fight back. Come on!"
"I'm trying!" Peter said, but he was flinching away every time Claude feinted. No good; clearly he'd been too nice to the boy recently. Feeding the puppy was a mistake.
"Useless!" Claude shouted, aiming between Peter's legs. "Stop defending, start attacking!"
Peter snarled and leapt for him; Claude wasn't as young as he used to be and flipping Peter back against a wall nearly made him lose his wind. Peter's reaction was more what he wanted, but Peter was too comfortable with momentary rage for Claude's approval. Besides, there was more to fighting than physical control.
He decided on the spur of the moment; he lowered his usual defences and turned to face Peter again, projecting outwards.
Fight, boy! he commanded, which proved to be a mistake. Peter only flinched, but the echo of what he'd said hit Claude so hard he fell backwards, blown off his feet.
"Jesus!" Peter said, leaping forward. Claude clutched his head, which had taken a nasty rap on the concrete, and felt himself curl into a fetal ball. He felt Peter's hands, too, first on his ribcage trying to roll him off his side, then on his wrist, taking his pulse. He ignored them and concentrated, clearing his mind and dampening down the way the Haitian had taught him. After a second, none but the pain of the fall remained. He shook his head and sat up. There were worse things.
Peter was touching his back now, helping him sit upright, and cupping his face with his other hand. Claude tilted his head for just a moment, surprised by how intent Peter's stare was, until he realised he was being checked to make sure his pupils weren't dilated.
"I'm all right," he snarled, trying to take deep breaths. Peter backed away, which helped. They stayed there, Claude resting his head in his hands, Peter standing back and watching him cautiously, until Peter cleared his throat.
"You spoke to me," he said, awed. "I didn't know you could do that."
"You echoed," Claude replied. It hurt to talk. "Ever met a telepath before?"
"Umm..." Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I think so. In Texas. Maybe."
Claude pushed himself to his feet, the back of his head throbbing. He rubbed it, which only made it hurt more, but the pain cleared his mind.
"Who, in Texas?" he asked.
"Some guy...when they were interrogating me."
"Who was interrogating you?" Claude barked, then caught his breath when pain stabbed through his skull. Clear the head, clear the head...
"Just the cops," Peter said. His eyes were wide and frightened.
"Someone heard you? Your thoughts?"
"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing one arm. Claude swayed and Peter jerked forward, but he shoved him back with one hand.
"I'm all right," he repeated, stumbling to the stairs up to the third level. He sat down on them just as the room started to go fuzzy before his eyes. Peter followed, still keeping a safe distance.
"What happened?" Peter asked. "What'd I do?"
"I opened up. Wanted to see how you'd take it," Claude said, breathing deeply. "You echoed it back when my guard was down. Not bad."
"Thanks," Peter mumbled.
"No more fighting today," Claude continued. The pain was fading, making him conscious of other bruises. He stretched out his left arm and felt his elbow click, the joints realigning after catching most of his weight.
"Okay," Peter agreed, brows knitting. "Seriously, are you hurt? I'm a nurse, y'know."
"Nothing broken," Claude answered. "I'll live."
Peter kept watching him, waiting, until the world swam back into focus and the urge to throw up became only a distant nausea.
"Right," Claude said. "I think I've been going about this wrong."
Peter spread his hands questioningly. Claude beckoned him close, and Peter leaned forward, for once looming over him instead of the reverse.
"You aren't afraid of gettin' hurt," Claude said. "Don't blame ya; you heal. Fear's a good motivator, but you have to find the right fear. This isn't it. Got to be another one."
"Another...fear?"
Claude, without warning, reached out and gripped Peter by the back of the neck, pressing his other palm to Peter's forehead. He opened his own mind and found the part of Peter that had come from the painter, the Precog.
"See it," he whispered, and Peter's eyes whited out.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
MATT, BENNETT, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO
"You," Isaac Mendez said, when he answered the door at Bennett's knock. He didn't open the door wide enough to admit either of them, barely wide enough to put his head through to talk to Bennett. He was sweating and his face had the drawn, desperate look that Matt recognised from crackhouse busts and 3am call-outs.
Mendez nodded his head at Matt. " 'Nother trick pony? What's this one do?"
"Reads minds," Bennett answered crisply.
"Yeah. Great," Mendez answered. "Listen, I'm kinda busy for card tricks right now -- "
"We need to come in. I need you to do something for me," Bennett said.
"I don't work for free anymore," Mendez said.
"You mean you're chasing," Bennett said.
"Get me a fix..." Mendez grinned ingratiatingly.
"I'm not buying you heroin," Bennett retorted.
"Sorry. Can't paint right now."
Bennett caught the door before it could close. "Won't, you mean. And oh, yes you will."
He shoved the door, knocking Mendez back against the rail of the stairs. Matt watched, stunned, as he walked through the open door and put his hand around the artist's throat, choking him.
"You are going to show me your paintings," he said through gritted teeth, "And you are going to find my daughter."
"Fuck you," Mendez managed, and Bennett tightened his grip.
"Hey!" Matt said, grabbing Bennett's shoulder as Mendez started to choke. "HEY! LET HIM GO!"
He put himself between the two men, facing Bennett. "You kill him, you definitely won't get what you want."
Bennett wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring furiously at Mendez.
"Let's just, let's just take a minute here," Matt said. "Mendez, we're gonna go through your paintings. We'll talk about, uh, commissions after we've seen what you've been doing. So you can stay out of the way or you can help us look through them. Either way, nobody's getting any heroin right now."
Mendez began to laugh. It was horrible, one of those cynical mirthless laughs that people tried after they'd been arrested. Matt hated the sound. Mendez tilted his head back and laughed and laughed, and when Matt turned around he saw the mural on the floor for the first time.
Bennett, who had seen something else, brushed past him and walked down the stairs, crossing the floor like it was linoleum, and not an enormous depiction of a bomb destroying New York. He stopped in front of a pair of easels at the far end, each with a large canvas on it.
Matt, horrified and perplexed, followed him down, leaving Mendez to fall in a twitching heap against one of the railing supports.
The first painting made his head hurt almost immediately; it was a painting of himself and Bennett, right down to Matt's shaved head. In the painting, the two of them were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in that painting, they were looking at an easel with a painting on it, and in that painting...
He pulled his gaze away from it and looked at the other one, the one Bennett was staring at as if his doom was written in it. Bennett's pretty blonde daughter was clearly the woman in the painting, but Matt didn't know who the man standing behind her was.
Bennett did, though. It was in his mind as clear as if he'd said it aloud.
Jesus oh sweet Jesus Christ, Bennett thought, lifting a hand to hover his fingers over his daughter's face. She's with Claude. Oh Jesus, she's alive, and she's with Claude.
***
CLAUDE RAINES AND THE BENNETT FAMILY - ODESSA, TEXAS
EIGHT YEARS AGO
"All right, before you go in," Claude said, blocking the doorway with his body and holding up his palms. "It looks worse than it is."
"What have you two fools -- " Mrs. Bennett began, punching him in the shoulder.
"Ow!" Claude gave her an injured look.
"It's all right, Claude," Bennett called from his hospital bed. Claude glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged and stood aside. The rest of the Bennett family poured into the room, gratifyingly eager to be at the patriarch's bedside. Bennett smiled at his wife as he rested a hand on his son's head, then his daughter's, trying to reassure them.
"Oh, honey, look at you," his wife said, smoothing his hair down, away from the stupendous black eye on the left side of his face. "What on earth possessed you to go rock climbing? Claude!"
"This isn't his fault," Bennett said. "He warned me, didn't you, Claude."
"I told him not to," Claude said. To be fair, he had warned him not to go up alone against someone with lighting-fast reflexes.
"The guys from Boise-Cascade challenged me. Had to defend Primatech's reputation," Bennett said with a wan smile. His head was killing him. "I only fell about fifteen feet."
"Oh only," she scolded. "Claude, you are still responsible for him!"
"What d'you want me to do, catch him?" Claude asked.
"Save him from himself," she sighed. Claire clambered up the side of the bed to hug her daddy, and he flinched when she hit a sore spot (or two, or five).
"All right, kids, let's go, daddy needs his rest." His wife bent down and kissed his forehead affectionately. "Get better. We'll be back tomorrow to pick you up, kay?"
"Love you," he said, holding her hand tightly. She patted his fingers, then let him go. Claude lifted Claire to the floor, then waited until the others were out in the hallway. When Bennett beckoned, he leaned over the bed.
"You got your arse kicked," he teased.
"Watch I don't kick yours," Bennett said. "Listen, I need a favor."
"Name it," Claude said, serious now.
"Go home with them," Bennett said in a low, urgent voice.
"Wife like yours, they don't need much protectin' she can't provide," Claude answered, amused. Bennett opened his mouth, but Claude shushed him. "Already practically got her makin' up the spare room bed for me, don't fret."
"You're a good friend, Claude."
"Aye, I know it," Claude grinned. "You lot are the closest I have, boy-o."
"Look after Claire and Lyle."
"You're concussed, not dyin'."
"Claude."
"Right, all right." Claude leaned in close, his eyes serious in a carefully casual face. "I'll protect 'em like they were my own kids, you know that. Always have, always will," he added, and then he was gone, off down the corridor, promising to tell Bennett's children all about his rock-climbing-wall accident if only Mrs. Bennett would cook her famous chicken casserole for dinner.
Bennett relaxed on the pillow. Claude was his friend, and Bennett knew the man had a knack for getting out of the kind of trouble Bennett tended to get into.
If Claude was with them, they were safe.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - LOWER MANHATTAN
***
BENNETT, PARKMAN, AND ISAAC - ISAAC'S STUDIO
"If I paint," Isaac said, pulling Bennett's attention away from the painting, "What's to stop me painting whatever I want? I could show her to you dead, I could show you dead. Unless I'm high, you just don't know. Get me a fix, then we'll talk."
Bennett stared at him.
"I think, back in the day, they called this a Mexican Standoff," Isaac said, giggling.
"Parkman," Bennett barked. "Stay here. I'm going to go buy our friend some painting supplies. If he tries to run, knock him out."
He saw from Parkman's expression that he wasn't about to attack someone in cold blood, junkie or otherwise. Isaac didn't see that, though, and perception was what counted.
Bennett locked the door behind him.
***
HIRO AND ANDO - LUCKY DOG CAFE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan Petrelli paid them personally, in cash and by the day, and neither Hiro nor Ando had any illusions about taking their pay out of some kind of petty cash fund. Still, it did cover the hotel, and three square meals a day.
Not that this particular dinner was square, precisely.
"French fries," Hiro said, folding up his menu. "And bowl of chili."
"Club sandwich," Ando added.
"Fries or coleslaw?" the waitress asked.
"Coleslaw."
"Coke?"
"No, thank you," Hiro said. The waitress ambled off, and the two men were left with their water glasses and sore feet.
"They make better chili in Texas," Hiro declared.
"I know, you keep saying," Ando replied. "My feet are killing me."
"It was a good day's work," Hiro mused.
"We earned our pay, anyway," Ando said. "I think we walked every block in New York."
"Oh no, not even close!" Hiro said joyously.
"We could really use the Versa," Ando sighed.
Before Hiro could reply, there was a discreet cough. Both of them looked up.
A young blond man -- more like a boy -- was standing at their table. He bowed.
"That's the guy!" Ando said. "The guy from Mr. Isaac's painting!"
"Uh, hi," the boy said. "Hello. Do you speak English? I hope you speak English. I've, um, brought you a car."
Ando looked at Hiro. Hiro smiled knowingly.
"Plot-tuwistu," he said.
***
MOHINDER SURESH
The hospital heart monitor beeps like a metronome -- steady, regular, no aberration or variation.
His chart is updated regularly every few hours, like a mathematical equation which balances out to zero gain on each side. No change. In another day, maybe two, they'll take the handsome young man down to radiology for tests -- brainwave function, MRI, CT.
All normal, at least for a coma patient. Trauma healing nicely. No visitors.
Normal, normal, normal. Ordinary and regular. No flaws, no mutations. Nothing in the slightest way extraordinary about him.
Tick, tick goes his heart, and the monitor replies in the quiet room, beep, beep.
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINS - KEMP'S BAKED GOODS
Peter woke on the floor of the factory, momentarily blinded by the floodlamp that shone down on him. He pushed himself to his elbows, trying to place where he was and why he was there.
God, the vision.
It had never been so clear or so precise, the vision of the explosion. He couldn't fathom what would empty out a major midtown intersection at midday, what would make all those people leave their cars; perhaps it was only a metaphor. Maybe so, since he still saw Isaac carrying Simone away from him, and Simone was dead.
He shook his head. The intense detail with which he'd seen Nathan's flesh melt from his fast-charring skull, the way Claire's muscles were stripped away, the blistering on Claude's skin just before it burst into flame...it was as if he were suddenly able to take what he'd seen indistinctly before and put a microscope over any given part of it. And behind it, there seemed like there was something else, another image trying to break through -- just the smell of scorched earth and the feel of some kind of physical contact, but there was something underlying the surface vision.
He had the dim awareness that this was why the vision had echoed forward to him -- it wasn't coming from the moment of explosion but from this moment, when the intensity of it was multiplied by the thousands. This time, the impact was so great that it was sending ripples outwards through time, just like Claude had said --
Claude.
"Fuck," Peter said, scrambling to his feet, bloodying his palms on the hard concrete in the process. They healed over as he staggered upright, looking around. Claude was sprawled out against the stairs, his head crooked to one side and his eyes shut. Blood dripped from a gash on his scalp where it had knocked against a stair-edge.
Peter approached carefully, because with Claude you just never fucking knew, but when he touched Claude's arm he got no response at all. He checked his pulse and breathing, made sure his pupils weren't blown, then carefully turned him over.
The cut was across his temple, just above his ear. It wasn't deep, but like all scalp wounds it was a bleeder. Peter found a tissue in his pocket and cleared away some of the blood, then pressed the tissue over the wound. Claude's whole body jerked and Peter found himself flung across the room before he could even open his mouth. He hit the wall so hard his wind was knocked out of him.
He picked himself up and gasped for breath, then sighed with relief as his lungs filled with air. Claude was sitting upright, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it.
"Hey, it's me," Peter said, holding up both hands as he came forward. "Just trying to get a good look at the cut, okay?"
Claude's eyes didn't immediately focus. When they did, he frowned and tried to get up, slipping down the stairs. He caught himself on the railing and stood unsteadily as Peter approached.
"You gonna throw me against a wall again?" Peter asked.
"No," Claude muttered.
"Gimme a look?"
Claude sat down again heavily, and Peter realised just how much he benefited from being able to heal like Claire did. He'd forgotten there was a time when he couldn't shake off a beating and re-socket his shoulder joint with no more thought than he'd use cracking a knuckle.
"We should get it cleaned out. You won't need stitches," Peter said, bending over the wound, tilting Claude's head to one side.
"Water upstairs," Claude muttered. Peter went up the steps two at a time and found an open door to a locker-room at the top, complete with toilets, showers, and a line of sinks below a long mirror.
There was a toothbrush on the nearest sink.
Peter realised this wasn't just some meeting-place to kick his ass in; Claude lived here, in this abandoned factory.
He considered filling the undoubtedly bacteria-ridden cup next to the toothbrush with water, then tried opening the lockers. One of them had a bottle of rubbing alcohol in it, and another a stack of what he took to be fabric scraps; when he unwound one he realised that Claude made a habit of stealing scarves. The bastard probably had an entire box of peoples' car keys sitting around somewhere, too.
He sifted through them -- some were clearly expensive and new, and one looked like it had to be at least ten feet long, like a gag gift. He took one of the less grimy-looking ones and went back down the stairs. Claude was still sitting on the bottom one, but he looked more alert than he had a moment before. Peter poured alcohol onto the end of the scarf and was about to disinfect the cut when Claude jerked back.
"What are you, my mother?" he asked, frowning. He took the end of the scarf and did it himself, pulling the wound open wider in the process. Peter sighed. Claude had to do things the hard way.
"See anything interesting?" Claude asked, wincing.
"I saw a lot," Peter said. "Why'd you do that?"
"Told you. Fear of pain wasn't working."
"Fear of you getting smacked in the head going to work better?"
Claude did give him a grin for that one. He folded up the scarf and steepled his fingers.
"What did you see?" he asked.
Peter looked down, wishing his hair was still long so that he could hide behind it. "The explosion again. Clearer this time, though. I saw -- Nathan dying. Claire dying. You, dying."
"And?"
"And I don't want that to happen?" Peter ventured. "I see things so clearly now. Is that what you wanted?"
"For you to see how everyone else is goin' to suffer if you don't get yourself under control?" Claude asked. "Whyever would I want you to see that."
"Yeah, well." Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. "It worked."
"So, starting now, that's why you work. That's why you fight. I'll start punching other people in the head if I have to," Claude added, and Peter grinned a little.
"Why are you really doing this?" he asked suddenly, and Claude looked up at him. "Saving New York, okay, I get that, but you wouldn't care this much. Destroying a city's too abstract. Nobody can really get their head around it. So there has to be another reason. Don't -- just, don't make fun of me," Peter said, as Claude opened his mouth. "Just once, okay, give me a straight answer."
Claude closed his mouth and stared up at him. "Why does it matter?"
"Because it does, Claude!" Peter exploded. "Why doesn't it to you?"
"Comes with the territory," Claude muttered.
"What does that even mean?"
"D'you think I enjoy beating people?" Claude asked.
"Probably!"
"D'you think I enjoy getting my head bashed in?"
"You're not answering me!"
"D'you think if you can't control your temper right now, you'll be able to control anything more than that, ever?" Claude asked, and Peter realised he'd been checkmated by a man who at the moment wasn't entirely able to walk. He exhaled, then sat on the step below Claude, resting his forehead against his palms.
"For just a second let's stop thinking about saving New York," he said.
"You haven't got that luxury."
"I'm trying to get my head on straight, okay?"
Claude was silent for long enough that Peter looked up to make sure he hadn't passed out again. He was staring ahead, not really at anything, turning the scarf over in his hands.
"When you're a kid, you think it's about savin' the world," he said. "When you grow up, you think it's about savin' yourself. Neither one seems real, anyway. Can't get your head around it. You think that nothing you do really has consequences. Until suddenly, one day, it does."
He frowned, still not looking at Peter. "Bet you hated school, didn't you."
"Mostly."
"You're the one found me, Petrelli. You're the one followed me, not the other way round. When you ask for a teacher, you're makin' a bargain. You owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"Yes you do. You owe your best effort, which I will concede you think you're giving. You owe trust and obedience, which are not incidentally your strong points."
"Hey, I trust people who don't throw me off buildings."
"For your own good," Claude replied. "You're missing the point. Again."
"So tell me, Sensei, since I'm supposed to trust and obey you, what the point is."
Claude tested the wound, examining the last traces of blood on his fingers. He offered his hand to Peter. "I owe you too."
"What, blood?" Peter asked.
"Yes, if needed. I'm the teacher. You're my responsibility. If New York goes the way of Hiroshima, it's my fault, now."
"But not really."
"Yes," Claude said. "Really."
"But that's -- "
"You are my student. You are my responsibility."
Peter peered at him. "This is really important to you. Students and teachers."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"One of the benefits of being the teacher," Claude said, pushing himself to his feet, "is that I get to choose what answers I give."
Peter caught his arm, holding onto the sleeve. Claude gave him a withering look.
"When are we meeting again?" he asked.
"Who said we were finished?" Claude replied, and flung him down the stairs.
Peter began to fall and closed his eyes and stopped, right before he hit the steps. He found himself floating in midair, tilted up slightly, arms flailing for balance. Claude reached out and grasped the toe of his sneaker, then shoved.
Peter sighed as he tumbled through the air.
It was going to be a long evening.
***
JACK, ANDO, AND HIRO - LUCKY DOG CAFE
Jack had a moment of anxiety over whether the Japanese dudes could speak English, but both of them seemed like they could get along pretty well, and they looked friendly.
"Please, sit down," one of them said. "A car for us?"
"Well, you know. Your car," Jack said. "Your Versa."
"Our Versa?"
"Yeah! I found it in Vegas and was like, dude, these guys in New York need me. I'm Jack, by the way, Jack Baker," he said, offering his hand.
"Jack! Very nice to meet you. I am Hiro Nakamura," said Hiro, shaking his hand. "This is Ando Masahashi. We are from Tokyo."
"Awesome. I'm from Ojai. Here's your keys," Jack said, holding out the Versa's key fob.
"How did you know?" Ando asked, accepting them.
"It's my walkabout," Jack answered. "Like, a quest."
"A quest," the guy named Hiro said, nodding to his pal.
"Like, okay, a few days ago? I woke up? And I could...find stuff," Jack said, faltering only when he realised how weird it sounded. "All kinds of stuff."
"You are special," Hiro said significantly.
"Well, yeah," Jack agreed. He noticed that there was a dollar bill and a map of the New York Subway under his seat, and shifted subtly in order to reach them.
"Like me. I bend time and space," Hiro said.
Jack squinted. "Are you joking?"
"I don't joke!" Hiro indicated the sword -- hey, cool, a sword! -- propped against the seat next to him. "This is the sword of Kensei. Great Japanese hero. It helps me to bend time and space."
"Like, stop time?"
"Yes!"
"Totally? Really? That's awesome!" Jack said.
"Awesome," Hiro echoed, giving Ando a significant look. Ando smiled.
"Listen, I have a question for you," Jack continued, and both men immediately composed themselves to pay close, serious attention. Jack was impressed. These dudes were cool.
"You don't have some kind of deep wisdom to impart or anything, do you?" Jack said. "Some ancient learning or a vision or something?"
Ando frowned. Hiro shook his head.
"That's cool. I just thought, you know, you might be able to help. See, my quest's not done yet."
"Not done yet?" Ando asked.
"Yeah. I had this vision, to go to New York and bring you your car. And on the way to New York, I saw another vision, of this girl."
Both men grinned.
"You laugh, but she's the one I'm here to find. She's my soulmate."
"Soulmate," Hiro said, in an awed voice. "Soul-mate?"
"Like, person you're meant to be with."
"Like Ando!" Hiro said enthusiastically.
"Ummm...sure, if you swing that way," Jack agreed. "Anyway, she's here and I gotta find her. But this power, it doesn't really work too well in New York. There's just, you know. So much lost stuff. So I thought maybe you had a magic thing for me or something. Like your sword."
Hiro shook his head mournfully.
"That's cool. Hey, listen, it's been totally Eastern, but I've gotta find a place to stay and my soulmate and stuff. See you around, yeah? The Versa's parked just around the corner on the right."
"Wait!" Hiro said, grasping his sleeve as he rose. "You are on a quest! We will help."
"You will?" Jack asked.
"Yes!"
"Hey -- that's really decent of you," Jack said, touched. "You don't have to, you know, just because of the car."
"It is not because of the car," Hiro said seriously. "It is because you are different. Like us."
"Rock on. So like -- you wanna eat and then go? Let's eat and then go," Jack said, sitting down again. "Okay, cool. So, what brings you to New York?"
"Destiny," Hiro intoned.
"Seriously," Jack agreed. "This is like a comic book or something."
"You like comic books?" Hiro asked.
"Yeah! I mean I read all of Sandman, JLA, love the new X-Men -- hey, I bet you read Fullmetal Alchemist, huh?" Jack asked.
"Fool...metal...?" Hiro looked perplexed.
"Hagane," Ando coughed.
"Right! Hagane no Renkin-something," Jack said. Hiro's eyes lit up.
Oh, New York was going to kick ass.
Next time on Heroes ("Empire State"):
"Is he like, horribly disfigured or something?" Jack asked, then realised perhaps he should modulate the gleeful fascination in his voice.
"I've dosed you with Ketamine," she continued. "That's why you feel drugged. You are."
This woman, who left her baby to die in a fire, who had stolen money from her own blood, did not deserve to be a mother.
He made a note to himself to acquire a gun as soon as possible, if they survived the next ten minutes.
The world was just full of possibilities, horizons as wide as the view from the top, and only Niki was standing in her way.
"Scuse me," he said to the businessman in the groovy retro glasses who was standing nearby. "Can I bum a smoke?"
Chapter Nine
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Ohhhh ... major Claude love.
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