sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:47 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:47 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Seventeen
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Seventeen: The Long Walk
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Peter makes tracks, Jack makes popcorn, Nathan makes poor landings, Claude makes a convincing hero, Mohinder makes progress, and Claire makes a plan to find her father.
Notes: Thanks and credit to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
utility_knife for Isaac's painting; if you'd like to comment on the art, utility.knife@gmail.com is the address to write to.
Originally posted 4.16.07
PETER PETRELLI AND GABRIEL GREY - GROUND ZERO
When Peter woke, it was to the warm feel of glass under his cheek and his own sweat pooling under his body. He pushed himself up with a start and found that he lay in the shadow of some kind of crater, its bowl shining oddly in the sun. The glass under his hands and knees was rough, spotted with small pockets of sand.
Another body lay nearby and it wasn't until Peter saw Gabriel(sylar)Gabriel's pale skin, scorching in the heat, that he realised he was naked as well, his clothing burned away in the blast. He scrambled to his feet and half-fell, half-ran to where the other man lay. In the sun, the heat was merciless and the glass hurt his feet.
He dropped next to Gabriel and lifted his head, resting it on his knees. Sylar was burned away, hate was burned away, fear and revenge immolated in the blast.
Gabriel's lips, blistered and bleeding, parted with a dry crackling sound. His skin was burned too, white and oozing where it touched the ground. Peter tried to reach him with his mind, but instead he felt a gentle probing touch -- a summons.
Peter.
Peter pulled Gabriel into the shade and laid his head on the cooler glass. Then he stood up.
Claude? He scrambled to the shallow sloping wall of the crater and up, searching. Claude? Is that you?
Above the lip, sand stretched out for miles in all directions, the mountains a distant smudge on the horizon. Nearby was a heap of slag and rock, some kind of melted construction.
This was not New York, had never been New York.
Peter dropped down again into the sand, curling up and weeping with relief.
Peter, he heard again. Where are you?
I don't know, Peter answered. I'm in a desert somewhere.
I know that, idiot, Claude replied. Peter wasn't sure if he was hallucinating the touch on his mind, but if so, his hallucination was very true to life. He became aware that he was thirsty, and that his face ached strangely. Are you still near the epicenter?
Peter looked down at the crater, with its chunks of glass where the sand had melted and fused in the nuclear blast.
Yeah, he answered drily.
Walk east.
Which way is that?
There was an irritated huff. Away from the sunset, bright boy.
Come find me, Peter said plaintively.
Can't do that, Claude answered. Radiation'll kill me.
I can't walk and carry Gabriel too, Peter said, ready to scream with frustration.
He's dying, Claude said ruthlessly. Leave him.
"He's right," came a voice from behind him. Peter saw Gabriel pull himself up over the lip of the crater. "Whoever he is," he croaked, "he's right."
"You aren't dead yet," Peter said.
"Hubris," Gabriel spat blood.
"What?"
"This is my comeuppance."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you believe..." Gabriel breathed, then closed his eyes. Peter watched his chest rise and fall.
If you believe in evolutionary superiority, Gabriel said, if you're willing to sacrifice the inferior to your own superior ends...then when you find your superior, you should be willing to sacrifice yourself. You are my genetic superior. I sacrifice myself for you.
You're burning daylight, Claude added.
"Go," Gabriel grunted. "Walk away. I'm sorry. Tell them all I'm sorry."
Peter set his jaw and put his back to the sun. The sand scorched the soles of his feet and sweat tricked down his skin, making rivulets in the grime on his body as he moved.
Good pup, Claude said.
How far? Peter asked. I'm tired.
Not far.
Liar.
You'll either walk or you won't, Claude said. Quit fretting or curl up and die.
Are you here? Peter asked.
I'm here, Claude answered, in an odd tone Peter had never heard before. As close as I can get. Keep walking.
Easy for you to say, Peter said lightly, trying not to show how desperate he was.
Mind me, Petrelli, or I'm liable to whop you in the head, Claude replied.
Peter laughed a little as he walked, the sun burning across the sands of the Trinity Site, the sweat dripping down.
***
JACK, HIRO, AND ANDO - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERs - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Jack had found a small kitchen, all but forgotten after they put a fridge and microwave in near the copiers. He also located all the fixings he required, and disappeared for ten minutes.
"Did I miss anything awesome?" he asked, returning to Mr. Petrelli's office. Hiro and Ando were sitting on his couch, watching a small television; Jack slid over the arm and settled in next to Hiro, placing a giant bowl of buttered popcorn on Hiro's lap.
"Not really," Ando answered, taking a handful of popcorn. On the TV, a computer rendition of a nuclear explosion decimated New York.
"A blast of this size, while causing damage only to the extent of three or four miles, would fill an area comparable to metropolitan New York with toxic radiation," the newsanchor narrated.
"You ain't just whistlin' Dixie," Jack told the screen.
"Are you sure Peter Petrelli is alive?" Hiro asked.
"Yup. No odds on the other guy, though," Jack replied. "I don't know about him. Peter's on his way home."
"How do you know?" Ando asked.
"I just do."
On the TV, someone was now pontificating about whether or not this was a bomb test, an unexploded experiment from the forties, or some kind of bizarre terrorist threat.
Suddenly, the reception shorted out and the screen went to test-pattern for a minute.
"The suspense is killing me," Jack said, eating another handful of popcorn. An image appeared on the screen -- a large crater, filmed at an oblique angle from overhead. All three men leaned forward.
"We are getting reports that the body of a man has been sighted, an apparent victim of the blast. We are told he is definitely dead -- as you would imagine anyone would be. We are also told, if you look low in the lower right corner of your screen, that is all that remains of the marker which identified ground zero of the very first nuclear test in 1945, the Trinity Test. It looks as though the rock itself has melted..."
"Trinitite," Jack said.
"What?" Hiro asked.
"See how the crater sparkles? It looks almost green?"
Hiro nodded.
"That's where the blast melted the sand. It's, like, radioactive glass. They called it trinitite."
"But where is Peter?" Hiro asked. Jack's lips thinned into a pale line.
"I can't find him yet," he said.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNET - OUTSIDE THE TRINITY TESTING SITE, NEW MEXICO
Why am I walking east? Peter asked eventually. He could feel that his body was beginning to fall apart; you could only regenerate from sunburn so often before you started to wear out.
Wind's moving west, Claude replied. Fallout's headed west. Difference between ten miles and a hundred.
Ten miles? Peter asked, disconsolate.
You're not goin' the whole way. Help's comin'.
I swear to god, Claude, if you walk into a radioactive bomb site and die of cancer --
No fear, mate. I'm sendin' family.
Peter was about to ask what the hell that meant when he saw a figure on the horizon, dimly. Slight and small, running towards him across the hardpacked sand.
"Oh god," he said aloud. "Claire. CLAIRE!"
He nearly collapsed by the time she reached him, but she caught him, one shoulder under his arm. He felt her other arm around him sideways, holding tight.
"Oh Jesus," he breathed, burying his face in her hair. "Oh Jesus, Claire, Jesus Christ -- "
"I'm here," she said. "Came to help you get back."
"How'd you get here?" he asked, as she offered him a bottle of water, making him drink it in sips.
"Claude brought me."
"Son of a bitch, Claire. I mean, Jesus," Peter waved an arm at the distant crater. "But we saved New York, right?"
"Yeah," she said, wrapping something around his shoulders. It was heavy, and didn't smell terrific, but it was shade from the sun and, just barely, preserved his decency.
Claude's jacket.
"I've been running," she said. "You're a little less than halfway. But once we get another mile or two, dad'll be here, he can come get you."
"Nathan?"
"Yeah. Claude told him to fly his ass to Socorro," Claire replied with a grin.
"Sounds like Claude."
They limped along, Peter leaning heavily on Claire, pulling the hood of Claude's jacket over his head when his ears started to sunburn and wouldn't heal. Claire had another bottle of water, but it didn't help much; if he didn't get to a hospital soon he was going to pass out, and then he was probably going to die.
"Hey look," Claire said, and tilted his chin up with one hand. For a second all Peter saw was the afternoon sky, darkening to evening; then he noticed a little tiny bit of the sky was moving. Dropping like a rock, in fact.
When Nathan landed he left a forty-foot skid mark, and he didn't spend much time talking. Peter half-fell against him, numb and exhausted, and laughing because Nathan was still in a suit and tie, Jesus, how funny could you get?
"Keep going," he heard Nathan say, and for a horrifying moment he thought Nathan meant him.
"Nice stroll in the country," Claire answered, and Peter understood -- Nathan was taking him away, and leaving Claire to walk out. Peter clung to Nathan's neck, his whole world reduced to the pattern of his brother's tie.
"Hold tight, Pete," Nathan said. "Just a short hop. Then you can go home, okay?"
Peter nodded and tightened his grip.
Flying was a little different when you weren't actually flying. It was a lot more precarious. Especially landings, which apparently Nathan had yet to master. They overshot Claude, standing in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the safety zone for the blast, by about ten feet.
"Thank Christ you're not a pilot," he heard Claude say to Nathan.
"I'm working on it," Nathan answered. "Hey, Peter. You can let go now."
Peter staggered backwards, into Claude.
"Take him home. I'm going back for Claire."
"Mind yourself. Tisn't that safe."
Peter began to slip away then, because Claude was here and Nathan was nearby and Claire would be safe. It seemed terribly important that the people who had relayed him, one to the next, caring for him, should be safe.
He felt Claude lift him, physically pick him up, arms under knees and shoulders. He tried to hold on, because it wasn't fair to make Claude do all the work, but his arms wouldn't move.
He was unconscious before Claude closed his eyes, said a prayer, and teleported.
***
MOHINDER SURESH, CLAUDE RAINS, AND PETER PETRELLI - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC
"Sunbathin'," the man said succinctly. "In the nude, reckon."
Mohinder, who was waiting his turn for an MRI to find out just what was wrong with him, had given up on trying to do anything other than listen. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to a very skeptical doctor ask an Englishman a lot of questions about the patient in the bed next to him.
"Where precisely did you find him?" the doctor asked.
"Backyard."
"His backyard? Your," the doctor coughed, "Joint backyard?"
"What, you think he's...? Nah! His backyard. I'm 'is neighbor. What I reckon is, he went to have a beer, sun got the better of 'im."
"This is a very severe sunburn, Mr. Rains. And he is very dehydrated. Do you know if he abuses drugs of any kind?"
"Nope, doubt it. Listen, these kids," the man said dismissively. "They're all nuts, aren't they? Don't take care of their health at all. So," he added, and Mohinder heard the worried uncertainty even if the doctor didn't, "He'll be all right, won't 'e?"
"A few days' rest, a lot of fluids, and some aloe, and he should be well on his way," the doctor replied. "The, er. The scar. Is that old?"
"Dunno. Never paid much attention to the kid myself."
"Very well. I assume you know how to contact his family?"
"I'll take care of it."
Mohinder heard the doctor leave, and the flip of a cellular telephone being opened.
"Put Jack Baker on the phone." A pause. "They back yet? They're on their way, then. Yes. Yes. Grace Hospital. Well, I would assume you could, yes. No, they say it'll be fine. Faster than they know, once he gets back on his feet. No, false name. Got a pen?"
He heard the man hesitate, then speak once more. "Simon Porter."
***
CLAUDE AND ALEXANDER - ISLINGTON BOROUGH POLICE HEADQUARTERS - LONDON
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
The small interrogation room seemed empty, of course, but Alexander knew better.
He had been following the boy for a few days, and had yet to see him visibly. When the London police arrested a boy who disappeared and then reappeared in his cell, Alexander's police contacts threw up flags, and he was summoned. They'd had enough presence of mind to sling the kid in a room and lock the door until he arrived, but beyond that he was dealing with a lot of scared coppers and a kid who was probably terrified out of his mind.
He'd sent the cops away; one of his own people was manning the closed-circuit television and two more stood outside the door in case the kid tried to bolt. He was probably waiting next to the door for his chance to escape, so when Alexander walked into the room he moved fast, slamming it shut before anything could concievably get out.
"Good afternoon," he said, into the silent, seemingly-empty room. "The door is locked, so you may as well not bother. I know you're here, and I've come to help you."
Dead silence. He had clearly learned to keep his breathing quiet as well as his footsteps. Alexander sighed.
"I do wish you'd at least talk to me. I know you're listening. You can stay invisible if you wish."
There was a slight rustling noise. He had the boy's attention.
"I'm here from a special agency, an international agency very interested in young men like yourself."
Still no answer.
"I understand you think nobody can comprehend what has happened to you," he continued. "Perhaps you think that if people knew, they'd imprison you, try to see what makes you tick. But I don't believe you understand that right now you are in fact imprisoned by your fears and by your ignorance. You don't know why your body has betrayed you, or comprehend that a wonderful gift has been placed in your hands. I am here to free you from all that."
A body, huddled in one corner, flickered into visibility. Looking at him without heat-sensing goggles for the first time, several things became evident.
The first was that he'd underestimated the boy's potential strength -- even with his legs pulled up against his chest, Alexander could see more clearly the breadth of his shoulders, the outline of muscle under his cheap shirt. The second was that he was slightly older than the police had estimated when they brought him in, probably in his early twenties.
"Thank you," he said to the young man, who stared at him through a tangle of curly hair. "By the by, they tell me you haven't eaten."
He placed a packet of food on the table between them. The man eyed it nervously.
"It's just food," Alexander said. "You're already in jail; why would I want to drug you?"
The smell began to fill the room, proving too much for him; he darted forward and took it, ripping the paper open and ravenously devouring the lukewarm meat pasty inside.
"You see?" Alexander asked. "Just a pasty."
"Whatchoo want wi' me?" the man asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I want to make you an offer. For your own good and benefit."
"B'lieve that when I see it," he snorted.
"Don't you want to get out of here? You'll do time for that assault."
"Fucker had it comin'."
"Couldn't disappear in time, eh?"
The man turned his head, avoiding Alexander's eyes. "Comes 'n goes."
"I want to help you. I can show you how to control it."
"How?"
"I know others like you," Alexander told him, smiling. "Special people. Different people."
"All this, out o' the goodness of your heart, is that it?" the man asked.
Alexander shrugged. "Well, it benefits both of us. I want to learn from you, as well."
"Oh aye yes. Cut into my brain, reckon. Run your medical tests on me."
"I just want to ask some questions."
"Like what?" he challenged, finally meeting Alexander's eyes with an angry, intense stare.
"Well, how about..." Alexander tapped his fingers on his lips. "What's your name?"
The man snorted again. "Claude. Claude Rains."
"Tch! Very droll, but it won't do at all," Alexander said. "I too am a classic film buff. We needn't tell anyone else; in the Company your name is what you say it is. It can be our secret, but I must have your real name."
The young man still looked mistrustful, but when Alexander offered his hand, he shook it.
"Simon," he said sullenly. "Simon Porter."
"Nice to meet you, Simon-called-Claude," Alexander answered. "My name is Alexander Linderman."
***
CLAUDE AND MOHINDER - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC
The room was quiet now, except for the breathing of the boy and his good-samaritan neighbour.
"I'm sorry to hear about your neighbour," Mohinder tried, just as a conversational gambit.
"He'll live," the man called Claude Rains replied. "Until he gets himself in some other fool situation."
"You said he was young. The young often make mistakes," Mohinder said.
"Speakin' from personal experience?"
"I wish I knew."
"Oh aye? What's your story then?"
"As I said," Mohinder replied with a faint smile, "I wish I knew. Apparently I was mugged. I must have taken quite the blow to the head; they say I have amnesia. I've lost...well, almost three months, I think. Is it really the eighth of November?"
"All day long." There was a rustle as the man stood and walked across the room. "Mugged, eh?"
"So they say. Not a very good deal; they appear to have taken my eyesight as well."
He could feel the man's presence, standing over his bed.
"So it's you," Claude said cryptically. "Well, isn't it a small world."
"Do I...know you?"
"Not yet. Can't see, eh?"
"Not as such, no."
Claude hummed while he thought. Mohinder didn't think he'd notice if he wasn't depending on his ears to tell him what was going on.
"D'you mind tryin' something for me?" Claude asked.
"Trying what?" Mohinder said, afraid now. He was blind and mostly helpless, and this man --
"Nothin' strange," a quiet chuckle. "Just somethin' I picked up. I'm a bit of a scientist, me."
"I'm a geneticist. What's your branch?"
"Esoterica. Your eyes are closed."
"There didn't seem much point in keeping them open."
Claude moved so fast that he didn't have time to react before an arm was thrown across his chest to hold him down and a warm, dry hand pressed hard against the left side of his face. He shouted and of course on instinct his eyes flew open --
The man's hand held his left eyelid shut, but he got his right eye open and the world, suddenly, swam into focus.
"I can see," he gasped.
"Magic, innit? Keep your left eye shut."
He did as he was told and the hand was slowly removed.
"Now open."
The world went fuzzy, as if he'd lost a lense to his glasses. That had happened once as a child; only one lense tended to distort the world, misshape it, make it seem as if there were two of some things and others didn't exist. He closed his eye, and his vision was perfect -- well, not perfect, but he saw sharp outlines and shadows, light and dark, and a scruffy, bearded man leaning over him.
Experimentally, he closed his right eye and opened only his left. Bright colours danced and swam in his vision before he realised what he was seeing; when he concentrated on a peach-coloured blob it focused sharply. It was like looking into a microscope -- an incredibly powerful, incredibly well-illuminated microscope. He was looking at the cells of his benefactor's cheek.
He closed both eyes resolutely.
"Welcome to the family," said Claude.
***
NATHAN, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Jesus, you're back," Jack said, as Nathan and Claire, windblown but alive, ran into the empty, echoing office which until the day before had been Petrelli Campaign Headquarters. "Come on, we gotta book it -- "
Nathan knocked the boy to the floor with a punch that he hadn't planned on; his rage at Claire's being in danger and Peter's near-death and that arrogant son of a bitch Claude put itself behind a right hook that sent Jack in a neat turn before collapsing to the ground.
"If you ever bring my daughter into danger again -- " he started, as Jack scrabbled upright, hand going to his jaw.
"Hey! Stop it!" Claire said, tugging on his arm.
"Peter," Jack managed, cradling his injured face. "Grace hospital. The Versa's outside."
"Give me the keys."
"Suck it," Jack told him succinctly. Nathan drew back to punch him again, but Claire caught his arm and clung to it. "I'm a goddamn Finder, you'll never get through rush-hour traffic without me. I drive."
Nathan used the hand Claire wasn't clinging onto to gather up a handful of Jack's shirt.
"Take us there. Now," he said.
Nathan didn't remember the car ride, except for a distant mention of Hiro and Ando having been sent ahead. When they reached the hospital he made for the nearest official-looking desk, but Jack actually physically grabbed him and pulled him away.
"He's under another name," he said. "I'll find him."
Jack led them down a corridor, past a nurse who didn't even look up from her crossword, up two flights of stairs, and down another hall, moving as if he'd lived all his life in Grace Hospital. Nathan caught sight of Claude before the other two and he started to run. Claude saw him coming and tilted his head at a nearby door.
"He's all right," he said, stopping Nathan on the threshold. "Keep quiet."
Nathan glared at him and opened the door. Inside, Peter was --
This sight was too familiar. Peter, lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and tubes, unconscious. Dark rings on pale skin under his eyes, hospital-issue pyjamas under the hospital-issue blankets. And a new scar for Peter, who was supposed to heal from anything. Perhaps in some way he had -- it was a true scar, the skin already old, not the fresh pink of a recent wound or the bloody mess it must have once been.
He heard Jack and Claire shove into the doorway behind him. Claire pushed past his hip and went to Peter's bedside.
"Dehydration and sunburn," Claude said, over his shoulder. "Bit of liquid refreshment, he'll be right as rain."
Even Peter's great teacher Claude, Nathan noticed, couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
"To you an' me an' the hospital, his name's Simon Porter."
Nathan moved forward, stumbling into the chair that was next to Peter's bed, seating himself in it and feeling very old, suddenly.
"Hey Pete," he said softly. "Nice work."
***
JACK AND CLAIRE - GRACE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM
They left Nathan sitting with Peter, not very aware of the rest of the world, watched over by Claude. Actually, they were sent away by Claude, who said he had other things to discuss with Nathan, and that Jack ought to have that shiner on his jaw looked at.
Down in the ER, the nurse found an ice pack for him, which was all he really wanted. The ER admissions forms sat blank on the chair next to his, Claire on his other side, while he iced his sore and aching jaw.
"Sorry about the punching and everything," Claire said. Jack smiled, then winced.
"Hey, don't do the crime if you can't do the time, right?" he managed.
"I don't think he usually punches people," Claire said. "I guess I don't know. I should ask Peter."
"He's pretty good at it." Jack shifted the ice against his jaw, finding a colder spot.
"Listen, Jack...about the bomb shelter today..." she frowned as he turned his head, studying her intently. Jack acted like an idiot a lot of the time, but that didn't mean he was one. "I mean...I'm not going to lie, it was a nice kiss."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. But..."
"Still not interested?" he asked, looking a little crestfallen. She couldn't blame him, really. It had been way more than nice. It had been hot, and there had been tongues involved, and not just his tongue either.
"Mixed message, I know."
"You can give me a mixed message anytime you like, schweeteart," Jack said, leering a little. She punched him in the shoulder. "Ow! You Petrellis are all alike."
She laughed, but then she realised he'd called her a Petrelli, which was...very strange.
"Thinkin' bout your dad?" he asked. "Texas-dad, I mean."
"I swore I saw him today. Do you think he might really be in New York?"
"Anything's possible. Om. Um, and if he is..." He drew his eyebrows together, taking the icepack off his face. "Hey, listen, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of creep. I came here to find you. Till I hear otherwise, I'm staying here to help you. No strings attached. You want me to try and find your dad?"
Claire squeezed his hand tightly.
"Maybe. If you want," she said.
"I do want! I mean. To help you find him. I could go looking for him, if you're still under house arrest."
"It might not have been him at all."
"Or it might have. When I was on the road I could find my family from two thousand miles away. It's harder here, there's a lot of stuff to find, but even if all I do is find out what he's up to in Texas, wouldn't that be worth it?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. "Yeah. If you can."
"Course I can. Next to getting punched by your bio-dad, it's a cinch."
Next time, on Heroes ("Life Is A Dream"):
This is what he was aching for when he spent all that time training to heal people. This is what he wanted when he leapt off that building and Nathan caught him. This is changing the world, not in big leaps, not in single steps, but at a steady run.
"Listen, I don't do "people" before eight in the morning," Claude grumbled.
"You saved Peter Petrelli. No more kaboom," Ando told him. Hiro picked at one of the limp pink prawns. "Aren't you happy?"
"Mohinder," he said gently. "Your father is dead."
"Detox for a few hours. Maybe it'll motivate you."
Okay, until they invented gods for computers, maybe GoogleMaps wasn't the way to go about this.
Claude took his hand away. As it moved, Peter felt the barest hint of a caress, his fingers smoothing down a lock of hair, thumb stroking the skin of his forehead.
For the first time since he woke up, knowing the world was different, cold fear washed over him.
Chapter Eighteen
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Peter makes tracks, Jack makes popcorn, Nathan makes poor landings, Claude makes a convincing hero, Mohinder makes progress, and Claire makes a plan to find her father.
Notes: Thanks and credit to
utility_knife for Isaac's painting; if you'd like to comment on the art, utility.knife@gmail.com is the address to write to. Originally posted 4.16.07
PETER PETRELLI AND GABRIEL GREY - GROUND ZERO
When Peter woke, it was to the warm feel of glass under his cheek and his own sweat pooling under his body. He pushed himself up with a start and found that he lay in the shadow of some kind of crater, its bowl shining oddly in the sun. The glass under his hands and knees was rough, spotted with small pockets of sand.
Another body lay nearby and it wasn't until Peter saw Gabriel(sylar)Gabriel's pale skin, scorching in the heat, that he realised he was naked as well, his clothing burned away in the blast. He scrambled to his feet and half-fell, half-ran to where the other man lay. In the sun, the heat was merciless and the glass hurt his feet.
He dropped next to Gabriel and lifted his head, resting it on his knees. Sylar was burned away, hate was burned away, fear and revenge immolated in the blast.
Gabriel's lips, blistered and bleeding, parted with a dry crackling sound. His skin was burned too, white and oozing where it touched the ground. Peter tried to reach him with his mind, but instead he felt a gentle probing touch -- a summons.
Peter.
Peter pulled Gabriel into the shade and laid his head on the cooler glass. Then he stood up.
Claude? He scrambled to the shallow sloping wall of the crater and up, searching. Claude? Is that you?
Above the lip, sand stretched out for miles in all directions, the mountains a distant smudge on the horizon. Nearby was a heap of slag and rock, some kind of melted construction.
This was not New York, had never been New York.
Peter dropped down again into the sand, curling up and weeping with relief.
Peter, he heard again. Where are you?
I don't know, Peter answered. I'm in a desert somewhere.
I know that, idiot, Claude replied. Peter wasn't sure if he was hallucinating the touch on his mind, but if so, his hallucination was very true to life. He became aware that he was thirsty, and that his face ached strangely. Are you still near the epicenter?
Peter looked down at the crater, with its chunks of glass where the sand had melted and fused in the nuclear blast.
Yeah, he answered drily.
Walk east.
Which way is that?
There was an irritated huff. Away from the sunset, bright boy.
Come find me, Peter said plaintively.
Can't do that, Claude answered. Radiation'll kill me.
I can't walk and carry Gabriel too, Peter said, ready to scream with frustration.
He's dying, Claude said ruthlessly. Leave him.
"He's right," came a voice from behind him. Peter saw Gabriel pull himself up over the lip of the crater. "Whoever he is," he croaked, "he's right."
"You aren't dead yet," Peter said.
"Hubris," Gabriel spat blood.
"What?"
"This is my comeuppance."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you believe..." Gabriel breathed, then closed his eyes. Peter watched his chest rise and fall.
If you believe in evolutionary superiority, Gabriel said, if you're willing to sacrifice the inferior to your own superior ends...then when you find your superior, you should be willing to sacrifice yourself. You are my genetic superior. I sacrifice myself for you.
You're burning daylight, Claude added.
"Go," Gabriel grunted. "Walk away. I'm sorry. Tell them all I'm sorry."
Peter set his jaw and put his back to the sun. The sand scorched the soles of his feet and sweat tricked down his skin, making rivulets in the grime on his body as he moved.
Good pup, Claude said.
How far? Peter asked. I'm tired.
Not far.
Liar.
You'll either walk or you won't, Claude said. Quit fretting or curl up and die.
Are you here? Peter asked.
I'm here, Claude answered, in an odd tone Peter had never heard before. As close as I can get. Keep walking.
Easy for you to say, Peter said lightly, trying not to show how desperate he was.
Mind me, Petrelli, or I'm liable to whop you in the head, Claude replied.
Peter laughed a little as he walked, the sun burning across the sands of the Trinity Site, the sweat dripping down.
***
JACK, HIRO, AND ANDO - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERs - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Jack had found a small kitchen, all but forgotten after they put a fridge and microwave in near the copiers. He also located all the fixings he required, and disappeared for ten minutes.
"Did I miss anything awesome?" he asked, returning to Mr. Petrelli's office. Hiro and Ando were sitting on his couch, watching a small television; Jack slid over the arm and settled in next to Hiro, placing a giant bowl of buttered popcorn on Hiro's lap.
"Not really," Ando answered, taking a handful of popcorn. On the TV, a computer rendition of a nuclear explosion decimated New York.
"A blast of this size, while causing damage only to the extent of three or four miles, would fill an area comparable to metropolitan New York with toxic radiation," the newsanchor narrated.
"You ain't just whistlin' Dixie," Jack told the screen.
"Are you sure Peter Petrelli is alive?" Hiro asked.
"Yup. No odds on the other guy, though," Jack replied. "I don't know about him. Peter's on his way home."
"How do you know?" Ando asked.
"I just do."
On the TV, someone was now pontificating about whether or not this was a bomb test, an unexploded experiment from the forties, or some kind of bizarre terrorist threat.
Suddenly, the reception shorted out and the screen went to test-pattern for a minute.
"The suspense is killing me," Jack said, eating another handful of popcorn. An image appeared on the screen -- a large crater, filmed at an oblique angle from overhead. All three men leaned forward.
"We are getting reports that the body of a man has been sighted, an apparent victim of the blast. We are told he is definitely dead -- as you would imagine anyone would be. We are also told, if you look low in the lower right corner of your screen, that is all that remains of the marker which identified ground zero of the very first nuclear test in 1945, the Trinity Test. It looks as though the rock itself has melted..."
"Trinitite," Jack said.
"What?" Hiro asked.
"See how the crater sparkles? It looks almost green?"
Hiro nodded.
"That's where the blast melted the sand. It's, like, radioactive glass. They called it trinitite."
"But where is Peter?" Hiro asked. Jack's lips thinned into a pale line.
"I can't find him yet," he said.
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - NYC
***
PETER PETRELLI AND CLAIRE BENNET - OUTSIDE THE TRINITY TESTING SITE, NEW MEXICO
Why am I walking east? Peter asked eventually. He could feel that his body was beginning to fall apart; you could only regenerate from sunburn so often before you started to wear out.
Wind's moving west, Claude replied. Fallout's headed west. Difference between ten miles and a hundred.
Ten miles? Peter asked, disconsolate.
You're not goin' the whole way. Help's comin'.
I swear to god, Claude, if you walk into a radioactive bomb site and die of cancer --
No fear, mate. I'm sendin' family.
Peter was about to ask what the hell that meant when he saw a figure on the horizon, dimly. Slight and small, running towards him across the hardpacked sand.
"Oh god," he said aloud. "Claire. CLAIRE!"
He nearly collapsed by the time she reached him, but she caught him, one shoulder under his arm. He felt her other arm around him sideways, holding tight.
"Oh Jesus," he breathed, burying his face in her hair. "Oh Jesus, Claire, Jesus Christ -- "
"I'm here," she said. "Came to help you get back."
"How'd you get here?" he asked, as she offered him a bottle of water, making him drink it in sips.
"Claude brought me."
"Son of a bitch, Claire. I mean, Jesus," Peter waved an arm at the distant crater. "But we saved New York, right?"
"Yeah," she said, wrapping something around his shoulders. It was heavy, and didn't smell terrific, but it was shade from the sun and, just barely, preserved his decency.
Claude's jacket.
"I've been running," she said. "You're a little less than halfway. But once we get another mile or two, dad'll be here, he can come get you."
"Nathan?"
"Yeah. Claude told him to fly his ass to Socorro," Claire replied with a grin.
"Sounds like Claude."
They limped along, Peter leaning heavily on Claire, pulling the hood of Claude's jacket over his head when his ears started to sunburn and wouldn't heal. Claire had another bottle of water, but it didn't help much; if he didn't get to a hospital soon he was going to pass out, and then he was probably going to die.
"Hey look," Claire said, and tilted his chin up with one hand. For a second all Peter saw was the afternoon sky, darkening to evening; then he noticed a little tiny bit of the sky was moving. Dropping like a rock, in fact.
When Nathan landed he left a forty-foot skid mark, and he didn't spend much time talking. Peter half-fell against him, numb and exhausted, and laughing because Nathan was still in a suit and tie, Jesus, how funny could you get?
"Keep going," he heard Nathan say, and for a horrifying moment he thought Nathan meant him.
"Nice stroll in the country," Claire answered, and Peter understood -- Nathan was taking him away, and leaving Claire to walk out. Peter clung to Nathan's neck, his whole world reduced to the pattern of his brother's tie.
"Hold tight, Pete," Nathan said. "Just a short hop. Then you can go home, okay?"
Peter nodded and tightened his grip.
Flying was a little different when you weren't actually flying. It was a lot more precarious. Especially landings, which apparently Nathan had yet to master. They overshot Claude, standing in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the safety zone for the blast, by about ten feet.
"Thank Christ you're not a pilot," he heard Claude say to Nathan.
"I'm working on it," Nathan answered. "Hey, Peter. You can let go now."
Peter staggered backwards, into Claude.
"Take him home. I'm going back for Claire."
"Mind yourself. Tisn't that safe."
Peter began to slip away then, because Claude was here and Nathan was nearby and Claire would be safe. It seemed terribly important that the people who had relayed him, one to the next, caring for him, should be safe.
He felt Claude lift him, physically pick him up, arms under knees and shoulders. He tried to hold on, because it wasn't fair to make Claude do all the work, but his arms wouldn't move.
He was unconscious before Claude closed his eyes, said a prayer, and teleported.
***
MOHINDER SURESH, CLAUDE RAINS, AND PETER PETRELLI - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC
"Sunbathin'," the man said succinctly. "In the nude, reckon."
Mohinder, who was waiting his turn for an MRI to find out just what was wrong with him, had given up on trying to do anything other than listen. He lay with his eyes closed, listening to a very skeptical doctor ask an Englishman a lot of questions about the patient in the bed next to him.
"Where precisely did you find him?" the doctor asked.
"Backyard."
"His backyard? Your," the doctor coughed, "Joint backyard?"
"What, you think he's...? Nah! His backyard. I'm 'is neighbor. What I reckon is, he went to have a beer, sun got the better of 'im."
"This is a very severe sunburn, Mr. Rains. And he is very dehydrated. Do you know if he abuses drugs of any kind?"
"Nope, doubt it. Listen, these kids," the man said dismissively. "They're all nuts, aren't they? Don't take care of their health at all. So," he added, and Mohinder heard the worried uncertainty even if the doctor didn't, "He'll be all right, won't 'e?"
"A few days' rest, a lot of fluids, and some aloe, and he should be well on his way," the doctor replied. "The, er. The scar. Is that old?"
"Dunno. Never paid much attention to the kid myself."
"Very well. I assume you know how to contact his family?"
"I'll take care of it."
Mohinder heard the doctor leave, and the flip of a cellular telephone being opened.
"Put Jack Baker on the phone." A pause. "They back yet? They're on their way, then. Yes. Yes. Grace Hospital. Well, I would assume you could, yes. No, they say it'll be fine. Faster than they know, once he gets back on his feet. No, false name. Got a pen?"
He heard the man hesitate, then speak once more. "Simon Porter."
***
CLAUDE AND ALEXANDER - ISLINGTON BOROUGH POLICE HEADQUARTERS - LONDON
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
The small interrogation room seemed empty, of course, but Alexander knew better.
He had been following the boy for a few days, and had yet to see him visibly. When the London police arrested a boy who disappeared and then reappeared in his cell, Alexander's police contacts threw up flags, and he was summoned. They'd had enough presence of mind to sling the kid in a room and lock the door until he arrived, but beyond that he was dealing with a lot of scared coppers and a kid who was probably terrified out of his mind.
He'd sent the cops away; one of his own people was manning the closed-circuit television and two more stood outside the door in case the kid tried to bolt. He was probably waiting next to the door for his chance to escape, so when Alexander walked into the room he moved fast, slamming it shut before anything could concievably get out.
"Good afternoon," he said, into the silent, seemingly-empty room. "The door is locked, so you may as well not bother. I know you're here, and I've come to help you."
Dead silence. He had clearly learned to keep his breathing quiet as well as his footsteps. Alexander sighed.
"I do wish you'd at least talk to me. I know you're listening. You can stay invisible if you wish."
There was a slight rustling noise. He had the boy's attention.
"I'm here from a special agency, an international agency very interested in young men like yourself."
Still no answer.
"I understand you think nobody can comprehend what has happened to you," he continued. "Perhaps you think that if people knew, they'd imprison you, try to see what makes you tick. But I don't believe you understand that right now you are in fact imprisoned by your fears and by your ignorance. You don't know why your body has betrayed you, or comprehend that a wonderful gift has been placed in your hands. I am here to free you from all that."
A body, huddled in one corner, flickered into visibility. Looking at him without heat-sensing goggles for the first time, several things became evident.
The first was that he'd underestimated the boy's potential strength -- even with his legs pulled up against his chest, Alexander could see more clearly the breadth of his shoulders, the outline of muscle under his cheap shirt. The second was that he was slightly older than the police had estimated when they brought him in, probably in his early twenties.
"Thank you," he said to the young man, who stared at him through a tangle of curly hair. "By the by, they tell me you haven't eaten."
He placed a packet of food on the table between them. The man eyed it nervously.
"It's just food," Alexander said. "You're already in jail; why would I want to drug you?"
The smell began to fill the room, proving too much for him; he darted forward and took it, ripping the paper open and ravenously devouring the lukewarm meat pasty inside.
"You see?" Alexander asked. "Just a pasty."
"Whatchoo want wi' me?" the man asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I want to make you an offer. For your own good and benefit."
"B'lieve that when I see it," he snorted.
"Don't you want to get out of here? You'll do time for that assault."
"Fucker had it comin'."
"Couldn't disappear in time, eh?"
The man turned his head, avoiding Alexander's eyes. "Comes 'n goes."
"I want to help you. I can show you how to control it."
"How?"
"I know others like you," Alexander told him, smiling. "Special people. Different people."
"All this, out o' the goodness of your heart, is that it?" the man asked.
Alexander shrugged. "Well, it benefits both of us. I want to learn from you, as well."
"Oh aye yes. Cut into my brain, reckon. Run your medical tests on me."
"I just want to ask some questions."
"Like what?" he challenged, finally meeting Alexander's eyes with an angry, intense stare.
"Well, how about..." Alexander tapped his fingers on his lips. "What's your name?"
The man snorted again. "Claude. Claude Rains."
"Tch! Very droll, but it won't do at all," Alexander said. "I too am a classic film buff. We needn't tell anyone else; in the Company your name is what you say it is. It can be our secret, but I must have your real name."
The young man still looked mistrustful, but when Alexander offered his hand, he shook it.
"Simon," he said sullenly. "Simon Porter."
"Nice to meet you, Simon-called-Claude," Alexander answered. "My name is Alexander Linderman."
***
CLAUDE AND MOHINDER - GRACE HOSPITAL - NYC
The room was quiet now, except for the breathing of the boy and his good-samaritan neighbour.
"I'm sorry to hear about your neighbour," Mohinder tried, just as a conversational gambit.
"He'll live," the man called Claude Rains replied. "Until he gets himself in some other fool situation."
"You said he was young. The young often make mistakes," Mohinder said.
"Speakin' from personal experience?"
"I wish I knew."
"Oh aye? What's your story then?"
"As I said," Mohinder replied with a faint smile, "I wish I knew. Apparently I was mugged. I must have taken quite the blow to the head; they say I have amnesia. I've lost...well, almost three months, I think. Is it really the eighth of November?"
"All day long." There was a rustle as the man stood and walked across the room. "Mugged, eh?"
"So they say. Not a very good deal; they appear to have taken my eyesight as well."
He could feel the man's presence, standing over his bed.
"So it's you," Claude said cryptically. "Well, isn't it a small world."
"Do I...know you?"
"Not yet. Can't see, eh?"
"Not as such, no."
Claude hummed while he thought. Mohinder didn't think he'd notice if he wasn't depending on his ears to tell him what was going on.
"D'you mind tryin' something for me?" Claude asked.
"Trying what?" Mohinder said, afraid now. He was blind and mostly helpless, and this man --
"Nothin' strange," a quiet chuckle. "Just somethin' I picked up. I'm a bit of a scientist, me."
"I'm a geneticist. What's your branch?"
"Esoterica. Your eyes are closed."
"There didn't seem much point in keeping them open."
Claude moved so fast that he didn't have time to react before an arm was thrown across his chest to hold him down and a warm, dry hand pressed hard against the left side of his face. He shouted and of course on instinct his eyes flew open --
The man's hand held his left eyelid shut, but he got his right eye open and the world, suddenly, swam into focus.
"I can see," he gasped.
"Magic, innit? Keep your left eye shut."
He did as he was told and the hand was slowly removed.
"Now open."
The world went fuzzy, as if he'd lost a lense to his glasses. That had happened once as a child; only one lense tended to distort the world, misshape it, make it seem as if there were two of some things and others didn't exist. He closed his eye, and his vision was perfect -- well, not perfect, but he saw sharp outlines and shadows, light and dark, and a scruffy, bearded man leaning over him.
Experimentally, he closed his right eye and opened only his left. Bright colours danced and swam in his vision before he realised what he was seeing; when he concentrated on a peach-coloured blob it focused sharply. It was like looking into a microscope -- an incredibly powerful, incredibly well-illuminated microscope. He was looking at the cells of his benefactor's cheek.
He closed both eyes resolutely.
"Welcome to the family," said Claude.
***
NATHAN, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Jesus, you're back," Jack said, as Nathan and Claire, windblown but alive, ran into the empty, echoing office which until the day before had been Petrelli Campaign Headquarters. "Come on, we gotta book it -- "
Nathan knocked the boy to the floor with a punch that he hadn't planned on; his rage at Claire's being in danger and Peter's near-death and that arrogant son of a bitch Claude put itself behind a right hook that sent Jack in a neat turn before collapsing to the ground.
"If you ever bring my daughter into danger again -- " he started, as Jack scrabbled upright, hand going to his jaw.
"Hey! Stop it!" Claire said, tugging on his arm.
"Peter," Jack managed, cradling his injured face. "Grace hospital. The Versa's outside."
"Give me the keys."
"Suck it," Jack told him succinctly. Nathan drew back to punch him again, but Claire caught his arm and clung to it. "I'm a goddamn Finder, you'll never get through rush-hour traffic without me. I drive."
Nathan used the hand Claire wasn't clinging onto to gather up a handful of Jack's shirt.
"Take us there. Now," he said.
Nathan didn't remember the car ride, except for a distant mention of Hiro and Ando having been sent ahead. When they reached the hospital he made for the nearest official-looking desk, but Jack actually physically grabbed him and pulled him away.
"He's under another name," he said. "I'll find him."
Jack led them down a corridor, past a nurse who didn't even look up from her crossword, up two flights of stairs, and down another hall, moving as if he'd lived all his life in Grace Hospital. Nathan caught sight of Claude before the other two and he started to run. Claude saw him coming and tilted his head at a nearby door.
"He's all right," he said, stopping Nathan on the threshold. "Keep quiet."
Nathan glared at him and opened the door. Inside, Peter was --
This sight was too familiar. Peter, lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and tubes, unconscious. Dark rings on pale skin under his eyes, hospital-issue pyjamas under the hospital-issue blankets. And a new scar for Peter, who was supposed to heal from anything. Perhaps in some way he had -- it was a true scar, the skin already old, not the fresh pink of a recent wound or the bloody mess it must have once been.
He heard Jack and Claire shove into the doorway behind him. Claire pushed past his hip and went to Peter's bedside.
"Dehydration and sunburn," Claude said, over his shoulder. "Bit of liquid refreshment, he'll be right as rain."
Even Peter's great teacher Claude, Nathan noticed, couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
"To you an' me an' the hospital, his name's Simon Porter."
Nathan moved forward, stumbling into the chair that was next to Peter's bed, seating himself in it and feeling very old, suddenly.
"Hey Pete," he said softly. "Nice work."
***
JACK AND CLAIRE - GRACE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM
They left Nathan sitting with Peter, not very aware of the rest of the world, watched over by Claude. Actually, they were sent away by Claude, who said he had other things to discuss with Nathan, and that Jack ought to have that shiner on his jaw looked at.
Down in the ER, the nurse found an ice pack for him, which was all he really wanted. The ER admissions forms sat blank on the chair next to his, Claire on his other side, while he iced his sore and aching jaw.
"Sorry about the punching and everything," Claire said. Jack smiled, then winced.
"Hey, don't do the crime if you can't do the time, right?" he managed.
"I don't think he usually punches people," Claire said. "I guess I don't know. I should ask Peter."
"He's pretty good at it." Jack shifted the ice against his jaw, finding a colder spot.
"Listen, Jack...about the bomb shelter today..." she frowned as he turned his head, studying her intently. Jack acted like an idiot a lot of the time, but that didn't mean he was one. "I mean...I'm not going to lie, it was a nice kiss."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. But..."
"Still not interested?" he asked, looking a little crestfallen. She couldn't blame him, really. It had been way more than nice. It had been hot, and there had been tongues involved, and not just his tongue either.
"Mixed message, I know."
"You can give me a mixed message anytime you like, schweeteart," Jack said, leering a little. She punched him in the shoulder. "Ow! You Petrellis are all alike."
She laughed, but then she realised he'd called her a Petrelli, which was...very strange.
"Thinkin' bout your dad?" he asked. "Texas-dad, I mean."
"I swore I saw him today. Do you think he might really be in New York?"
"Anything's possible. Om. Um, and if he is..." He drew his eyebrows together, taking the icepack off his face. "Hey, listen, I don't want you to think I'm some kind of creep. I came here to find you. Till I hear otherwise, I'm staying here to help you. No strings attached. You want me to try and find your dad?"
Claire squeezed his hand tightly.
"Maybe. If you want," she said.
"I do want! I mean. To help you find him. I could go looking for him, if you're still under house arrest."
"It might not have been him at all."
"Or it might have. When I was on the road I could find my family from two thousand miles away. It's harder here, there's a lot of stuff to find, but even if all I do is find out what he's up to in Texas, wouldn't that be worth it?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. "Yeah. If you can."
"Course I can. Next to getting punched by your bio-dad, it's a cinch."
Next time, on Heroes ("Life Is A Dream"):
This is what he was aching for when he spent all that time training to heal people. This is what he wanted when he leapt off that building and Nathan caught him. This is changing the world, not in big leaps, not in single steps, but at a steady run.
"Listen, I don't do "people" before eight in the morning," Claude grumbled.
"You saved Peter Petrelli. No more kaboom," Ando told him. Hiro picked at one of the limp pink prawns. "Aren't you happy?"
"Mohinder," he said gently. "Your father is dead."
"Detox for a few hours. Maybe it'll motivate you."
Okay, until they invented gods for computers, maybe GoogleMaps wasn't the way to go about this.
Claude took his hand away. As it moved, Peter felt the barest hint of a caress, his fingers smoothing down a lock of hair, thumb stroking the skin of his forehead.
For the first time since he woke up, knowing the world was different, cold fear washed over him.
Chapter Eighteen
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Also I'll have you know that you're just as awful with the cliffhangers as the goddamn show, argh.
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*blinks* OMG...
I love this and I am so incredibly going to miss it next monday when Hiatus is over and Sylar and Ted are still alive, Jack is not there and Nathas is not as awesome *pouts*
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I'll be bouncing until the next part is posted, I just know it!
Okay, now for this chapter:
"Nice to meet you, Simon-called-Claude," Alexander answered. "My name is Alexander Linderman."
I almost fell off my chair, it was just THAT AWESOME!
Every time I read something you've written I'm just blown away by your talent. I love it. Just...wow...
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I'll get the strangest sense of deja vu, but it will be so worth it.
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EEEEEEEEE! *high-pitched squeaking noises* And I won't even get into how much I adore it when people play around with the names Simon and Peter.
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I'm not sure what my feelings are on the whole Mohinder-with-powers thing yet...as much as he can annoy me in the original show, I've always thought he serves an important purpose, especially *because of* being non-powered. But I trust you enough to wait and see where you're going with that. ;)
"Simon-called-Claude." Niiiice touch there, plot-wise and symbolically.
Also, this moment killed me:
Nathan moved forward, stumbling into the chair that was next to Peter's bed, seating himself in it and feeling very old, suddenly.
"Hey Pete," he said softly. "Nice work."
Gah. In the heart.
Oh, and a potential typo:
Gabriel(sylar)Gabriel's
...Did you mean "Gray" in the second one there?
Anyway, looking forward to tomorrow's chapter. :D
(Oh, and as a final side note: Here was my *facepalm* moment of the day. As I got to the end of the last chapter, I was completely confused. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how Peter'd suddenly disappeared to the desert, since he obviously hadn't flown. It'd been so long since we saw Hiro do anything other than simply stop time that I completely forgot about the teleporting side of things! Go me.)
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Mohinder with powers was partly me wanting to see if the show does that -- when Bennet asks Mohinder if he's "on the list", Mohinder carefully doesn't answer....
The potential typo was intentional -- Peter was correcting himself, then re-correcting :)
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Simon? Claude? Peter? Holy crap. And Gabe's dying words? Too amazing for words.
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NATHAN!!!
The family relay was just incredibly touching.
Silar and his sacrifice was...ow. Yes.
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-blue
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(I almost didn't kill him, but had him die and then revive in the military morgue. But I didn't have tiiiiiime!)
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(Anonymous) 2007-04-16 07:52 pm (UTC)(link)I also loved the tag-team way of rescuing Peter, the scene between Jack and Claire in the hospital, and the Simon-called-Claude review. This story is truly a joy to read.
-Arimalka
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"I'm here, Claude answered, in an odd tone Peter had never heard before. As close as I can get. Keep walking."
Broke my heart, it did.
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"His backyard? Your," the doctor coughed, "Joint backyard?"
EVEN RANDOM DOCTORS CAN SEE IT. THIS MAKES IT TRUE.
"Simon," he said sullenly. "Simon Porter."
THIS MEANS THAT HIROU INTERNATIONAL IS THE NEW COMPANY, I AM CALLING THIS RIGHT NOW. (am I a bit heavy on the caps? I am a bit heavy on the caps. But they accurately reflect my fangirly joy!) And, yes, I did have to go back and re-read all the Simon sections, and goddammit, you are one clever bastard, Sam.
"Welcome to the family," said Claude.
First off, that is an awesome power for Mohinder; he'll never have to use a microscope again! Second off, WHAT. I mean. With the. And the. I DEMAND EXPLANATIONS. Which I will probably get.
Nathan moved forward, stumbling into the chair that was next to Peter's bed, seating himself in it and feeling very old, suddenly.
Awwww. Nathan's my favorite character (which is not saying much--I like everyone but Niki, and I love many of them as well, but Nathan does kind of stand out to me for some reason), and I really love seeing him portrayed like this. The man isn't just a cold, calculating bastard, people!
My, my. This is getting slashier with every chapter--and judging by
Claude took his hand away. As it moved, Peter felt the barest hint of a caress, his fingers smoothing down a lock of hair, thumb stroking the skin of his forehead.
--it's about to get even moreso. *grins like a shark* You really need to write a legitimate slashfic for these two, Sam. Jooooin us.
(Do I have to say that I loved this entire chapter? Probably it is already implied, but I shall say it anyway: I loved this entire chapter.)
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As for slashy -- well, that's about as slashy as it gets, but there is a deleted scene Ithink you will enjoy...
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And, Mohinder with super eyesight is such a fitting power. Loved how he found out about it too.
The relay with all the people who care about Peter was so touching. ♥
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I'm glad the Simon Porter thing came as a surprise. I was worried it would be obvious...
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I really loved how the three people Peter cares about most (IMO) came to help him. That was really so sweet and also very comic-booky. All "support/save the brethren" and such. Nathan flew for Peter!
My love for Jack grows by leaps and bounds every scene he's mentioned in. But is it just me or is he not as mellow as before? Well, considering the circumstances yeah, but his character has sort of lost parts of his easy come, easy go nature.
Sylar AND Ted are dead? Are there no super-villians left? Who will the Heroes fight? Oh noes!
Yep..still hooked.
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Plus it's been like, DAYS since he smoked up, man! :D
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Claude cracks me up and Clair punching Jack that was priceless.
~sighs~
It really going to suck when this ends, the series comes back and the two are nothing alike.
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That should have been miss this as well.
And Clair should be Claire.
~face palms~
Thats what I get for trying to leave reviews at 4:42 in the morning.
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