Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special.
The proverbial light-bulb went on over Peter's head, and his eyes lit up in excitement. "Wait, so, the dreams I had - about Nathan's car accident and things like that - they were... because I'm an empath? Because I have a connection with him?"
That actually made a lot of sense, along with little things like understanding what people were feeling, why he remembered people having to separate him from certain kids when he was younger. For some reason, he'd always been depressed around the kids that had cried a lot. Maybe that made a certain kind of sense, now. Huh.
"Okay. I'm an empath," Peter repeated dutifully, trying to sort it out in his head. "My moods are affected by other people, especially if I'm closed to them. I can pick up other peoples abilities, but the root of my powers is... empathy." It sounded a lot more like a question than a statement. He really hoped he had that right, even if his version was considerably condensed.
"Finally, the dog learns to not wee on the carpet," Claude snarked, but his expression was vaguely proud. It was a start.
"The important thing to remember, mate, is that these people around you, they need you as much as you need them. It's like trying to have a compass without the needle. One's no good without the other, no matter which way you slice it. You're closing yourself off without any reason, against your better instincts, and against people you actually care for. It's bad for you and it's going to make you weaker, not stronger. It's a good way to get killed. It'd be like trying to drive a car with no gas - might get along a little ways, but you'd break down eventually, yeah?"
Reaching in his pocket, Claude pulled out an apple he'd taken from the table, polishing it on his sweater. "What you need to do is learn how to keep your own mind separate from everyone else's. Build a muffler of sorts, or a bubble round your personality. Your soul, if you believe that rot. Can think of it like a glass fishbowl. Stick everything that makes you you into it. Then the outside world can tap on the glass all they like, but you're not going to be spilling out and mixing and mingling without control.
"Your abilities," he continued, taking a bite of apple and talking around the mouthful, "are linked, like you figured out after your stellar swan dive, to your emotions of a person."
Glancing around, Claude nodded. "Right, we'll start simple. I want you to pick an ability, your favorite, whichever one you like the most. Then tell me about the person you got it from. How they made you feel."
Claude was nervous. It was evident in the way he was playing with the apple in his hands, not really interested in eating it but just needing something to do. He shifted back and forth a few times, eyes flicking to the door as if he desperately wanted to run. But he held steady.
'Building a muffler' sounded... really hard, actually. How was Peter supposed to do that? Of course, it would be helpful in the long run - he wouldn't be so sharply affected the mood of other people, but he was so used to it by now. Maybe, if he did what Claude said, he'd still be able to communicate with them, but be able to separate himself from getting too confused by their emotions?
...This was kind of confusing.
And Claude wanted him to pick his favorite? How was he supposed to pick a favorite when he'd never really used them for fun? This was going to be hard. But before he started thinking, he looked at Claude curiously, noticing the shifting and the looking towards the door. Why was he nervous? Or, scared, maybe. Oh god, was Claude nervous because of him? Peter almost didn't blame him.
Trying to push that away, Peter closed his eyes. There was only one option for his favorite, really. And as soon as he started thinking, he felt his feet lift a few inches off the floor. Flying. "I got flying from Nathan," he explained slowly, eyes still closed. "I couldn't ask for a better older brother. He's always there when I need him." Except for when he wasn't. "He was away a lot when I was growing up, but seeing him for even a few minutes was the best present. I kinda still feel like that, I guess. He walks into a room and I remember how grateful I was to see him."
Okay, he was probably rambling now. And Claude probably didn't want to hear all about his hero-worship for Nathan. So Peter opened his eyes and smiled slightly. "This one's kind of easy, I guess. I mean, it's easy to think about Nathan because I have so many memories of him."
Watching Peter intensely, Claude simply grunted. Ten bucks to him - no contest as to what the starry-eyed younger Petrelli would have picked for his favorite. "Feel that, then? That emotion, right in the pit of you? Some people see it as a color, some as a sound, maybe a random image that only makes sense in your head. Take that, link it up with flying. Like a button on a console. When you push the button, that feeling will trigger the ability. And the same button, when you push it, will turn it off."
He gave Peter some time to struggle through that thought process. "Right, then. Give me another ability. One that doesn't have such warm fuzzies attached to it. Give me a headache, all this love and affection. Bloody empaths, pain in my ass," Claude grumbled, arms folded.
"Wow, that actually makes sense," Peter grinned lopsidedly at Claude. "Where'd the really confusing metaphors go? I was waiting to be told I needed to put some fish in a bucket to make the Big Ben strike midnight, or something."
What was something he could link with Nathan? There was so many things he could choose from. Being that he tended to think in images, he shuffled through memories. Probably better to pick a more recent one, something clearer. The look on Nathan's face right before Peter exploded; that was uniquely Nathan, as Peter knew him. Determined, ambitious, caring to the point where he'd give something vital up to help other people.
Still grinning, Peter let go of the image and tried not to look so surprised when his feet hit the ground again. "It worked," he grinned, excited. He shouldn't have doubted Claude, really. Some day he was going to get an answer about how Claude knew so much about empaths. He continued grinning at Claude even when he was grumbling.
Oh, wait. One he got from somebody that he didn't think fondly of. Great. The grin vanished and turned into a frown. Peter's mind skipped over Sylar, and settled on Isaac. Isaac, who had ratted out him and Claude, who had shot Simone and tried to shoot him. This one came fairly easily, despite the negative thoughts.
And every blank, flat piece of wall that he could see started forming images and colors. Feeling an abrupt, overwhelming need to scribble something down, Peter promptly ignored Claude's instructions and wandered out of the room to find his sketchpad.
"Of course it worked," Claude rolled his eyes. "And your metaphors don't make sense. Mine always do. You just don't have the right frame of reference. Just like most things in your life, you're looking at it from the top of the bloody mountain with no clouds."
And now he was wandering. Bloody freaking... "Oi! Artist boy. Can we keep on the topic on hand, please? Find the emotion, make a button. Use it to stop and start. Getting the drift now or should I paint you a sodding picture for that, too?"
He tossed the apple up and down in his hand a few times. "When you're done with that, I want you to think of an ability you find it hard to grasp, hard to hold on to. Let's see if you're more than a poodle with his little bag of easy tricks."
By the time he was finished sketching, having spent a good ten minutes hunched over his sketchpad and scribbling furiously, Peter honestly didn't know what he ended up drawing. He recognized the Sorting Hat, oddly enough, and a group of people. But what that had to do with anything he just didn't know.
Finally, he wandered back into the training room, looking sheepish. "Sorry, that one's kind weird. It's like I get in a trance, or something." But while he'd been sketching, he'd figured out a 'button', so hopefully the job was done.
Something he found hard to hold on to? That was easy; the telepathy. Peter had no decent memories of the cop he'd picked it up from, only a minute worth, really. Nothing meaningful. And he'd never really tried to switch it on. Searching around for the memory, Peter found it, latched on to it, and tried to hold on. Now he just had to find a way to know if it was still there.
Blowing out an apparently frustrated sigh, as if he couldn't do it, Peter glanced over at Claude curiously. "Claude, why do you hate people so much?" He asked randomly, frowning slightly like the thought bothered him and he wanted an answer.
Bursting into an apartment, seeing a woman go up in flames, hearing a baby crying from the next room.
Gunshots piling into him, disbelief, shock, betrayal.
Watching as people, people like him, people he'd help find, were vivisected by scientists in shiny white coats.
'It's a brave new world, friend.'
Thoughts, an instinctive response to the prompt, tumbled through Claude's head unchecked. His expression was neutral, only the smallest twitch of an exasperated smirk betraying what he thought of that line of questioning.
'Because people betray you. Because if you get too close, you die.'
Luckily, all his thoughts were in Japanese, a trick picked up when working for the Company. After a few seconds, though, Claude jerked back, eyes narrowing. His fingers curled into fists and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch Peter.
"Out of my head," he snarled, "or you'll find out first hand." Looming over the younger man for a moment, he looked crazy, out of control, his temper held in check by a thread.
Then, exhaling a breath, he whirled around and out of the room. There was the sound of something breaking, a loud swear from Rachel, and finally Claude stalked back in, looking relatively more sane.
"Did you get it, then? Your button all set and ready or would you like to find out my favorite color?" he sneered, mocking.
Maybe that hadn't been the smartest thing to try and do, but Peter was curious, dammit, and he wanted to know. Not for his own satisfaction, but because he wanted to know how to work better with Claude, and how not to trip any of the wires that would send him into a big 'people suck' rant. Japanese, though. Strange. He hadn't known Claude knew Japanese. And why would Claude think in Japanese?
Peter probably shouldn't be thinking about trying to remember what he'd heard so that he could find a translator.
He'd never really gotten used to seeing Claude angry, so when the other man came back into the room after possibly smashing something, Peter still looked incredibly nervous. At least Claude hadn't started hitting him with the nearest object.
"Um, I don't- I can't... really. I don't even know the guys name," he stammered. "I can't connect with him and hold onto it. It's... kinda hard."
Still furious, but reigning it in (for now), Claude rolled his eyes and hopped up onto a windowsill. "You're over thinking it again. Trying to match up the little numbers all in a row. That's why you blew up, that's why you keep failing."
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better off without you, and it's pathetic. Just covering up for the fact that you're lazy and you're scared. Well the first you have to get over, and friend? Everyone is the latter. Everyone. All the bloody time, and if they tell you different, they're a liar as well. So get over yourself and man up to who you are. All of it."
Standing in front of Peter, feet apart, arms crossed, Claude met his eyes. "Now, think. You don't need a name. You don't need anything more than one second of contact. That's all you'll ever need. Think back, find something. An emotion. A smell. A feeling. A face. Anything. Hold that one little thing hard, in your memory. You got it?"
"I'd like to see you try to do this, if it's so goddamn easy," Peter muttered venomously - not intending to start a fight, but it made him feel a little better anyway.
Nonetheless, he took to heart what Claude said, and tried to match up something with the telepathy. He could remember the cop's face - right after Claire's homecoming, at the police station. Could remember his voice, his thoughts, his clear dedication to finding who had killed the other cheerleader. Hopefully that would be enough.
With a sigh, Peter let go of that ability, rubbing his forehead as the background mutters of nearby people faded. He wasn't sure if he liked that one. Some people thought so differently than they acted, and it was never a good surprise.
"Fine, I got it," Peter spoke up eventually, stubborn and a little ticked off. How did ranting about he stupid he was help? Claude seemed to love to do it anyway. At least this was better than being thrown off buildings. "What next? Gonna make me pull out an ability that I used on the 10th of October? Or maybe something I picked up from someone wearing a blue shirt? I'm sure that'll help heaps."
Suddenly moving forward with a grace that seemed almost out of place on a man his age and size, Claude lifted Peter up by the neck and slammed him into the wall. "Listen here, Petrelli," he hissed, anger clearly reflected on his face. "You're a whiny little shadow of a man and it's no one's fault but your own. I am trying to help you, against my better judgment, and you're nothing but a pain in my ass. So shut up and work, or else tell me you're done trying and I can remove the threat right here and now." His fingers tightened slightly on Peter's throat as he stared the other man down.
Why did Claude seem to like shoving him against walls so much? Peter was going to figure this out, as soon as Claude let him go and Peter actually got his breath back. For now, all he could was trying to separate Claude's hands from his neck, and it wasn't working that well.
"Sylar tried that last week, it didn't stick," Peter forced out, laughing breathlessly. Why was Claude still trying to help him if he hated him so much? That was a question that was going to drive Peter positively insane.
Rolling his eyes, Claude leaned in further. "Answer the question. Or is the decision too hard? I'm not going to waste my time if you'll just lie down and give up at the next opportunity. You have to have a reason. Have to want to be better, to control it, to live your life. But all I've seen is you wandering around, moaning and groaning and wishing you were different. Well thin soup's you supper, mate, and there's only two choices. You can be who you are and like it. Or you can die. Your call, right now, but you go no further without deciding."
Scratch that earlier thought, it wasn't just Claude who liked shoving him into walls. The thought of Sylar had Peter's anger flaring, and with a telekinetic shove he sent Claude stumbling a few steps back. Regaining his footing, Peter gulped in air as deeply as he could. You never really missed air until you didn't have it.
"I don't want this power!" He shouted angrily, suddenly furious at Claude for trying to make him choose. "I'm never going to be strong enough to control it, everybody knows that!" Abruptly, his shouting tapered off as his anger burned out, and Peter tiredly leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed. "I just want to it go away, but it won't, and I can't die. Sometimes I just wish there was a cure."
Staring at Peter for a second, Claude jerked around and walked away. Out into the main room, rippling into invisible as he went. There was a shout from Rachel and a crash and suddenly Claude was shoving her back in the room, knife to her throat. Rachel's nostrils were flared and her eyes wide, looking furious. But Claude was gripping her by her hair, her head wrenched back and knife pricking her skin.
"Fine," he said, jaw set, eyes hard. "Don't want it, don't use it. But let's ask for an opinion from the audience." Turning his head, he addressed Rachel. "Do you think the poodle is strong enough to save you? If you just stood here, didn't lift a finger, do you think he could save your life?"
Rachel's eyes didn't leave Peter. Suddenly she went calm. Still. "Of course, you smelly bastard. What the hell are you talking about?"
Claude grinned, pressing the knife in closer. "See, there, Peter. Not everyone thinks you're a weakling. In fact, I'm betting it's just you. All your life, you tell yourself that you're not as good as big brother or dad or whoever you look up to on the playground. You're not supposed to be invincible, Peter. Get it through your head. The fact that this," he jerked Rachel's head back harder and she let out a hiss of pain at the pull, "bothers you? This isn't a weakness. This is your strength. You can't hate who you are anymore Peter. That is how people are going to die. Your girlfriend, here, doesn't hate herself. That's why she's able to do the things she does. Because she doesn't see her powers as something separate, something to be overcome or to ignored."
"You have a point, here, Captain Hobo, or are you just ranting to hear yourself talk?" Rachel spat, rolling her eyes when he tugged at her hair.
"She thinks you're strong enough," Claude told Peter. "I think she's lying. Want to find out who's right?" His eyes turned to the knife and he grinned.
Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special.
The proverbial light-bulb went on over Peter's head, and his eyes lit up in excitement. "Wait, so, the dreams I had - about Nathan's car accident and things like that - they were... because I'm an empath? Because I have a connection with him?"
That actually made a lot of sense, along with little things like understanding what people were feeling, why he remembered people having to separate him from certain kids when he was younger. For some reason, he'd always been depressed around the kids that had cried a lot. Maybe that made a certain kind of sense, now. Huh.
"Okay. I'm an empath," Peter repeated dutifully, trying to sort it out in his head. "My moods are affected by other people, especially if I'm closed to them. I can pick up other peoples abilities, but the root of my powers is... empathy." It sounded a lot more like a question than a statement. He really hoped he had that right, even if his version was considerably condensed.
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"The important thing to remember, mate, is that these people around you, they need you as much as you need them. It's like trying to have a compass without the needle. One's no good without the other, no matter which way you slice it. You're closing yourself off without any reason, against your better instincts, and against people you actually care for. It's bad for you and it's going to make you weaker, not stronger. It's a good way to get killed. It'd be like trying to drive a car with no gas - might get along a little ways, but you'd break down eventually, yeah?"
Reaching in his pocket, Claude pulled out an apple he'd taken from the table, polishing it on his sweater. "What you need to do is learn how to keep your own mind separate from everyone else's. Build a muffler of sorts, or a bubble round your personality. Your soul, if you believe that rot. Can think of it like a glass fishbowl. Stick everything that makes you you into it. Then the outside world can tap on the glass all they like, but you're not going to be spilling out and mixing and mingling without control.
"Your abilities," he continued, taking a bite of apple and talking around the mouthful, "are linked, like you figured out after your stellar swan dive, to your emotions of a person."
Glancing around, Claude nodded. "Right, we'll start simple. I want you to pick an ability, your favorite, whichever one you like the most. Then tell me about the person you got it from. How they made you feel."
Claude was nervous. It was evident in the way he was playing with the apple in his hands, not really interested in eating it but just needing something to do. He shifted back and forth a few times, eyes flicking to the door as if he desperately wanted to run. But he held steady.
This wouldn't be like last time.
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...This was kind of confusing.
And Claude wanted him to pick his favorite? How was he supposed to pick a favorite when he'd never really used them for fun? This was going to be hard. But before he started thinking, he looked at Claude curiously, noticing the shifting and the looking towards the door. Why was he nervous? Or, scared, maybe. Oh god, was Claude nervous because of him? Peter almost didn't blame him.
Trying to push that away, Peter closed his eyes. There was only one option for his favorite, really. And as soon as he started thinking, he felt his feet lift a few inches off the floor. Flying. "I got flying from Nathan," he explained slowly, eyes still closed. "I couldn't ask for a better older brother. He's always there when I need him." Except for when he wasn't. "He was away a lot when I was growing up, but seeing him for even a few minutes was the best present. I kinda still feel like that, I guess. He walks into a room and I remember how grateful I was to see him."
Okay, he was probably rambling now. And Claude probably didn't want to hear all about his hero-worship for Nathan. So Peter opened his eyes and smiled slightly. "This one's kind of easy, I guess. I mean, it's easy to think about Nathan because I have so many memories of him."
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He gave Peter some time to struggle through that thought process. "Right, then. Give me another ability. One that doesn't have such warm fuzzies attached to it. Give me a headache, all this love and affection. Bloody empaths, pain in my ass," Claude grumbled, arms folded.
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What was something he could link with Nathan? There was so many things he could choose from. Being that he tended to think in images, he shuffled through memories. Probably better to pick a more recent one, something clearer. The look on Nathan's face right before Peter exploded; that was uniquely Nathan, as Peter knew him. Determined, ambitious, caring to the point where he'd give something vital up to help other people.
Still grinning, Peter let go of the image and tried not to look so surprised when his feet hit the ground again. "It worked," he grinned, excited. He shouldn't have doubted Claude, really. Some day he was going to get an answer about how Claude knew so much about empaths. He continued grinning at Claude even when he was grumbling.
Oh, wait. One he got from somebody that he didn't think fondly of. Great. The grin vanished and turned into a frown. Peter's mind skipped over Sylar, and settled on Isaac. Isaac, who had ratted out him and Claude, who had shot Simone and tried to shoot him. This one came fairly easily, despite the negative thoughts.
And every blank, flat piece of wall that he could see started forming images and colors. Feeling an abrupt, overwhelming need to scribble something down, Peter promptly ignored Claude's instructions and wandered out of the room to find his sketchpad.
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And now he was wandering. Bloody freaking... "Oi! Artist boy. Can we keep on the topic on hand, please? Find the emotion, make a button. Use it to stop and start. Getting the drift now or should I paint you a sodding picture for that, too?"
He tossed the apple up and down in his hand a few times. "When you're done with that, I want you to think of an ability you find it hard to grasp, hard to hold on to. Let's see if you're more than a poodle with his little bag of easy tricks."
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Finally, he wandered back into the training room, looking sheepish. "Sorry, that one's kind weird. It's like I get in a trance, or something." But while he'd been sketching, he'd figured out a 'button', so hopefully the job was done.
Something he found hard to hold on to? That was easy; the telepathy. Peter had no decent memories of the cop he'd picked it up from, only a minute worth, really. Nothing meaningful. And he'd never really tried to switch it on. Searching around for the memory, Peter found it, latched on to it, and tried to hold on. Now he just had to find a way to know if it was still there.
Blowing out an apparently frustrated sigh, as if he couldn't do it, Peter glanced over at Claude curiously. "Claude, why do you hate people so much?" He asked randomly, frowning slightly like the thought bothered him and he wanted an answer.
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Gunshots piling into him, disbelief, shock, betrayal.
Watching as people, people like him, people he'd help find, were vivisected by scientists in shiny white coats.
'It's a brave new world, friend.'
Thoughts, an instinctive response to the prompt, tumbled through Claude's head unchecked. His expression was neutral, only the smallest twitch of an exasperated smirk betraying what he thought of that line of questioning.
'Because people betray you. Because if you get too close, you die.'
Luckily, all his thoughts were in Japanese, a trick picked up when working for the Company. After a few seconds, though, Claude jerked back, eyes narrowing. His fingers curled into fists and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to punch Peter.
"Out of my head," he snarled, "or you'll find out first hand." Looming over the younger man for a moment, he looked crazy, out of control, his temper held in check by a thread.
Then, exhaling a breath, he whirled around and out of the room. There was the sound of something breaking, a loud swear from Rachel, and finally Claude stalked back in, looking relatively more sane.
"Did you get it, then? Your button all set and ready or would you like to find out my favorite color?" he sneered, mocking.
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Peter probably shouldn't be thinking about trying to remember what he'd heard so that he could find a translator.
He'd never really gotten used to seeing Claude angry, so when the other man came back into the room after possibly smashing something, Peter still looked incredibly nervous. At least Claude hadn't started hitting him with the nearest object.
"Um, I don't- I can't... really. I don't even know the guys name," he stammered. "I can't connect with him and hold onto it. It's... kinda hard."
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Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better off without you, and it's pathetic. Just covering up for the fact that you're lazy and you're scared. Well the first you have to get over, and friend? Everyone is the latter. Everyone. All the bloody time, and if they tell you different, they're a liar as well. So get over yourself and man up to who you are. All of it."
Standing in front of Peter, feet apart, arms crossed, Claude met his eyes. "Now, think. You don't need a name. You don't need anything more than one second of contact. That's all you'll ever need. Think back, find something. An emotion. A smell. A feeling. A face. Anything. Hold that one little thing hard, in your memory. You got it?"
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Nonetheless, he took to heart what Claude said, and tried to match up something with the telepathy. He could remember the cop's face - right after Claire's homecoming, at the police station. Could remember his voice, his thoughts, his clear dedication to finding who had killed the other cheerleader. Hopefully that would be enough.
With a sigh, Peter let go of that ability, rubbing his forehead as the background mutters of nearby people faded. He wasn't sure if he liked that one. Some people thought so differently than they acted, and it was never a good surprise.
"Fine, I got it," Peter spoke up eventually, stubborn and a little ticked off. How did ranting about he stupid he was help? Claude seemed to love to do it anyway. At least this was better than being thrown off buildings. "What next? Gonna make me pull out an ability that I used on the 10th of October? Or maybe something I picked up from someone wearing a blue shirt? I'm sure that'll help heaps."
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"Sylar tried that last week, it didn't stick," Peter forced out, laughing breathlessly. Why was Claude still trying to help him if he hated him so much? That was a question that was going to drive Peter positively insane.
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"I don't want this power!" He shouted angrily, suddenly furious at Claude for trying to make him choose. "I'm never going to be strong enough to control it, everybody knows that!" Abruptly, his shouting tapered off as his anger burned out, and Peter tiredly leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed. "I just want to it go away, but it won't, and I can't die. Sometimes I just wish there was a cure."
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"Fine," he said, jaw set, eyes hard. "Don't want it, don't use it. But let's ask for an opinion from the audience." Turning his head, he addressed Rachel. "Do you think the poodle is strong enough to save you? If you just stood here, didn't lift a finger, do you think he could save your life?"
Rachel's eyes didn't leave Peter. Suddenly she went calm. Still. "Of course, you smelly bastard. What the hell are you talking about?"
Claude grinned, pressing the knife in closer. "See, there, Peter. Not everyone thinks you're a weakling. In fact, I'm betting it's just you. All your life, you tell yourself that you're not as good as big brother or dad or whoever you look up to on the playground. You're not supposed to be invincible, Peter. Get it through your head. The fact that this," he jerked Rachel's head back harder and she let out a hiss of pain at the pull, "bothers you? This isn't a weakness. This is your strength. You can't hate who you are anymore Peter. That is how people are going to die. Your girlfriend, here, doesn't hate herself. That's why she's able to do the things she does. Because she doesn't see her powers as something separate, something to be overcome or to ignored."
"You have a point, here, Captain Hobo, or are you just ranting to hear yourself talk?" Rachel spat, rolling her eyes when he tugged at her hair.
"She thinks you're strong enough," Claude told Peter. "I think she's lying. Want to find out who's right?" His eyes turned to the knife and he grinned.
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