Safe - Chapter 15
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: 1,000ish.
Spoilers: AU; at most, 1.17 ("Company Man")
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
Clara wakes in a dark lane, cheek numb against the cold cobbles, and surrounded by glittering triangles. Glass. She moves, unleashing cacophonous agony - the deep, grinding ache of broken bones, numb throbbing of bruised tissue, and the high-pitched whine of thin, swift lacerations on her skin.
Effortfully, she pushes herself up. Grits her teeth against the pain, and feels bones knitting while skin and muscle heal. It's a long way from the pinpricks and bite-marks and cigarette burns that she's tried before, and the effort leaves her dizzy.
A door bangs open, and she remembers. Papa! Oh no, no! There are more lights in the house now, and voices resonate loudly into the clear night.
Run, Clarabella.
She stands, a little shakily at first, but strength quickly returns, and her legs move under her almost without her consent. Somewhere in a neighbouring street she hears dogs barking, and lights flicker on as more neighbours wake from the noise.
At the end of the lane she slows, breath coming in sobs. Creeps cautiously around the end house to peer down the street. In the low light, she can just make out two policemen by the front door.
She doesn't know what to do. Wants to run into the house, find her mother. Wants to stand astride her father's body and scream defiance at those pigs for what they've done to him.
But she also wants to do what he told her; can see the sense in it.
A step sounds against the flagstones, echoing across the canal; she presses in close to the house, all air stolen from her lungs. A policeman ghosts past and she thinks the heartbeat may explode from inside her throat. But he does not see her, and she breathes again.
She scuttles low across the wooden bridge. Makes it to the shadow of the houses across the street, giving thanks that the nearest lamp is broken.
Again, she pauses, torn between irrational desires. Reluctant to turn her back on home. I won't be able to go back- the thought cutting deep and painful, lingering.
A hand grabs her wrist but, before she can scream, another covers her mouth.
She looks up at a thin, dark face, eyes black as the canal.
"If you want to stay out of trouble, nod your head."
She nods, eyes wide.
"Take a deep breath." He releases her mouth, and she sucks in air, thinking about whether to scream. His other hand is still around her wrist.
"Don't be scared," he tells her, and pulls her into the wall.
-grating, the taste of rubble and she's moving grittily through brick, the texture changing as they plane through wood, first with the grain, smooth, and then across it, lines bristling through her like a doormat. She panics, breath caught in brick and mortar, and feels him stop, squeeze her hand, and then paper breaks over her and finally, air.
She stands, unscathed, in a bedroom, staring at a willowy blonde woman and a dark, wide-eyed child.
*
Across the city, in a dark, uncomfortable cell, Hiro dreams of conversations, past and future. Threads woven together and splaying apart like handfuls of dried grass.
"What was it like, the future?" Peter is wide-eyed; simultaneously fascinated and horrified.
"It was - very bad." Dark and empty, he wants to say, but this seems unhelpful.
"Did the bomb really ... ?"
"Yes. Very terrible." Frustrating, his incomplete knowledge of the language. There must be a better word.
Peter looks a little wistful. "What ... what was I like? I mean, the older me?"
"You look - older. Tired. And you had - the scar." He wonders, again, what caused it.
"And Claude? Did he look the same?"
He hesitates. "I do not know. I was only there - short time."
Peter is nodding, half a smile. "You were in the future. That's ... amazing."
A solemn nod. "Yes."
And then the Peter Petrelli from the future is there, scar splitting his face in the cold, dim light. "Hiro, you have to stop it."
I know, he wants to say. But time washes him away, and only empty bubbles leave his mouth, swirling in the grey waters until they are lost.
*
Amsterdam Centraal Station, 7:30am. The train from Berlin arrives, sending great gouts of steam billowing up into the curving, lofty rafters. A hundred tons of iron shudder to a standstill, brakes squealing brightly against soot-darkened wheels.
Passengers disgorge from the train in various states of sleepiness. They spill out onto the platform, forming darkly-clothed huddles among suitcases and portmanteaux, and clutching papers in anticipation of the officers now moving slowly along the platform.
The last man to step from the train wears a grey coat with lightning insignia at the collar. Long straight cuffs give way to black leather gloves as he he pulls on a grey cap, covering salt-and-pepper hair. Worn features scrutinise his surroundings, eyes quickly alighting on the young S.S. officer hurrying along the platform towards him.
"Herr Thomassen." The junior officer - Barely out of shot trousers, he thinks dryly - salutes him, a springy, staccato gesture. "Welcome to Amsterdam, mein Herr."
He returns the salute. "Is everything in place?"
The briefest flash of concern lights the young man's face, but is then swiftly concealed. "Almost, mein Herr. If you will accompany me to the station ... unless you wish to proceed to your accommodation first?"
He waves the offer aside, dismissively. "You have the empath, then?"
Less able to conceal dismay this time. "Regrettably, mein Herr, we were not able to recover the empath." Nervous glance at Thomassen, and he continues hastily. "However, we anticipate that we will have him very soon. And we have acquired some others who may be of use in locating him."
Fists flex impatiently in black leather gloves. "Very well, then." Thomassen does not trouble himself to hide the irritated inflection. "Take me to the cells at once."
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: 1,000ish.
Spoilers: AU; at most, 1.17 ("Company Man")
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
Clara wakes in a dark lane, cheek numb against the cold cobbles, and surrounded by glittering triangles. Glass. She moves, unleashing cacophonous agony - the deep, grinding ache of broken bones, numb throbbing of bruised tissue, and the high-pitched whine of thin, swift lacerations on her skin.
Effortfully, she pushes herself up. Grits her teeth against the pain, and feels bones knitting while skin and muscle heal. It's a long way from the pinpricks and bite-marks and cigarette burns that she's tried before, and the effort leaves her dizzy.
A door bangs open, and she remembers. Papa! Oh no, no! There are more lights in the house now, and voices resonate loudly into the clear night.
Run, Clarabella.
She stands, a little shakily at first, but strength quickly returns, and her legs move under her almost without her consent. Somewhere in a neighbouring street she hears dogs barking, and lights flicker on as more neighbours wake from the noise.
At the end of the lane she slows, breath coming in sobs. Creeps cautiously around the end house to peer down the street. In the low light, she can just make out two policemen by the front door.
She doesn't know what to do. Wants to run into the house, find her mother. Wants to stand astride her father's body and scream defiance at those pigs for what they've done to him.
But she also wants to do what he told her; can see the sense in it.
A step sounds against the flagstones, echoing across the canal; she presses in close to the house, all air stolen from her lungs. A policeman ghosts past and she thinks the heartbeat may explode from inside her throat. But he does not see her, and she breathes again.
She scuttles low across the wooden bridge. Makes it to the shadow of the houses across the street, giving thanks that the nearest lamp is broken.
Again, she pauses, torn between irrational desires. Reluctant to turn her back on home. I won't be able to go back- the thought cutting deep and painful, lingering.
A hand grabs her wrist but, before she can scream, another covers her mouth.
She looks up at a thin, dark face, eyes black as the canal.
"If you want to stay out of trouble, nod your head."
She nods, eyes wide.
"Take a deep breath." He releases her mouth, and she sucks in air, thinking about whether to scream. His other hand is still around her wrist.
"Don't be scared," he tells her, and pulls her into the wall.
-grating, the taste of rubble and she's moving grittily through brick, the texture changing as they plane through wood, first with the grain, smooth, and then across it, lines bristling through her like a doormat. She panics, breath caught in brick and mortar, and feels him stop, squeeze her hand, and then paper breaks over her and finally, air.
She stands, unscathed, in a bedroom, staring at a willowy blonde woman and a dark, wide-eyed child.
*
Across the city, in a dark, uncomfortable cell, Hiro dreams of conversations, past and future. Threads woven together and splaying apart like handfuls of dried grass.
"What was it like, the future?" Peter is wide-eyed; simultaneously fascinated and horrified.
"It was - very bad." Dark and empty, he wants to say, but this seems unhelpful.
"Did the bomb really ... ?"
"Yes. Very terrible." Frustrating, his incomplete knowledge of the language. There must be a better word.
Peter looks a little wistful. "What ... what was I like? I mean, the older me?"
"You look - older. Tired. And you had - the scar." He wonders, again, what caused it.
"And Claude? Did he look the same?"
He hesitates. "I do not know. I was only there - short time."
Peter is nodding, half a smile. "You were in the future. That's ... amazing."
A solemn nod. "Yes."
And then the Peter Petrelli from the future is there, scar splitting his face in the cold, dim light. "Hiro, you have to stop it."
I know, he wants to say. But time washes him away, and only empty bubbles leave his mouth, swirling in the grey waters until they are lost.
*
Amsterdam Centraal Station, 7:30am. The train from Berlin arrives, sending great gouts of steam billowing up into the curving, lofty rafters. A hundred tons of iron shudder to a standstill, brakes squealing brightly against soot-darkened wheels.
Passengers disgorge from the train in various states of sleepiness. They spill out onto the platform, forming darkly-clothed huddles among suitcases and portmanteaux, and clutching papers in anticipation of the officers now moving slowly along the platform.
The last man to step from the train wears a grey coat with lightning insignia at the collar. Long straight cuffs give way to black leather gloves as he he pulls on a grey cap, covering salt-and-pepper hair. Worn features scrutinise his surroundings, eyes quickly alighting on the young S.S. officer hurrying along the platform towards him.
"Herr Thomassen." The junior officer - Barely out of shot trousers, he thinks dryly - salutes him, a springy, staccato gesture. "Welcome to Amsterdam, mein Herr."
He returns the salute. "Is everything in place?"
The briefest flash of concern lights the young man's face, but is then swiftly concealed. "Almost, mein Herr. If you will accompany me to the station ... unless you wish to proceed to your accommodation first?"
He waves the offer aside, dismissively. "You have the empath, then?"
Less able to conceal dismay this time. "Regrettably, mein Herr, we were not able to recover the empath." Nervous glance at Thomassen, and he continues hastily. "However, we anticipate that we will have him very soon. And we have acquired some others who may be of use in locating him."
Fists flex impatiently in black leather gloves. "Very well, then." Thomassen does not trouble himself to hide the irritated inflection. "Take me to the cells at once."
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic