Safe - Chapter 5
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG
Word count: 800ish
Spoilers: AU, but maybe 1.19 (".07%"), at a push. But not really.
A/N: Inspired by the
heroes_flashfic Somewhen Over The Rainbow challenge. ( Previous chapters)
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
"You must believe me, Ando!" Hiro is almost pleading. "I not make this up."
He wonders if his friend is unwell. Hiro has always been a little odd, but Anders finds it charming. Usually. Today, Hiro is making his head hurt.
"Hiro," he repeats, stubbornly, "It's one thing slowing down time, stopping it." He pauses for a moment, looks around them. Foolish to be talking so openly about special abilities in these times. But Amsterdam bustles on around them, apparently oblivious. He continues, more quietly, "But time travel - that's impossible."
"No!" Hiro beams, proudly. "Mister Wells. He wrote Time Machine. I read!"
Anders sighs. "It's a book, Hiro. It's not real."
"Is real! I travel forward in time! City is gone - boom!" Hiro looks at him solemnly over the top of his glasses. "We must stop."
I need to find him a nice girl, Anders thinks. Hiro reads too many books.
They are walking down Weesperstraat when Hiro suddenly grabs his sleeve.
"Anders!" Hiro is tugging him across the road. "Look, there!" and Anders has to restrain him so that he is not mown down by a cross-looking woman on a bicycle.
"What?" He doesn't know what Hiro is pointing at until they are almost in the alley, and then he sees it. Crude mural on the pitted bricks, paint flecked and peeling now, but the scene is unmistakable. Amsterdam lies in ruins, craggy rubble dwarfed by a fiery explosion.
He looks at Hiro, disbelieving. "This is what you saw?"
Hiro nods. "This is what I saw."
Anders can only stare.
Hiro pushes his glasses up, looks at Anders. "Person who made this - we have to find them."
*
The old, rambling house sits in dignified splendour, set back from the road in one of Amsterdam's wealthier suburbs. He's always liked the house.
The driver holds the car door open for him, and Linderman steps out, adjusts his hat. The driver hands him his cane.
The heavy front door is pulled open by a young maid, white lace apron covering a severe black dress. Timidly, she shows him inside, into the parlour. There are more ornaments than he remembers.
"Would you like some tea, sir?" Thin young voice, and he wonders how old she is.
"I should love some." And she scurries away.
A movement by the door, and he is on his feet. "Angela, my dear."
The widow Petrelli has aged since last he saw her, but she is still a handsome woman, and her dark eyes still dance as he kisses her hand. "Oscar."
She motions to him to sit, and he does so.
"How have you been?" Formal preliminaries, as ever; familiar steps in a well-known dance.
She sighs, rueful smile. "Good, I suppose. The house is ... " she shrugs, a tiny motion, "empty." Husband gone, her eldest son busy with a family of his own. She will not talk about the other son, not even here.
"Yes, I see." And he does. The sharpest mind he knows, trapped in graceful, dull gentility.
"And how are you, Oscar? You seem to be getting fat in your old age." She twinkles at him. "It suits you."
Tea arrives, and they pass the time in that practiced way of the late middle-aged. Mutual friends; bereavements; grandchildren.
But there is a purpose to his visit. Always a purpose; idle gossip merely a veneer. And it pains him to be here now, with this news, because it will upset her. But it also upsets him.
He gets out of his chair, kneels slowly beside her so that he will not be heard. Servants, he finds, hear almost everything. Softly, he tells her, "They came for Peter this morning."
She goes quite pale, clasps his hand with shaking fingers. He puts his other hand over hers, willing her to retain some control, keep silent.
Which, of course, she does; Angela Petrelli is made of finely wrought iron.
"What happened?" She, too, understands the need to keep her voice low.
"I don't know. Policemen - not my men," he assures " - forced their way into the house."
"Where is he now?" Worry stretched thin, and he wonders how she has managed to live for so long at a distance from the son she loves. Her favourite son, he knows. Always her favourite, and he remembers a little boy, dark hair and enormous dark eyes, peeping out from behind his mother's skirts.
"I don't know, yet. My men will find him."
She suddenly looks very tired. "You promised me that you'd protect him, Oscar."
He covers her hand with his. "I know, my dear. And I will. We'll put this right." Soft words masking hard resolve.
His grip on the city, on what happens there, is not absolute - and whoever has undermined him must be made to pay.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic
Rating: PG
Word count: 800ish
Spoilers: AU, but maybe 1.19 (".07%"), at a push. But not really.
A/N: Inspired by the
heroes_flashfic Somewhen Over The Rainbow challenge. ( Previous chapters)
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
"You must believe me, Ando!" Hiro is almost pleading. "I not make this up."
He wonders if his friend is unwell. Hiro has always been a little odd, but Anders finds it charming. Usually. Today, Hiro is making his head hurt.
"Hiro," he repeats, stubbornly, "It's one thing slowing down time, stopping it." He pauses for a moment, looks around them. Foolish to be talking so openly about special abilities in these times. But Amsterdam bustles on around them, apparently oblivious. He continues, more quietly, "But time travel - that's impossible."
"No!" Hiro beams, proudly. "Mister Wells. He wrote Time Machine. I read!"
Anders sighs. "It's a book, Hiro. It's not real."
"Is real! I travel forward in time! City is gone - boom!" Hiro looks at him solemnly over the top of his glasses. "We must stop."
I need to find him a nice girl, Anders thinks. Hiro reads too many books.
They are walking down Weesperstraat when Hiro suddenly grabs his sleeve.
"Anders!" Hiro is tugging him across the road. "Look, there!" and Anders has to restrain him so that he is not mown down by a cross-looking woman on a bicycle.
"What?" He doesn't know what Hiro is pointing at until they are almost in the alley, and then he sees it. Crude mural on the pitted bricks, paint flecked and peeling now, but the scene is unmistakable. Amsterdam lies in ruins, craggy rubble dwarfed by a fiery explosion.
He looks at Hiro, disbelieving. "This is what you saw?"
Hiro nods. "This is what I saw."
Anders can only stare.
Hiro pushes his glasses up, looks at Anders. "Person who made this - we have to find them."
*
The old, rambling house sits in dignified splendour, set back from the road in one of Amsterdam's wealthier suburbs. He's always liked the house.
The driver holds the car door open for him, and Linderman steps out, adjusts his hat. The driver hands him his cane.
The heavy front door is pulled open by a young maid, white lace apron covering a severe black dress. Timidly, she shows him inside, into the parlour. There are more ornaments than he remembers.
"Would you like some tea, sir?" Thin young voice, and he wonders how old she is.
"I should love some." And she scurries away.
A movement by the door, and he is on his feet. "Angela, my dear."
The widow Petrelli has aged since last he saw her, but she is still a handsome woman, and her dark eyes still dance as he kisses her hand. "Oscar."
She motions to him to sit, and he does so.
"How have you been?" Formal preliminaries, as ever; familiar steps in a well-known dance.
She sighs, rueful smile. "Good, I suppose. The house is ... " she shrugs, a tiny motion, "empty." Husband gone, her eldest son busy with a family of his own. She will not talk about the other son, not even here.
"Yes, I see." And he does. The sharpest mind he knows, trapped in graceful, dull gentility.
"And how are you, Oscar? You seem to be getting fat in your old age." She twinkles at him. "It suits you."
Tea arrives, and they pass the time in that practiced way of the late middle-aged. Mutual friends; bereavements; grandchildren.
But there is a purpose to his visit. Always a purpose; idle gossip merely a veneer. And it pains him to be here now, with this news, because it will upset her. But it also upsets him.
He gets out of his chair, kneels slowly beside her so that he will not be heard. Servants, he finds, hear almost everything. Softly, he tells her, "They came for Peter this morning."
She goes quite pale, clasps his hand with shaking fingers. He puts his other hand over hers, willing her to retain some control, keep silent.
Which, of course, she does; Angela Petrelli is made of finely wrought iron.
"What happened?" She, too, understands the need to keep her voice low.
"I don't know. Policemen - not my men," he assures " - forced their way into the house."
"Where is he now?" Worry stretched thin, and he wonders how she has managed to live for so long at a distance from the son she loves. Her favourite son, he knows. Always her favourite, and he remembers a little boy, dark hair and enormous dark eyes, peeping out from behind his mother's skirts.
"I don't know, yet. My men will find him."
She suddenly looks very tired. "You promised me that you'd protect him, Oscar."
He covers her hand with his. "I know, my dear. And I will. We'll put this right." Soft words masking hard resolve.
His grip on the city, on what happens there, is not absolute - and whoever has undermined him must be made to pay.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic