Heroes: Incognito (3/12)
Rating: PG-13 (a little language, a little violence, a little sex)
Word Count: 1,876
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: heroes_bigboom fic. Thanks for the beta, visiblemarket!
Summary: Notorious-inspired AU set chronologically in S1, in which a past schism pits the Company against Primatech. To prevent Primatech from destroying New York City, Company agent Peter Petrelli enlists ex-agent Claude Rains.
Chapter Two
Peter and Claude fall into step on the street, and Peter heads toward a corner to hail a cab. It’s busy with the mid-morning rush, people and cars alike streaming past.
“So I never asked,” Claude says, speaking close to Peter’s ear. “Are you one of us or one of them?”
Peter’s surprised it took him this long. He keeps his eyes on the traffic, his hand in the air, as he replies. “One of us.”
“Oh yeah? What can you do, then?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“What do you think?” Peter stalls.
“Hm,” he imagines Claude’s studying look. “Well, ya’ found me sure enough, that has to narrow it down some. Said you could do it again too. Don’t seem the type for one of the more destructive abilities...”
“They have a type?”
“More like a look. Either look right nervous all the time, or like the biggest baddest bastard who ever lived.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“If you like. In any case, my guess is a mental ability, so what is it? Telepathy? Precognition? Or maybe just a simple finder- a strong one, since we never met before now. Am I close?”
“You’re close,” Peter says, as he leans out over the curb and waves emphatically for a cab. One stops- ten feet further down the street, for a man in a trench coat and Burberry scarf carrying a briefcase. Peter frowns and sighs, and jumps when Claude grabs his arm and pulls him toward the cab. “What are you doing?”
“Getting on with it,” Claude simply says. He gets within a few feet of the man, and kicks him in the back of the knee. The man yelps and goes down while Claude slides into the cab. “Get in, Pete,” he calls, “before this all becomes very awkward indeed.”
Peter has frozen, staring stunned at the man clambering back to a standing position with a hand on his injured leg and bewildered moans of “What the hell was that?” on his lips. He realizes they’ve been invisible this whole time. For lack of a really persuasive reason not to, he gets in, stammering out, “You- you just-”
“Stole us a cab,” Claude grins. “It’s not easy, that. You gotta time it just right. So, tell the nice driver where it is we’re headed, won’t you?”
“Uh, Kirby... Kirby Plaza, please?”
If the driver noticed the assault and theft of his cab perpetrated by one fare on another while the former was invisible, he doesn’t care. “Sure thing,” he replies, and they’re off.
“So, you say telepathy, precognition, and finding are all close. Interesting. Can I have a hint or is that cheating?”
“I’m an empath,” Peter says, suddenly tired of the game. He doesn’t want to, but he looks at Claude to see his reaction.
He’s surprised, clearly. “Oh, empathy,” he says, “D’you take abilities or copy ‘em?”
“Copy.”
“Okay. You got more than one or-?”
“I can hold on to one at a time.”
“Good, that’s good. Got control sorted, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Thankfully, Claude reads the end of the conversation in Peter’s tone, and quiets down.
***
The Company’s offices in Kirby Plaza are clean and well-lit, full of people at desks and on phones. Few take notice of Peter and Claude when they arrive. Peter shows his guest around without hesitation, taking him from the offices down to the exercise rooms and the labs. Claude questions the last, recalling Peter’s earlier assertion that the Company had done away with experimentation.
“Never without consent, and no invasive procedures under any circumstances.”
Claude just gives a “yeah, sure” hum, and they carry on. So far, he must admit, any of the old moral grayness in this new Company is well hidden, and there’s little that can hide from an invisible man. He certainly intends to take a solo tour himself as soon as he can, but for now he can’t go wandering off. Peter has led him to a glass-walled conference room, in which several people wait. They all look very serious, and some very familiar.
“Were you right?” Charles Deveaux asks Claude.
“Was I right about what, Charles?”
The elderly man in the wheelchair just gives him a look.
Claude lets his eyes wander over the faces of Nakamura Kaito and Angela Petrelli. “Yeah, I was.”
Charles’ face splits into a warm smile. “We’re all glad to see you again, my friend.”
Can’t tell by the looks of those two, Claude wants to say. But he just shrugs, “Cheers, I suppose.”
“And I suppose you’d like to know just what the heck we’re bothering you for, after so long.”
“Could do. This one over here,” he nods over his shoulder at Peter, “has got cryptic just about down to an art form. I gather the rest of the merry band didn’t see eye to eye with your new philosophy and made a go of it themselves, or was it the other way round?”
“The philosophy never changed, they did,” Angela says, “When we tried to get things back on course, they resisted. Now we believe they have something much more than resistance in mind.”
Claude squints at her, gears turning, “Hang on a minute. There’s the cryptic again. Now I know where he gets it,” he looks over his shoulder, “Peter Petrelli.”
The empath flinches before he can deliver a hard stare.
Claude gives him the same curious squint. “Son of Angela’s a son of Arthur, am I right?”
“Two sons, actually,” comes a new voice. Claude turns to one of the people he didn’t recognize. A man in his late thirties wearing a sharply tailored suit, whose smile is far too even and white to be pleasant. “I’m Nathan Petrelli.”
“Charmed,” Claude sneers. “Is it really very important for me to learn all your names, or can we get on with things?”
Kaito scowls even more deeply. “Impatient. Famous for disobeying orders and undermining the mission. He has loyalty to no one.”
Claude grins, “Famous? Hey, d’ya hear that, Pete?” He casts a glance backwards to see Peter’s warning look.
“Kaito, we discussed this,” Charles says. “Claude is in the ideal position to make this work. It’s got to be him.”
Claude interrupts another protest from Kaito by saying, “This has all been very flattering. I’d love to hear more of it, such as what it is that I’m so ideal for it can only be done by me.”
“You’re right, Claude, no more stalling,” Charles replies, face gone grave. “Recently our precogs have all been having the same vision. Dr. Suresh...”
He nods to a South Asian man who brings up from his lap a rolled sheet of white canvas, which he lays out on the table. It’s a painting of the New York City skyline less than a second from being destroyed by a massive explosion, mushroom cloud rising black and orange behind the buildings.
“This will happen, Claude,” Charles intones, “But we don’t know how. Try as we might, the only other information we’ve been able to glean from the visions is that Primatech will be responsible. Our double agent is currently under suspicion. He’s not going to be able to uncover these plans. But you... you’re an unknown quantity, Claude. No one really knows the specifics of your termination. No one knows where your loyalty lies. And no one we know of has your abilities. So, in the interest of keeping New York in one piece, we’re asking for your help. All we need to know is how they plan to do this.”
Claude has nothing to say. There’s no arguing with the painting, no writing off the grim faces around him as fake. Nothing lies before him but a terrible choice and an impossible task. What else is new?
And then there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, let’s get some air.”
Claude decides he’s not above being led out of the room like an invalid. Or having a cup of steaming coffee pressed into his hand after being deposited on a stone bench outside of the building. He wonders if this was a calculated move as his gaze drifts over the plaza, with its large round fountain and tiered orange sculpture, and the people walking briskly through it or seated at tables outside a café. Is he meant to be imagining it all turned to ash if he doesn’t do exactly what he would never under any circumstances want to do?
“Claude, look at me.”
Peter, sitting beside him with his own coffee. Peter, who still has a smile for him. It’s quietly miraculous. “You don’t have to do this.”
Claude scowls, “Right. I believe you.”
“There could be another way,” Peter protests, “The precogs, they could have another vision. They could tell us everything we need to-”
“If they were gonna find out, they would’ve by now. We both know that.”
Peter looks down, chastised, “Sorry. I’m just- I’d just like to make this a little easier.”
“Well ya’ can’t do that, friend,” Claude hears himself snarl. “There’s nothin’ easy, fair, or nice about this whole mess. And even them up there,” he jerks his head towards the Company’s building, “They’d just love it if I bolted, wouldn’t they? Waiting for it, aren’t they? Forget the fact they came to me for help, it’s blatantly obvious I’m as welcome in their beautiful new organization as a flu virus.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? Fine then, name a single person back there who thought I was worth the air I breathed.”
“Me.”
Claude’s already inhaled to let loose the next sharp retort, but it sticks in his throat.
“You’re not gonna be alone in this, Claude. I won’t let you.”
The moment stretches as every sarcastic reply withers, leaving only a painful swell of shocked gratitude and the palm-itching desire to take hold of Peter and kiss the living daylights out of him. Claude valiantly refrains. Tears his eyes away from Peter’s instead, and fixes them on the concrete between his feet with a cough.
“You, uh... are you done with that?” Peter gestures at Claude’s coffee cup, which he hands over. No point drinking something hot when it already feels like he’s got embers in his stomach.
Claude can only find his voice when Peter is safely out of arm’s reach and on his way to a trash can. “Better mean it, Pete. Other people... haven’t. In the past.”
And then Peter’s there, crouched in front of him like in his room, and while his hands don’t thread through Claude’s hair, they do hold his empty ones. “I know. And I do. Okay?”
He does. It’s written all over his face, in the darkness of his eyes and Claude’s about ready to surrender because he’s not a fucking saint when those eyes blink. Retreat.
Peter stands with an awkward laugh and a hand scratching at the back of his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all... Um, anyway, are you ready to go back inside?”
Every cell in Claude’s body is humming. The last thing in the world he wants to do is go back in that room with those people. He tells himself Peter will be there, and stands.
Chapter Four
Word Count: 1,876
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: heroes_bigboom fic. Thanks for the beta, visiblemarket!
Summary: Notorious-inspired AU set chronologically in S1, in which a past schism pits the Company against Primatech. To prevent Primatech from destroying New York City, Company agent Peter Petrelli enlists ex-agent Claude Rains.
Chapter Two
Peter and Claude fall into step on the street, and Peter heads toward a corner to hail a cab. It’s busy with the mid-morning rush, people and cars alike streaming past.
“So I never asked,” Claude says, speaking close to Peter’s ear. “Are you one of us or one of them?”
Peter’s surprised it took him this long. He keeps his eyes on the traffic, his hand in the air, as he replies. “One of us.”
“Oh yeah? What can you do, then?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“What do you think?” Peter stalls.
“Hm,” he imagines Claude’s studying look. “Well, ya’ found me sure enough, that has to narrow it down some. Said you could do it again too. Don’t seem the type for one of the more destructive abilities...”
“They have a type?”
“More like a look. Either look right nervous all the time, or like the biggest baddest bastard who ever lived.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“If you like. In any case, my guess is a mental ability, so what is it? Telepathy? Precognition? Or maybe just a simple finder- a strong one, since we never met before now. Am I close?”
“You’re close,” Peter says, as he leans out over the curb and waves emphatically for a cab. One stops- ten feet further down the street, for a man in a trench coat and Burberry scarf carrying a briefcase. Peter frowns and sighs, and jumps when Claude grabs his arm and pulls him toward the cab. “What are you doing?”
“Getting on with it,” Claude simply says. He gets within a few feet of the man, and kicks him in the back of the knee. The man yelps and goes down while Claude slides into the cab. “Get in, Pete,” he calls, “before this all becomes very awkward indeed.”
Peter has frozen, staring stunned at the man clambering back to a standing position with a hand on his injured leg and bewildered moans of “What the hell was that?” on his lips. He realizes they’ve been invisible this whole time. For lack of a really persuasive reason not to, he gets in, stammering out, “You- you just-”
“Stole us a cab,” Claude grins. “It’s not easy, that. You gotta time it just right. So, tell the nice driver where it is we’re headed, won’t you?”
“Uh, Kirby... Kirby Plaza, please?”
If the driver noticed the assault and theft of his cab perpetrated by one fare on another while the former was invisible, he doesn’t care. “Sure thing,” he replies, and they’re off.
“So, you say telepathy, precognition, and finding are all close. Interesting. Can I have a hint or is that cheating?”
“I’m an empath,” Peter says, suddenly tired of the game. He doesn’t want to, but he looks at Claude to see his reaction.
He’s surprised, clearly. “Oh, empathy,” he says, “D’you take abilities or copy ‘em?”
“Copy.”
“Okay. You got more than one or-?”
“I can hold on to one at a time.”
“Good, that’s good. Got control sorted, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Thankfully, Claude reads the end of the conversation in Peter’s tone, and quiets down.
***
The Company’s offices in Kirby Plaza are clean and well-lit, full of people at desks and on phones. Few take notice of Peter and Claude when they arrive. Peter shows his guest around without hesitation, taking him from the offices down to the exercise rooms and the labs. Claude questions the last, recalling Peter’s earlier assertion that the Company had done away with experimentation.
“Never without consent, and no invasive procedures under any circumstances.”
Claude just gives a “yeah, sure” hum, and they carry on. So far, he must admit, any of the old moral grayness in this new Company is well hidden, and there’s little that can hide from an invisible man. He certainly intends to take a solo tour himself as soon as he can, but for now he can’t go wandering off. Peter has led him to a glass-walled conference room, in which several people wait. They all look very serious, and some very familiar.
“Were you right?” Charles Deveaux asks Claude.
“Was I right about what, Charles?”
The elderly man in the wheelchair just gives him a look.
Claude lets his eyes wander over the faces of Nakamura Kaito and Angela Petrelli. “Yeah, I was.”
Charles’ face splits into a warm smile. “We’re all glad to see you again, my friend.”
Can’t tell by the looks of those two, Claude wants to say. But he just shrugs, “Cheers, I suppose.”
“And I suppose you’d like to know just what the heck we’re bothering you for, after so long.”
“Could do. This one over here,” he nods over his shoulder at Peter, “has got cryptic just about down to an art form. I gather the rest of the merry band didn’t see eye to eye with your new philosophy and made a go of it themselves, or was it the other way round?”
“The philosophy never changed, they did,” Angela says, “When we tried to get things back on course, they resisted. Now we believe they have something much more than resistance in mind.”
Claude squints at her, gears turning, “Hang on a minute. There’s the cryptic again. Now I know where he gets it,” he looks over his shoulder, “Peter Petrelli.”
The empath flinches before he can deliver a hard stare.
Claude gives him the same curious squint. “Son of Angela’s a son of Arthur, am I right?”
“Two sons, actually,” comes a new voice. Claude turns to one of the people he didn’t recognize. A man in his late thirties wearing a sharply tailored suit, whose smile is far too even and white to be pleasant. “I’m Nathan Petrelli.”
“Charmed,” Claude sneers. “Is it really very important for me to learn all your names, or can we get on with things?”
Kaito scowls even more deeply. “Impatient. Famous for disobeying orders and undermining the mission. He has loyalty to no one.”
Claude grins, “Famous? Hey, d’ya hear that, Pete?” He casts a glance backwards to see Peter’s warning look.
“Kaito, we discussed this,” Charles says. “Claude is in the ideal position to make this work. It’s got to be him.”
Claude interrupts another protest from Kaito by saying, “This has all been very flattering. I’d love to hear more of it, such as what it is that I’m so ideal for it can only be done by me.”
“You’re right, Claude, no more stalling,” Charles replies, face gone grave. “Recently our precogs have all been having the same vision. Dr. Suresh...”
He nods to a South Asian man who brings up from his lap a rolled sheet of white canvas, which he lays out on the table. It’s a painting of the New York City skyline less than a second from being destroyed by a massive explosion, mushroom cloud rising black and orange behind the buildings.
“This will happen, Claude,” Charles intones, “But we don’t know how. Try as we might, the only other information we’ve been able to glean from the visions is that Primatech will be responsible. Our double agent is currently under suspicion. He’s not going to be able to uncover these plans. But you... you’re an unknown quantity, Claude. No one really knows the specifics of your termination. No one knows where your loyalty lies. And no one we know of has your abilities. So, in the interest of keeping New York in one piece, we’re asking for your help. All we need to know is how they plan to do this.”
Claude has nothing to say. There’s no arguing with the painting, no writing off the grim faces around him as fake. Nothing lies before him but a terrible choice and an impossible task. What else is new?
And then there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, let’s get some air.”
Claude decides he’s not above being led out of the room like an invalid. Or having a cup of steaming coffee pressed into his hand after being deposited on a stone bench outside of the building. He wonders if this was a calculated move as his gaze drifts over the plaza, with its large round fountain and tiered orange sculpture, and the people walking briskly through it or seated at tables outside a café. Is he meant to be imagining it all turned to ash if he doesn’t do exactly what he would never under any circumstances want to do?
“Claude, look at me.”
Peter, sitting beside him with his own coffee. Peter, who still has a smile for him. It’s quietly miraculous. “You don’t have to do this.”
Claude scowls, “Right. I believe you.”
“There could be another way,” Peter protests, “The precogs, they could have another vision. They could tell us everything we need to-”
“If they were gonna find out, they would’ve by now. We both know that.”
Peter looks down, chastised, “Sorry. I’m just- I’d just like to make this a little easier.”
“Well ya’ can’t do that, friend,” Claude hears himself snarl. “There’s nothin’ easy, fair, or nice about this whole mess. And even them up there,” he jerks his head towards the Company’s building, “They’d just love it if I bolted, wouldn’t they? Waiting for it, aren’t they? Forget the fact they came to me for help, it’s blatantly obvious I’m as welcome in their beautiful new organization as a flu virus.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? Fine then, name a single person back there who thought I was worth the air I breathed.”
“Me.”
Claude’s already inhaled to let loose the next sharp retort, but it sticks in his throat.
“You’re not gonna be alone in this, Claude. I won’t let you.”
The moment stretches as every sarcastic reply withers, leaving only a painful swell of shocked gratitude and the palm-itching desire to take hold of Peter and kiss the living daylights out of him. Claude valiantly refrains. Tears his eyes away from Peter’s instead, and fixes them on the concrete between his feet with a cough.
“You, uh... are you done with that?” Peter gestures at Claude’s coffee cup, which he hands over. No point drinking something hot when it already feels like he’s got embers in his stomach.
Claude can only find his voice when Peter is safely out of arm’s reach and on his way to a trash can. “Better mean it, Pete. Other people... haven’t. In the past.”
And then Peter’s there, crouched in front of him like in his room, and while his hands don’t thread through Claude’s hair, they do hold his empty ones. “I know. And I do. Okay?”
He does. It’s written all over his face, in the darkness of his eyes and Claude’s about ready to surrender because he’s not a fucking saint when those eyes blink. Retreat.
Peter stands with an awkward laugh and a hand scratching at the back of his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all... Um, anyway, are you ready to go back inside?”
Every cell in Claude’s body is humming. The last thing in the world he wants to do is go back in that room with those people. He tells himself Peter will be there, and stands.
Chapter Four