(no subject)
Claire could feel herself drifting, and the more she tried to stop the descent, the faster she fell. The feeling of her shoulder and hip hitting the ground with a crunch didn't fully register so much as dully drift through her consciousness. Even as her body attempted to realign itself, she knew she was slipping away, back into that rift between the now and the everytime.
“Do you trust me?” he was asking her, but she could barely orient herself enough to think of how cliché the statement was.
He extended his hand down to her in a Disneyesque fashion. She quashed a snort, settling for a raised eyebrow instead, and leaned up on her elbows briefly before levering herself off the ground.
“What is this place?” she asked incredulously, scanning the clinically white room for flaws. She spotted a large, two-way mirror on the far end and a shudder ripped through her involuntarily.
The telepath looked lazily about, not at all concerned with the prison-like quality of their surroundings.
“I think it might be hell,” the doughy older man said dreamily. Claire’s raised eyebrow began to twitch.
Hell, she thought, not-quite-panicking. Well, okay, then.
“This hasn’t ever happened this way before,” Parkman said quietly, waving his hand. Suddenly, they were in his car, driving down a deserted road. She started, tugging at her seat-belt. She was feeling light-headed, and not a little breathless.
“I wouldn’t worry, Claire,” he said cheerfully, but the statement wobbled. Something about it makes Claire pale, disturbed by the prospect of Matt being as confused as she was.
He was driving with the utmost focus, knuckles practically white on the wheel. Claire saw the sun-setting over the horizon. It was a dry night, almost like Odessa but much, much cooler. She brought her arms up to wrap around her upper-arms. Matt reached over to touch her shoulder, but before he made contact the very fabric of space rippled again.
Claire was vaulted into a narrow, dank passage. The thick sensation of mold suddenly assaulted her senses, sending her into a coughing fit. Large hands grabbed at her clavicle, pulling her backwards into the darkness.
“Claire?” Matt called out tentatively, his gun cocked and readied, aimed steadily in front of him as he took slow, calculating steps in the dimly lighted passage. Claire? Not her, why her?
The firearm was torn from Parkman’s grip to land at the looming figures feet. All Matt could see was a flash of teeth and Claire’s bright, straw-colored hair. He gasped, flexing his fingers experimentally. He heard a small chuckle, but there was no echo. A mental chuckle, great.
Two for one special, came the disembodied thought of the baseball capped shadow. Matt shivered, and not from a chill.
Then Claire was screaming, and Matt could hear the sluggish drip of her blood on the cement. The most he could make out through the fog-like black was a pale, crooked finger above the teen’s head.
“Bitch!” the man yelped in frustration, shoving the cheerleader aside. Her flesh had mended faster than he man could cut her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Matt said in flat tones, eyes darting from the killer to Claire. The girl wasn’t sure which one of them he meant.
Parkman saw his opportunity, rushing the stranger. He took him down rather effectively, the advantage of weight and brawn on his side. Sylar seemed to forget telekinesis for the moment, stripping to his base humanity as he grappled with Matt.
The overweight man got in a few good hits before Sylar had him flipped, cracking Matt’s jaw with a particularly harsh blow.
The murderer leant over Matt triumphantly; an inhuman sparkle in his eye, and Claire was reminded of Disney again, though she hadn’t the faintest idea why. The hero was losing after all.
Claire was frozen, deafened by her newfound companion’s cries of terror. She could see his blood pooling at her feet and she felt her stomach begin to revolt. Then she was falling once more, and this time she gave in. She never hit the floor.
“Claire?” It was a whisper, but it penetrated somehow, and her eyes fluttered though they wouldn’t quite open. She knew it was Matt Parkman anyhow. Thank goodness he was alright. “Me?” He chuckled warmly. “I shot you.” A look of melancholy took over the jovial features.
“Shot me?” Claire asked, able to see Matt now, slowly coming back into her body, feeling the comforting feelings of home and bed. She kept seeing Matt’s blood. That man... killed you.
Matt blinked, expression bemused but still dark. “Don’t worry now, no killers here.”
She sighed, half-relief and all guilt. I’ll protect you, Claire thought, drifting off again.
Parkman wondered briefly whether she should sleep, but then realized that as a healer she probably couldn’t get damage from a head wound. He mimicked her exhalation, frowning and reaching out to lay his hand on her shoulder. No little girl should worry about having to protect someone…