Isaac's loft, NYC, Sunday afternoon
An address on the back of a Ninth Wonder's comic led, surprisingly enough, directly to Isaac Mendez's apartment. Peter headed over there, wondering what he should say. Somehow "Hi, I'm a fan of your work and by the way do you know anything about the the city blowing up?" didn't seem like the way to go.
The building didn't look like much. Peter was able to go right up to the apartment door without needing to be buzzed in. Once there, he found the door itself was ajar. Not wanting to barge right in, Peter gently nudged it open further and called, "Hello?"
A young woman appeared, her beautiful face marred by what looked like anger and frustration. Her eyes flicked over Peter suspiciously. "Who are you? What do you want?"
It was times like this that made Peter wish he could channel some of Nathan's charm, and ability to smoothly insert himself into any situation no matter how difficult. "My name's PeterPetrelli. I was looking for Isaac Mendez."
"You're too late," she snapped. "He's gone. Dead. No thanks to people like you."
"People who buy his comics?" Peter asked, feeling certain that wasn't the answer but not knowing what else it could be. Finally taking a chance on looking around at the apartment, Peter noticed multiple canvases covered with oil paintings. "And his art? He painted these, right?"
"For all the good it did him." She turned her face away, but not before Peter saw her trying to blink away tears.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, realizing that he wasn't the one she was mad at. He took a chance on going a few steps into the apartment. "I know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about. My father died not too long ago."
"It's just so pointless." She wiped at her eyes, then gestured at all of the paintings. "He had an amazing talent and he threw it all away. For what? One more high? He didn't need the drugs to paint. I don't know why he ever thought that."
"We got off on the wrong foot," Peter said. He came in further and offered her his hand. "Can we start over? Peter Petrelli. Nice to meet you."
"Simone Deveaux," she replied. She shook his hand, frowning. "Petrelli? Like the guy running for Congress?"
"Nathan's my brother," Peter confirmed.
Simone made a dismissive sound. "I hate to tell you but I'm not voting for him."
"I didn't come here to campaign but can I ask why?" Peter replied.
"Health care," Simone told him. "Isaac died because I couldn't get paramedics here fast enough. And for all the money in my father's accounts I couldn't find a single nurse to treat him with real care and compassion in his last days. You can't tell me our system doesn't need fixing."
"I can't," Peter agreed. Something in her words set a bell off in Peter's head. "Your father - Charles Deveaux?"
"Yes," Simone confirmed. "Why?"
"He is - was - a friend of my mother's," Peter said. He realized he didn't need to try to be like Nathan in order to get the information he was looking for. He had to be like Sam. What did Sam call it? Pretexting? Peter saw his opening and jumped on it. "Actually that's why I'm here. My mother heard about everything you'd been going through. She wanted me to see if I could help. You know, as a way to honor the memory of your dad."
"How can you help?" Simone asked, looking at him skeptically.
"I have a medical background," Peter said. He tried to think of what sort of excuses and questions Sam would use. "I might be able to help you figure out why Isaac died."
"He ODed on heroin," Simone said. "It's not a mystery."
Not knowing how long he would be allowed to stay in the apartment, Peter started to walk around to look at Isaac's paintings. Still going with the pretense, he said, "Addiction can be mysterious to those who have to deal with it. Knowing more about it could help give you some closure." Which Peter felt was true. Of course it was Sam's influence that made Peter add, "Was Isaac acting strangely before he died? Did you notice anything unusual?"
"He was an addict," Simone said, as though Peter was failing to comprehend an important point. "Of course he was acting strangely."
"Sometimes addicts are self-medicating an illness," Peter said. He kept looking over the paintings, moving from the large ones hanging on the walls to smaller ones seemingly forgotten on tables. "Did he ever say anything to you that sounded odd? Like maybe he was having delusions?"
Simone's disbelief faded into a hint of recognition. "What kind of delusions?"
"Any." Peter started to idly flip through a stack of finished canvases that was propped against a wall. "The end of the world, the belief that he had magic powers, or maybe - " Peter froze as he saw one of the paintings buried deep on the stack.
"Before he died he kept insisting that he could - it sounds so stupid." Simone gave a hollow laugh. "He said that he was convinced that he could paint - "
" - the future," Peter said at the same time as Simone. His eyes stayed right on the painting in front of him, a painting which showed him, in the apartment, furtively taking a black portfolio that was - Peter glanced over to confirm it - left on a table near the door.
"You think he was crazy?" Simone asked. "More than just the drugs?"
"It's a theory," Peter replied. He remembered the one time he'd met Isaac. It had been at a comic shop. Peter had gotten copies of Ninth Wonders autographed. It hadn't been long after that that he'd discovered a new power. He'd had no idea.
"I thought he was selfish," Simone admitted. "That he loved drugs more than me or the things his talent could do for him."
"This kind of talent can be scary," Peter said, not having to lie at all. He flipped to the next painting. It was Simone on her cellphone while Peter stood right where he was, in front of the stack. The painting after that showed an open door, and the black portfolio missing from the table.
"I never thought about it like that." A computerized ringtone sang out. Simone looked apologetic. "Sorry, I have to take this."
"No problem," Peter said. He watched as she turned away from him and walked off to the other side of the loft for a semblance of privacy. "Actually, I have to go."
Peter wasn't sure if she'd heard that, but it made him feel better as he turned invisible, grabbed the paintings he'd discovered and the portfolio, and ran out of the front door before her call could end.
The building didn't look like much. Peter was able to go right up to the apartment door without needing to be buzzed in. Once there, he found the door itself was ajar. Not wanting to barge right in, Peter gently nudged it open further and called, "Hello?"
A young woman appeared, her beautiful face marred by what looked like anger and frustration. Her eyes flicked over Peter suspiciously. "Who are you? What do you want?"
It was times like this that made Peter wish he could channel some of Nathan's charm, and ability to smoothly insert himself into any situation no matter how difficult. "My name's PeterPetrelli. I was looking for Isaac Mendez."
"You're too late," she snapped. "He's gone. Dead. No thanks to people like you."
"People who buy his comics?" Peter asked, feeling certain that wasn't the answer but not knowing what else it could be. Finally taking a chance on looking around at the apartment, Peter noticed multiple canvases covered with oil paintings. "And his art? He painted these, right?"
"For all the good it did him." She turned her face away, but not before Peter saw her trying to blink away tears.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, realizing that he wasn't the one she was mad at. He took a chance on going a few steps into the apartment. "I know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about. My father died not too long ago."
"It's just so pointless." She wiped at her eyes, then gestured at all of the paintings. "He had an amazing talent and he threw it all away. For what? One more high? He didn't need the drugs to paint. I don't know why he ever thought that."
"We got off on the wrong foot," Peter said. He came in further and offered her his hand. "Can we start over? Peter Petrelli. Nice to meet you."
"Simone Deveaux," she replied. She shook his hand, frowning. "Petrelli? Like the guy running for Congress?"
"Nathan's my brother," Peter confirmed.
Simone made a dismissive sound. "I hate to tell you but I'm not voting for him."
"I didn't come here to campaign but can I ask why?" Peter replied.
"Health care," Simone told him. "Isaac died because I couldn't get paramedics here fast enough. And for all the money in my father's accounts I couldn't find a single nurse to treat him with real care and compassion in his last days. You can't tell me our system doesn't need fixing."
"I can't," Peter agreed. Something in her words set a bell off in Peter's head. "Your father - Charles Deveaux?"
"Yes," Simone confirmed. "Why?"
"He is - was - a friend of my mother's," Peter said. He realized he didn't need to try to be like Nathan in order to get the information he was looking for. He had to be like Sam. What did Sam call it? Pretexting? Peter saw his opening and jumped on it. "Actually that's why I'm here. My mother heard about everything you'd been going through. She wanted me to see if I could help. You know, as a way to honor the memory of your dad."
"How can you help?" Simone asked, looking at him skeptically.
"I have a medical background," Peter said. He tried to think of what sort of excuses and questions Sam would use. "I might be able to help you figure out why Isaac died."
"He ODed on heroin," Simone said. "It's not a mystery."
Not knowing how long he would be allowed to stay in the apartment, Peter started to walk around to look at Isaac's paintings. Still going with the pretense, he said, "Addiction can be mysterious to those who have to deal with it. Knowing more about it could help give you some closure." Which Peter felt was true. Of course it was Sam's influence that made Peter add, "Was Isaac acting strangely before he died? Did you notice anything unusual?"
"He was an addict," Simone said, as though Peter was failing to comprehend an important point. "Of course he was acting strangely."
"Sometimes addicts are self-medicating an illness," Peter said. He kept looking over the paintings, moving from the large ones hanging on the walls to smaller ones seemingly forgotten on tables. "Did he ever say anything to you that sounded odd? Like maybe he was having delusions?"
Simone's disbelief faded into a hint of recognition. "What kind of delusions?"
"Any." Peter started to idly flip through a stack of finished canvases that was propped against a wall. "The end of the world, the belief that he had magic powers, or maybe - " Peter froze as he saw one of the paintings buried deep on the stack.
"Before he died he kept insisting that he could - it sounds so stupid." Simone gave a hollow laugh. "He said that he was convinced that he could paint - "
" - the future," Peter said at the same time as Simone. His eyes stayed right on the painting in front of him, a painting which showed him, in the apartment, furtively taking a black portfolio that was - Peter glanced over to confirm it - left on a table near the door.
"You think he was crazy?" Simone asked. "More than just the drugs?"
"It's a theory," Peter replied. He remembered the one time he'd met Isaac. It had been at a comic shop. Peter had gotten copies of Ninth Wonders autographed. It hadn't been long after that that he'd discovered a new power. He'd had no idea.
"I thought he was selfish," Simone admitted. "That he loved drugs more than me or the things his talent could do for him."
"This kind of talent can be scary," Peter said, not having to lie at all. He flipped to the next painting. It was Simone on her cellphone while Peter stood right where he was, in front of the stack. The painting after that showed an open door, and the black portfolio missing from the table.
"I never thought about it like that." A computerized ringtone sang out. Simone looked apologetic. "Sorry, I have to take this."
"No problem," Peter said. He watched as she turned away from him and walked off to the other side of the loft for a semblance of privacy. "Actually, I have to go."
Peter wasn't sure if she'd heard that, but it made him feel better as he turned invisible, grabbed the paintings he'd discovered and the portfolio, and ran out of the front door before her call could end.