Fic: The Chronicle of Perdition
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Planting Seeds
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Summary: "So you're actually saying you want to take the serial killer with us? And you don't think that's… I dunno, a little nuts?"
Rating: R for some language and a little teensy bit of gore Spoilers: Season 4 stuff
A/N: Guys, the prospect of a Heroes mini-series (ala Farscape style) has me seriously out of my funk. I know it's not carved in stone, but for now I'm still excited =D Soooo what've we got in THIS long-overdue chapter? (again, my apologies, summer is eating me) Weeee have the return of Angela Petrelli! We have Molly-is-awesome! And, naturally, we have more insufferable Sylaire banter and the glorious return of naked!Sylar! And he's WET this time, too! YAY! And we also have Virgil the OC - in case you don't remember him, he was the dude Noah was talking to on the phone when he and Edgar and Mohinder and Molly were boarding the plane that left Atlanta (where they had dinner at Houlihan's I think it was) and took them to Midland, TX to search for Claire in a Cave. Wheee on with the show!
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me.
Read Chapter Ten | Read Chapter Twelve
A delicate pressure woke her, like the fishbowl feeling of too many eyes. Angela Petrelli mushed the Tempur-Pedic foam mattress under her hip bones as she rolled to a sitting position, ears straining in the darkness for whatever dragged her from her slumber like a doe listening through the whispering forest for the tell-tale crunch of a hunter’s boot. The midnight stillness bore a supernatural quality that was unnerving, freezing her in the anticipation of a haunting apparition’s chilling appearance… one that never came.
Hitching up the hem of her nightgown, she toed her feet into waiting slippers and reached for her red silk robe, wrapping its luxurious length securely around her trembling body. Taking no chances, she removed the small pistol she kept in her nightstand from its hiding place before she crept vulnerably into the hallway to see what was so subtly the matter.
‘Mom,’ a diaphanous voice wafted down the corridor, dangerously twitching her trigger finger and sending her free hand to claw at her chest in surprise.
‘Peter?’ she returned, eyes peering unadjusted into the dark, padding feet shuffling static electricity. ‘Is that you? Why don’t you turn on the light?’
The answer she received was indistinct. Mumbles like bouncing moths flitted through the stuffy black, confusing her thoughts and tensing her shoulders. She entered a moonlit greenhouse foyer that connected two wings of the estate where tall, rushing shadows out on the lawn caught her attention and stopped her in her tracks.
‘Get away from the windows, mom - they’ll see you.’
‘Peter? Where are you? Who are -’
‘There’s no time ma - they’re coming for you! You have to hide!’
A burst of flame split the night and rocked her back on her heels in gasping fear. Dancing fire licked across the dew-dotted grass undaunted before it climbed a shape she hadn’t seen, obscured by the night. Dazed fingertips nearly dropped the gun as she stumbled to escape the terrifying vision that stared her down so menacingly - a cross that burned like a torch in her yard, an unholy beacon allowing ghastly demons to cross from the very gates of Hell to swallow her whole if they could find her. And they were looking…
She slipped away from the hungry eyes of the milling figures outside and staggered through the mansion until she collapsed into a large, plush chair in the front sitting room, shakily relinquishing her weapon to the tea table situated in front of her, nearly knocking over a priceless antique conversation piece. As she drug a weary hand over her sleepy eyes, she clamped it over her mouth when a sudden loud, foreboding ‘bang’ clamored from the front door.
‘Mom -’
‘Open it,’ said another voice, familiar but failing to present a face.
‘I can’t help you here, ma - I can’t find him to stop him. You’ll have to figure this out on your own.’
What did he mean?
‘Peter, I -’
BANG BANG BANG.
‘Open it, Ms. Petrelli.’ A man materialized before her, born from a pinprick of light to take the form of the police officer, Matt Parkman. It was then that she began to take heed - she wouldn’t randomly dream about him for no reason. ‘Trust me, this isn’t going to go away until you do. There’s something you need to learn.’
His tone curled around her throat to cup her chin and caress her ears and her mind, assuaging her escalating alarm into a bland, hypnotic state of trust. Led as if in a trance, she stood and brushed the wrinkles free from her garment and followed him toward the source of the noise.
BANG BANG BANG.
‘Ms. Petrelli, please, you can’t!’ cried another voice from beside her right arm as it reached for the shining, gilded doorknob. This one she’d never heard before. ‘I have vital information for you - you need to hear me!’
‘Who are you?’
‘Ignore him, Angela,’ Matt beseeched, ‘open the door.’
‘No! You mustn’t!’ Another man coalesced from a foggy mist - he was no one she recognized. Dreaming of strangers was diagnostic of prophecy - much to Parkman’s dismay, she dropped her arm. ‘Not before you hear what I have to say! My name is Virgil - you know me, you just don’t remember me, I used to work for you long ago. I have information for Noah, he asked me to do some digging - my intel is crucial to anyone who works for you, I think I know what’s happening! I need to talk to you, but if you see me then it’s too late! You must leave this house tonight and trust I will find you later!’
‘Forget him and open the door, Angela.’
She clung to every last foreign detail carved into the lines across Virgil’s unknown face with iron clad memory as his image slowly faded from view. He was essential to her waking world - he was a harbinger.
BANG BANG BANG.
‘Angela,’ Matt called a bit more insistently than was really necessary, ‘this will all stop when you open that door. Please - they’re hurting her. Just do it and get it over with.’
Hurting who? Claire? Certainly not… then who? Someone Matt knew?
‘Angela -’
‘Alright! Enough already!’
Impatient from the constant badgering, she violently twisted the knob and ripped the door open. Waiting for her on the other side was a mob of angry people, bombarding her with a wall of sound made up of harsh expletives and vulgar obscenities. Smoke singed her nasal passages, and she bemoaned the loss of her forgotten gun at the sight of so many purposeful shotguns and rifles. Heading them all, his presence filling her front porch as his thumbs dug behind his opulent Texan belt buckle, was rotund man in alligator boots with a gleaming sharktooth smile who stunk of power and villainous ruthlessness. He spat the toothpick on which he’d been chewing at the first of her sprawling steps as he lifted one meaty paw toward her - every animal instinct in her body was repulsed, begging her body not to accept the invitation.
‘G’d’evenin’, ma’am. I’d introduce m’self, but I think you already know who I am.’ The chuckle that followed dripped with pure evil. It wasn’t, however, the first time Angela Petrelli had stared cold into the face of the devil himself. Regal and diplomatic, she steeled herself, unwilling to show him her quivering knees, and she formulated her carefully metered response.
‘Yes, Mr. Culbertson, I’m perfectly aware of who you are. I would ask that you kindly remove yourself and your followers from my property, but I know you’ll only choose to ignore my request, so I must ask: to what end do you tax my person with your lecherous company?’
‘You’re a brave ol’ girl, Mrs. Petrelli, yes you are indeed. But I ain’t here to cause you any trouble - jus’ wanna show you what you’re up against, s’all.’
‘Then I would bid you good night, after all you’ve made your message abundantly…’
The words fell from her empty lips. Over his left shoulder a man in a black suit with a white collar - a habit typical of the vestments of faith - stepped laboriously toward the giant blazing emblem throwing contorted silhouettes around the whole of the premises, making it seem as if the very ground were squirming beneath their feet. He was bent beneath the load he carried in his aging arms, which he dropped unceremoniously once his feet reached the smoldering pyre.
It was the body of a blonde woman.
“Ms. Petrelli.”
“No…”
“Ms. Petrelli, please -”
“Peter! Where’s Peter!”
“Angela!”
“We must -!”
She opened her sleepwalking eyes to be greeted by Rene’s smooth coffee complexion. He had been shaking her gently, just enough to rouse her - the cool breeze had done the rest. She stood before the open doorway, hand still resting on the doorknob, facing the western lavender of an early spring dawn.
“What did you see?” the Haitian asked her.
“Our enemy… who is apparently converging upon us. Go quickly - gather the Brittons and pack their bags, we must leave before Virgil arrives.”
“Virgil…?”
“He said he worked for me.”
“Virgil Lawry?” She could only stare mutely at his recognition of the name. “Yes - he was a company agent, and I do believe he left a message on your machine while you were in the bath last night. A man did call and say he was coming here with information for you.”
“Well, then we have no time to lose. We must flee immediately … or I fear something terrible might happen.”
~*~*~
Virgil dialed Noah Bennet’s number enthusiastically as he pulled the armored Suburban onto the expansive drive rolling away toward the Petrelli estate.
“Hello,” the answering voice hushed on the other end of the line.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, buddy?”
“No, Virgil, it’s okay - had a, uh, rough day yesterday, most folks’re still asleep. You wouldn’t be calling if you didn’t have something for me.”
“What - we never just shoot the breeze anymore? I think you still owe me lunch!” His discoveries made it difficult to hide his good nature.
“Tell you what - you give me something that’ll make these guys leave my daughter alone and you got yourself a fat steak dinner, all the trimmings. Deal?”
“Deal, my friend, and you better pony up, I’ve got expensive tastes. But first I have to tell you, no matter how much I dug, I didn’t see any evidence that your boy Sylar’s had any physical association with this Neil Culbertson fellow whatsoever, in spite of the fact that some of these killings seem to fit his description.”
“Oddly enough, I can corroborate that… we actually have him with us. And the crime scenes Lauren and Tracy have been investigating so far haven’t turned up any real bodies, if you can believe that…”
“I’m inclined to believe just about anything at this point, Noah, given our history.”
“Yeah, so our theory about Sylar is out the window.”
“Right, but that’s not the important part. There is a connection between Culbertson and Bartlett & Wells. Culbertson has been lobbying Congress hard over this Para-Human Registration and Licensure thing, and a lot of his funding has come from there. They’ve been partners in business for a long time, keeping a proper cash flow from his family’s oil fields into the domestic market. I get the sense from some of the communications I’ve gleaned that there’s a general feeling of para-human distrust -”
“You don’t say -”
“- in that an ability could be the answer to the global energy crisis, in which case fossil fuels would, if you’ll pardon the pun, go the way of the dinosaur. I don’t think anyone’s forgotten Ted Sprague.”
“Right. I can see where someone like him might not be all that healthy for Culbertson’s business model, sure.”
“But that’s not the only place where he’s been receiving meager contributions.” Virgil pulled to a stop in the front circle drive facing a vivaciously animated stone fountain spurting glittering water into the mid-morning sunshine. “There’s a church on his ledgers - the Church of the Solid Rock, based in rural parts outside of Houston.”
“And I’ll just bet buddy is a member of the congregation.”
“Yep, and guess who else is.”
“Shoot.”
“The same guy that got arrested for the house fire in Boston, and another guy who got picked up for harassing an elderly couple in a New York City subway station. My list actually goes on from there - all of whom were responsible for attacks on specials before Sylar came to be implicated.”
“And they’re Preservists, aren’t they.”
“Yes.”
“So it would seem that Neil and his cult are the tie that bind this church and this marketing company together.”
“It would appear that they’re all part of the same entity, yes. And then there’s the question of their pastor…”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah - it would seem that all of this activity really got its start when Brother Jacob Murphy returned home from a mission trip to Venezuela. I’ve found a few notes that allude to the fact that something about the trip went really, really wrong, but I couldn’t get a better description than that.”
“I suspect something para-human happened.”
“So do I,” Virgil returned. “It was immediately after that that the church started to grow a huge online presence, spreading it’s message all over the Midwest, gaining followers. The same developers for their website did work for -”
“Lemme guess, Bartlett & Wells.”
“The very one. I think it’s obvious that they’re starting to reach toward the coasts, and from there they’re going international. Through Culbertson, they’re able to enlist some pretty heavy people, like Governor Schwarzenegger for instance - they just had a long, friendly meeting not long ago. The state of California seems pretty receptive… If they get his legislation passed it’s the precedent the Preservists need to trigger a domino effect that might end up being nearly unstoppable. Noah, the more the American people like him, the harder it will be to convict him of whatever crime he’s committing.”
“So he’s hiding under an umbrella of charisma and influential connections. How on earth are we gonna stop that?”
“Well, for starters, I’d take it to the source. I’d be curious to know what happened to Brother Jacob in Venezuela. I mean, he started a whole movement as a result, and enlisted the help of a really powerful man. I would want to understand where he’s coming from. Then I’d gather as much evidence as possible and fight fire with fire. I’m at your boss’s house right now - gonna try to convince her to take a more public approach.”
“Virgil, I never told you who I worked for.”
“Yeah, what you said was, ‘it’s probably best you don’t ask who I work for,’ so I just naturally assumed you were referring to Angela.”
“I’m becoming transparent in my age.”
“Children do that to you. Speaking of children, whether you like it or not, your daughter’s kind has their own spokesperson and that person is Claire… which is what Culbertson wants with her. Maybe the nation needs to hear her side of the story, what happened to her, and maybe they need to see what connection lies between the Preservists and these killings.”
“This is a little different than a Ferris wheel, Virgil.”
“I know, but she’s a big girl now and we both know you can’t change people’s opinions after they’ve formed them - you have to act now. And I wouldn’t let Sylar too far out of your sight, either. If they have him, they can do whatever they want in his name and never have to take their share of the blame.”
“That’s why they attacked Gretchen,” Noah mumbled.
“Whassat…?”
“Oh - when they kidnapped Claire, they attacked her roommate, Gretchen.”
“Yes, I know…”
“They made it look like Sylar tried to kill her. They wanted Claire to believe he was guilty just in case she ever escaped - and that’s why. They were covering their bases.”
“Planting a seed, more like it. But if she goes public and Angela presents our case to the Government, and if you can keep Sylar out of their hands, we could win this.”
“I dunno, Virgil… it just seems like we’ll need so much more…”
“You need to find out what happened to Brother Jacob Murphy.”
“And I also need the man they’ve got coerced into helping them. I need Matt Parkman.”
~*~*~
Virgil’s chipper demeanor began to fade the instant he noticed that the closer his feet brought him to the glossy, hand-carved mahogany front door, winking at him with frosty panes of laser-etched glass, the further it receded, proving the entrance to the palatial residence to be infinitely unattainable. Things like that didn’t happen in ordinary, cookie-cutter, normal-human reality… at least not sober. By the time his sluggish brain brought him to an about face, he found his vehicle to be equally elusive. Behind his left shoulder near the house, out of his peripheral vision, he caught the hint of movement, perhaps nothing more than a trick of his subconscious. It was more like a thickening of air, a zipping outline with no substance to give it a proper structure, like humidity rippling on the horizon at the end of a hot summer day. It circled him like a well camouflaged predator.
“Virgil? Virgil… Lawry? That’s your name?” the thing spoke with a voice that rang between his own ears. Virgil found himself helpless to deny the claim, and began to slide headlong into debilitating paranoia. “Virgil, I want you to listen to me. You’ve come to see Angela Petrelli but she’s already left. Tell me who you were just talking to on the phone.”
“Noah Bennet,” his lips betrayed him by moving on their own volition.
“Good. See? You’re doing very well. Now, I want you to think back on the last few minutes of your conversation. Did he happen to mention the whereabouts of his daughter, Claire Bennet, or Gabriel ‘Sylar’ Gray?”
He didn’t have to say anything, the innocently conjured phrases streaked through his mind like blinding neon. They were all leaving Texas, trying to convince Claire and Sylar to willingly give themselves up to protective custody, to take Claire’s story public. They were coming back to New York.
The bodiless speaker had nothing more to say, but instead let a cottony tendril of some unnamed cognitive message coil around his rigid posture to where it planted a seed near his right foot. Upon an attempt to look at it, like feeling a tiny prick predicating the need to investigate the crawling sensation of insect legs wriggling across the skin, he discovered his jaw was locked tightly in place - the message was intended to be covert. He blinked twice and the world around him snapped back into proper perspective like a hemispherical rubber band. The effect was momentarily nauseating. Faltering a bit on his heels, he cringed and pressed probing fingers against throbbing temples, slowly waking up to the sense that the asphalt made under his toes.
Wingtips and the pant legs of a smart, grey suit stepped into his steadying view, nearly crushing the small red flower that had grown beside him from pure thought - one that Virgil suspected no one else could see. He straightened and swallowed against acid reflux, a side-effect of stress - he was surrounded on all sides by guerillas masquerading in the name of the Lord.
“My talented associate, Mr. Parkman, tells me your name is Virgil,” the man in the grey suit muttered in a quiet tone that purposefully demanded close attention with the promise of dire consequences for any contradiction. True to usual Petrelli fashion, Virgil’s affiliation with the woman had once again bitten him off more than he could chew. He should’ve thrown away Noah Bennet’s number years ago. He should’ve sated his need for excitement and adventure with scuba diving or rock climbing or something - even those things would’ve been healthier than this bile-inducing wad of shit. “Virgil, my name is Jim. Are you hungry, Virgil? We’re calling for pizza - we’re going to have a nice lunch while we wait. I think you should join us.”
“You guys don’t strike me as the anchovy type, at least,” Virgil couldn’t help but joke in the face of such a formidable adversary, “how bad can it be?”
Then he took a risky gamble and suddenly dropped to one knee. The pandemonium of heavy steel loading large caliber projectiles, taking aim from all sides, forced his hands into the air, squeezing his eyelids together in desperate surrender.
“I just need to tie my shoe.”
He fiddled with the laces… and plucked his private communiqué from the invisible stem on which it’d grown. In an imaginary tuft of smoke, dissolving as he stood exuding harmless compliance, the tiny plant disappeared, leaving a statement of fact in its wake to stampede across his awareness like a garishly lit marquis:
‘If they can get Janice and the baby safe, we can end this. They need to go to Houston.’
~*~*~
Fleeing a bewildered Sylar who’d just been granted a gift more precious than he really deserved, Claire stepped out into the crisp, early morning air just in time to watch Hiro wave as he whisked Huong and Doc off to some other far distant set of coordinates within the blink of an eye. Decelerating at the scent of coffee, she poked around in the room next door for donuts or bagels as she eavesdropped on the remainder of their group, loitering outside by the van, ready to get on the move.
“It doesn’t matter if mom’s uncomfortable with it, it has to be done - it’s for the good of potentially thousands of people,” she heard Peter. “Don’t you worry about her, leave her to me.”
“It’s not Angela that concerns me,” Lauren added. “I mean, we’re all aware that this is just a pipe dream, right? There is absolutely way in hell we’re gonna get him to do this.”
Claire didn’t need to guess who they were talking about; she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more. She would’ve made a B-line for the shower if it hadn’t already been occupied.
“Well, maybe we should think it through a bit more,” Tracy opposed. “Because, look at it this way - from what we’re hearing, he says he’s honestly making an attempt to pay for his crimes, so -”
“And you believe him?” Her father’s usual cynical stance… she expected nothing less and was not disappointed.
“Noah, he sacrificed his life to save yours - and while no one here is contesting the fact that he’s completely psychotic, and no one will ever trust him, you’d have to admit that was pretty unexpected.”
“But it wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to convince us he’s something he’s not, either” Mohinder growled.
“I know, but here’s the thing - here’s this guy that we’ve never been able to take down. None of us have been able to. And sometimes we’ve tried together. He’s insanely powerful, he’s tremendously scary, he’s not afraid of a little blood… and he’s on OUR side. If we send him away -”
Send him away…?
“- we might be throwing away our sharpest tool.”
“So you’re actually saying you want to take the serial killer with us?” Mohinder argued. “And you don’t think that’s… I dunno, a little nuts???”
“While I don’t necessarily agree,” Edgar timidly offered his soft-spoken opinion, “and I don’t really know the bloke as well as the rest o’ you… gotta admit there sure were a lot of guns back at that cave… he’s bloody useful, sure handed me arse to me once before. And I thought the whole point was to have his whereabouts accounted for - why can’t we do that with ‘im sittin’ right next to us?”
“Folks, it’s not even worth considering - this is Sylar we’re talking about,” Noah answered as if no further discussion was required. “I’d like to keep our operations going forward as discreet and covert as possible - Peter said it best, there are lives at stake here, not the least of which include Parkman’s wife and kid. The situation is more than a little precarious. I’d really prefer not to go forward by taking our first step with a giant target painted on our backs. It’s true they’re looking for us, yes, but only secondarily, and it’s not like we all haven’t been hunted before.” He raised a finger to make his point. “Their primary targets, however, are him and Claire. It doesn’t make any sense at all to cart them around with us like we’re baiting our own trap.” Claire felt something leaden settle in her belly, shoving her previous appetite far, far away from the agitated gnawing in her middle. It was a feeling she’d come to know far too well over the years given how many times her father had spoken about her behind her back when he thought she wasn’t listening. “Also, they are assets at this point - we can’t take any chances with them - we lose them, we lose the fight.” She could picture the encircling ring of faces, ineffectually trying to mask the discomfort at listening to the man talk about his daughter as if she were an arbitrary economic lump assigned some base monetary value. Again. “It really is the best plan to get them secured and accounted for before we move on. Especially Sylar - if we can’t validate his lack of movement and activity, then we have no case against these folks. It’d be completely defeating the purpose if he were running around out there with us, mixing it up with the bad guys. It’d be our word against theirs whose side he’s on, and right now I think we wouldn’t stand a chance. Tracy, you’ve been in the political arena - you know what kind of people we’re up against, and what they’re capable of. You know I’m right.”
Chest heaving with indignant curses, Claire snatched up the plastic bags containing her scant few belongings and plopped down on one of the bouncy, disheveled hotel beds just as the door to the shower and toilet parted to admit Molly’s small, towel-clad person.
“Oh! Hey, Molly… I, uh… I can leave…”
“No, it’s alright, just shut the front door, will ya?”
Claire yielded to the girl’s request before fastidiously organizing her things, awkwardly keeping her hands busy while preparing for her morning routine.
“Do I wanna know what the fuss is all about this time?”
“I imagine you will sooner or later,” Molly had no problem spilling as she yanked her underwear up beneath her towel. “They want you’n … him to go into protective custody at the new Petrelli foundation… something about Hope er something. Anyway, they’re, like, trying to keep the families of the murder victims safe there, I guess. It’s supposed to be a good place to keep hidden while they try to get you to tell your story on the news or whatever. And they wanna be able to prove that Sylar didn’t kill anyone so the bad guys’ll be all guilty and stuff.”
“Meanwhile, everyone else is gonna get totally shot all to hell because they sent the ONE person who can’t get hurt off… into HIDING. Makes perfect sense. Go Team Dad.”
“Well, but what if…” Molly began, trying to get her juvenile brain to piece together a coherent sentence while pulling her t-shirt over her frilly, pre-teen bra. “What if the world needs to hear your story, Claire? I mean, you’re kind of a celebrity for people like us. Doesn’t everyone deserve to know what these whackos did to you? I’m just saying… maybe you should think about it, is all. And if they find you and capture you again, no one will ever know - it’ll be too late.” She cocked her hip and jutted a finger at the wall, indicating the room next door, with enough force to nearly topple the terry-cloth turban from the top of her freshly shampooed head. “And HE HAS to go. We have to win this, Claire, and your dad and Mo and everyone else is right - we can’t if they have him.”
“I know, but there isn’t anything in the world that’ll make Sylar do something he doesn’t want to.”
“Yes there is.” Molly wandered diligently, placing one foot before the other toward the bed as digging fingers sifted through her right pants pocket, withdrawing the same silver watch locket that had sealed Sylar’s surprising innocence the evening before. As she lowered herself to the mattress, a tentative thumb sweetly stroked the gracefully skilled engraving that Claire could now clearly see. “When he gave this to me, he told me he was sorry, and that he’d do anythingfor me.” A pause brought her head to her shoulder. “I’m gonna ask him to do this.”
Claire had no initial response, stunned by clarity. The girl was right - her plan was absolutely fool-proof. Sylar was neurotic about many things, but emblazoned at the lofty precipice of his interminable list was the honor in truth and keeping promises. She had him by the balls… and yet she remained still, stoically inspecting her nightmare’s apologetic gift instead of confronting him face to face.
“You don’t want to go talk to him, do you.”
“He makes my stomach sick.”
“I know the feeling… he makes my head hurt.” She tried not to focus on the psychosomatic parallel.
“Claire, you have to come with us, please… Mo wants me to go too, to keep me safe, but I don’t wanna be anywhere alone with… with HIM. Please say you’ll come too? Okay? PLEASE???”
As determined as she was to instinctually defy her father, supposing that all children unconsciously rebel against their parents as a part of growing up and earning independence or whatever, she couldn’t deny that there was a burning, red-faced and bitter smidgen of logic to the concocted scheme. Maybe she wouldn’t have choked on it so hard if her father had actually included her in the planning phase instead of glorifying her as nothing more than an underage chess pawn. And she was powerless to resist such a heartwrenching plea. She sighed in defeat.
“Alright, alright. I’ll come. And don’t worry about HIM - I’ll talk to him.”
After she dislodged herself from Molly’s grateful yet suffocating embrace, she collected a bag containing shampoo, conditioner, shave cream, a razor, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and deodorant then disappeared into the shower to think about what she’d just agreed to.
~*~*~
Just when Claire thought her father didn’t love her she discovered the napkin-encased bagel safely stashed in the bag that thinly harnessed her folded clothing. It was blueberry. Not only was he ensuring that she had a long-overdue breakfast, he took the extra effort to steal her favorite flavor before they disappeared. It was a good thing too - all that was left was plain and chocolate chip. Not that there was anything wrong with chocolate chip… it just wasn’t blueberry.
Her lips moved in the mirror as she silently practiced her speech and toweled her hair, but the words leaked from her startled memory when the shower next door abruptly kicked to life. There was only one person who could’ve been its occupant. Tossing her towel onto the growing heap of damp bundles accumulating underneath the sink, she snatched her fruit flavored fare along with the remaining bagel box and some cream cheese, then marched to the neighboring hotel room faster than anyone could stop her. She planted herself Indian-style on the bed furthest from the door, spreading the soft dairy product with a plastic butter knife while she waited him out. A typical male, spending about as much time in a bathroom as he would a tollbooth, Sylar emerged just as she finished coating the surface of her doughy breaded ring, billowing rapidly condensing fog into the relatively dry air.
Unperturbed and dripping, his dark hair matted with water spilling rivulets down his face, neck, and back, he loosely clutched at a towel slung low across his hips as he reached for the bag of items Emma and Peter had donated to him. One wet foot squeaked across the tile, however, when he jumped to the realization that he was not alone. Bag in one hand and the other twisting to cinch his modest covering a little tighter, eyes wide and nervous, he straightened as she rattled a cardboard box in his direction.
“Bagel?”
Simultaneously they both grimaced when they recognized that accepting her offering meant letting go of… something. Which was nothing either of them wanted.
“Clothes,” he returned, giving his bag a little swing.
“Yes.”
“Yes. Fuckin’ wordy bunch we are this morning,” he muttered curmudgeonly as he turned to retreat to the steamy but private shower and toilet cubicle to dress.
“You like chocolate chip?” Claire hollered to be heard through the door.
“Sure.”
“Cream cheese?”
“Uh, no.” There was rustling and hopping on one foot. “No, thanks. So, uh… so you guys haven’t left yet.”
“Nope, still here Captain Obvious.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Claire, I just didn’t expect to see you still here is all.”
“What, did you think we were gonna, like, sneak out on you while you were in the shower?” He really thought they would just leave? “Yeah, that’s awesome. ‘Hey guys, watch this!’”
What the hell was she thinking, of course that’s what he thought.
He reappeared as a tangle of elbows and arms stretching a black t-shirt over his head to where it slid down the lean triangular frame of his long torso. Protruding ribs told her he hadn’t been eating well for a while - things weren’t going so well for the reformed killer.
“To be honest, I thought I was gonna wake up alone in a cave…”
“Well, you saved my dad’s life… couldn’t just leave you there…”
He received the bagel she handed him, cupping it over in his hands while his dramatic brows pulled together in an expression of poorly veiled yet exquisite self-loathing.
“That must’ve been hard,” he murmured, moving away to lean against the counter, “not backing down. How long did he stand there and fight you?”
“Well, there were more guys with guns coming, so…”
“Right...” His jaw clenched with a misery he preferred to disguise, so he casually looped the bagel over one finger while his narrowed eyelids never left his sock-clad toes. “And I suppose the bullet just kinda magically, all on its own, sorta like leaped out of my hear - uh… my, umm, my chest, right? Just like that? Because there’s no way in hell any of those guys would ever -”
“Peter pulled it out.”
“Yeah, and I bet he’s real popular right now, too…”
“Look, I know this must be uncomfortable for you, so -”
“Uncomfortable?!? Claire, do I need to remind you what the score is here?” The bagel was relegated to the counter behind him to free his excited fingers for spurious counting, “I killed your real parents in really horrible ways, slaughtered Molly’s folks while she hid from me in a closet, ruined her life, killed Mohinder’s dad, Peter’s brother, Tracy’s booty-call - and that’s just keeping track of the folks that are here with us. So that’s what, you guys eight, me zip?!?”
“Technically Peter’s brother, my real dad, and Tracy’s… you know, they’re the same -”
“You were right. Congratulations, you’ve been right this whole time, I hope you’re happy. I AM a psychopath!”
“Yeah, I was wrong actually, psychopaths don’t express remorse -”
“How am I supposed to walk out there?!? How am I… how am I supposed to live?” A blank spot in the far corner of the room became the new subject of his woefully destitute glare. “I… Claire, I woke up this morning lucky to be alive. And now I’m not so sure that… I’m not sure it was for the best. I mean, what do I do???”
She was trapped. Stunned into voiceless paralysis, she hadn’t really planned on becoming the sole witness to his emotional breakdown as he bore to her captive ears the ills that plagued the tarnished soul of a rehabilitating homicidal maniac. And yet, she feared what would happen if she brought his tirade to an unwilling end. He had her unfortunately rapt attention.
“It’s true, yes, I saved a bunch of people in Central Park,” he went on. “Emma told me all about it. Peter told me all about it. Said it was ‘thousands of people’… although it looked more like hundreds if I had to be honest. I wanted to become a… a protector, a hero, a better person because I thought… I thought it would fix everything… that it would take this, this… thing inside me and make it STOP. But it doesn’t - everything is still there, still just… jagged, right beneath the surface. And I thought losing my powers would take it away - like this constant nagging ringing, or like a hunger , I don’t know what to call it - but it won’t. Nothing will. Nothing ever changes. I have nothing, I have no one, I have spent my whole life watching everything I want just slip away, just out of reach…” He dropped to a crouch and pressed his chin against folded, slender fingers - retired, innocuous tools once used for unleashing bloody destruction. “You know,” he whispered, “I told you once - I think it was when I handed you your skull back - that I could never have killed you, even if I could… because you were special. Do you know what I meant?”
She could do nothing more than dumbly gape.
“You have a pure heart, Claire. You all do… well, except your dad, but you most of all. So clear, so good… so… persistent in its direction. Forthright. You have everything.” He closed his eyes and swallowed, but he didn’t grant her enough of a pause to tactfully change the topic. “I hate you,” he expelled through his knuckles, “hate you all. I’ve murdered because I hated you. I stopped murdering because I’m alone. And I can’t stop being alone because I can’t forget all the things I’ve done. Every person I see is just another face in a sea of dead faces, accusing me, reminding me of what I am... What am I supposed to do about that? How am I supposed to have a life? How am I possibly ever going to get through this? You should’ve just let me die in that cave, Claire. Would’ve been easier on everyone. You know, your face got tattooed on my arm because you were supposed to have some sort of answer for me, something I needed. So, tell me this: where the hell am I supposed to go now?”
An impatient thrill raced through her as she internally rejoiced - he finally unwittingly blabbed himself into a perfect segueway.
“Well, you can’t go home,” she quickly interjected.
“…huh?”
“Oh come on, I didn’t exactly come in here to peep on you in the shower or anything… you have to know they’re all out there talking about you. If you’re wondering where you’re supposed to go, I promise you it’s been discussed and a conclusion has been reached… so maybe I have your answer after all.”
He peered at her skeptically - he was already sure he didn’t like where this was headed.
“Claire… I cannot even fathom where on earth your dad must want me to go -”
“Oh, I think you can.”
“Is it made of concrete and plexi-glass? Because if the answer’s yes, I’d rather be dead in a cave.”
“You said that already, I know. And I don’t think they’re actually gonna put you in a cell this time -”
“Oh my god you’re serious -”
“- but, and it kills me to say this so it must be true, I think my dad is right. These people… whatever it is they want from me, they want it badly enough to keep me out of the way. If they’ve done it once, they’ll do it again and do a better job this time. And you, as long as they’ve got you where they want you, they can keep taking advantage of your past as a sort of misdirection.” She hoped to plant a tiny seed of guileless persuasion when she added, “They’re gonna keep using you.”
“So, you want me to believe that you’re… okay, all of a sudden, with being daddy’s little prisoner again? Just like that?”
“I want to keep potentially thousands of people from being victimized. I want the bad guys to lose. And if you and I are the keys to their success, then yeah, I guess I don’t really want them to have us. Is that crazy?!?”
He found his feet, advancing on her in unmitigated incredulity, stooping to meet her eye to challenging eye.
“Almost as crazy as rolling over and playing dead… hiding like, like, like mewling fucking kittens and doing absolutely nothing in some little plastic playpen who knows where!!!”
“Upstate New York.”
“Shit, Claire, whatever!!! Seriously - you’re telling me that these guys attacked your best friend, shoved you in a hole underground, are holding people close to you hostage, and are committing god knows how many other countless acts of inhumanity against our people, and you don’t want to get out there and DO something about it?!?”
“That’s funny - says the guy who just wants to ‘die in a cave’…”
Sweat, or leftover moisture from the shower, was beading on his snarling lip. He seized her with his dark pools fiercely enough she thought he might telekinetically twist her head off. And while the menace she provoked at having thrown his own words in his face refused to abate so easily, he rose and relaxed his stance, crossing both arms over his chest self-assuredly.
“I know what this is about. Same old shit, never fucking changes. You’re afraid I’m gonna kill someone.”
“Oh for crying out - I said I believed you!”
“They don’t!” He flung an arm toward the people in question outside.
“Forget about them - it’s not about that, anyway!”
“Claire,” he sneered dangerously, “look at me. I’m telling you right now there’s not a single one of you that can make me be a Company zoo exhibit again. And let ‘em try. I might’ve given up killing, but I’m not opposed to self-defense.”
But he was wrong - there was one person who could make him do it. It was time to play hardball - time for the fledgling seed to grow into a choking vine of certain triumph. She sighed and let the hammer fall.
“Alright, look. I wasn’t going to do this, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t like this any more than you do, but the reason I’m going is because Molly begged me to. She told me that you said to her that you’d do anything for her - anything she wanted - all she had to do was ask. But she’s terrified to talk to you, and I don’t think anyone can blame her, least of all you. So, I’m here to ask you for her. You don’t wanna do protective custody? Fine. I’m not here to make you like it. I’m here to ask you to do it for her. And if you won’t do it for her, then… then do it for me.”
Fuming, he stood and scowled at her in slack-jawed disbelief. Then, ravaged and conquered, his head lolled on his shoulders in reluctant capitulation, and she saw his sallow face was ringed with a weariness she hadn’t truly noticed until then. With a dispirited groan he lazily pivoted to grab his bagel and he picked at it in a manner that lacked any real enthusiasm. Tense hostility drained from him as quickly as it had swelled, ebbing through his lips with a heavy sigh of resignation.
“Damn… son of a bitch… alright. Alright, I’ll do it. But I have some conditions.”
“Fair enough.”
“I want an actual bed this time, a bathroom with a door on it, and I’m free to go after two weeks.”
“Two weeks?!? That’s not enough time to do anything!!!”
“Claire, do you even know your dad…?”
“Give him four.”
“NO. No fucking way.”
“Three.”
“Two and a half.”
“THREE. Final.”
“Fine. Fuck you. Three. Deal?”
“Deal. Thank you. Christ.”
~*~*~
Claire walked out into the warmly waxing sunshine with perfect timing - an amusing spectacle was taking place before her very eyes. Surrounded by intent listeners, her father was bent over drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick.
“No, Edgar can’t, remember? He’s out of commission right now,” Noah told Lauren. “While the police’ve impounded the van we left at the side of the road, they haven’t had the time to sweep it for prints - he’s off cleaning it up and scraping the VIN. Now. Tracy, I want you positioned here, and Mohinder, here. Emma, I want you with me and Lauren over… here. Okay. Peter, we’ll start with you - I want you to go in there and copy his power of telekinesis. You’re our first assault - do your absolute best to get him at least somewhere near the van.”
“I dunno about this, he trusts me - why don’t we just try talking to him first?”
“Peter, I know you think you’ve spent some time with him that none of us can relate to, and I appreciate that, but I need you to understand me when I tell you that that man is never going to trust anybody, and he’s not gonna listen to reason.”
They… they were devising a plan… to kidnap… Sylar. Claire nearly bit her tongue in half to keep from laughing. She was tempted to let them go through with it.
“Now,” Noah continued, “when he gets out of your grasp - and he will - I want Tracy to freeze him. Tracy, you’ll have to act quickly because he will try to electrocute you. From there he’ll likely use his power of disintegration to melt the ice at which point, Mohinder, I want you ready to give him a good blow to the head - you won’t kill him, but I want him unconscious for sure. And if he gets through that, I’d like for Emma to call him back so we can start over again with Peter. We clear?”
“Noah, he has Emma’s ability now, he can probably cancel her out,” Peter spat, wholly disenfranchised with the entire proposal. “And if I take his ability, then I lose the one I just got back from Hiro and we’re stuck here.”
“Well, it’s not like we’ve forgotten Hiro’s phone number or anything, but you bring up a good point. Maybe we should test how easily Emma’s ability can be resisted - ”
“No need,” Claire called as she shuffled across the gravelly parking lot, mercifully putting an end to Noah Bennet’s agonizingly futile war games. “Just relax, dad, he’ll do it.”
“But how can you - are you serious? How on earth did you -”
“Civilized conversation. It’s been working wonders for millennia.” She met Molly’s smiling eyes.
“But -”
“You mean it - he’ll go?” Peter grasped her shoulders and pleaded, thankful to get out of any action that might have put a strain on the nascent and tentative relationship he’d fostered between himself and his old nemesis. “He’ll go to my mom’s?”
“I can’t imagine that your mom’d have him, but yeah, he’s agreed to do it. But we should probably go soon, though, before he changes his mind. And I should probably mention he has some… conditions.”
“Fine, whatever he wants,” Noah breathed, obviously impressed with his daughter’s latent talent for diplomacy. “I guess we should probably decide who’s going where then. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and a lot of work to do, and not near enough time to do it right.”