Heroes: Incognito (1/12)
Rating: PG-13 (a little language, a little violence, a little sex)
Word Count: 741
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.
The talented amethystshard has provided illustrations, to be found HERE.
... In other news, the body discovered in a sewage pipe along the East River early Thursday morning has been identified as that of a man declared missing over ten years ago. Police state that they are the remains of Haram Sarkis, a former employee of Primatech Paper Company. The cause of death is currently unknown, but the investigation is still ongoing...
“Sea, sea, sea-siders! Sea, sea, sea-siders!” It’s a combination of the crowd’s already considerable inebriation and that of the man whipping them into a frenzy that has the chant reverberating off the bar’s brick walls. Claude Rains gallops among them, arms swinging like a mad conductor and eyes just as wild. “Sea, sea, sea-siders! Sea, sea, sea-siders!”
He lurches to a stop in the middle of the bar, holds his arms out wide, and bellows a solo with his eyes squeezed shut, “Blackpool are back, Blackpool are back! Hello, hello! Blackpool are back!” Claude rocks backwards slightly and almost topples over, his eyes popping open. It’s then that he spots the one person not chanting.
A pair of dark eyes watches him over a half-empty bottle of beer.
He staggers over to them, hand slapping down on the booth table. “What?”
The eyes blink.
A wave of nausea hits Claude like a bucket of filthy water. He leans heavily against the table and his free hand rises to his forehead as he swears. “Y’got a car, mate? ‘S a million bloody degrees in here.”
The world loses focus for a while, until he finds himself slumped in a passenger seat, forehead now blessedly cool where it presses against the window. He squints over at Mister Watchful, who for once has those eyes of his on the road.
It occurs to him vaguely that this isn’t in fact a good situation he’s put himself in. “Stop. Stop th’car. Lemme out.”
His driver does so, pulling over to the side of the road and unlocking the doors. Claude wrenches his open and staggers out onto the sidewalk. He blinks up at the trees before him, nods at nothing in particular, and heads off in their direction. He quickly finds a hip-high stone wall rudely blocking his path, so, using it as a crutch, he trudges on until he reaches a gap. The sky opens up above him, a crescent moon floating in the air accompanied by a couple tiny pricks of light. He makes it about twenty feet when a voice behind him says, “This is Central Park.”
The blinding obviousness of this statement brings Claude to a halt as he tries to figure out a suitably scathing retort.
Unfortunately it doesn’t materialize before the voice continues, “You’re not living here, are you?”
That’s rich. We can’t all be bodiless voices, wandering at will. Some of us need places to sleep off massive amounts of alcohol, even if that place isn’t more than the space between two tree roots, and will leave us dew-covered and shivering come morning. Claude means to say all this- though maybe not the last part- but somewhere between his brain and his mouth it devolves into, “Yeah. So?”
“Come on, come with me. You don’t have to stay out here.”
That’s confusing enough to make Claude turn around very carefully. He discovers the bodiless voice has somehow found a home. “Mister Watchful... where’d you come from?”
He smiles, and Claude watches his lower lip pull strangely to the right. “My place. On Lincoln.” He cocks his head, “Come on, let’s go.”
Claude laughs- a low, almost bleating sound. He sidles closer and drops his forearms on Mister Watchful’s shoulders. “You in the market for an old, drunken fool, friend?” he breathes in his face with a leer.
To his credit, Mister Watchful doesn’t flinch. In fact, he smiles again. “Something like that.”
His eyes are black in the gloom, barely catching the light of distant lamps along the park’s path. Claude wishes like hell the thick alcoholic haze would clear from his head. “What… what’s your name?”
“I’m Peter. I work for the Company.”
The world tilts and blurs again. Later, Claude will recall taking a swing at the other man, and nothing else.
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Word Count: 741
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.
The talented amethystshard has provided illustrations, to be found HERE.
... In other news, the body discovered in a sewage pipe along the East River early Thursday morning has been identified as that of a man declared missing over ten years ago. Police state that they are the remains of Haram Sarkis, a former employee of Primatech Paper Company. The cause of death is currently unknown, but the investigation is still ongoing...
“Sea, sea, sea-siders! Sea, sea, sea-siders!” It’s a combination of the crowd’s already considerable inebriation and that of the man whipping them into a frenzy that has the chant reverberating off the bar’s brick walls. Claude Rains gallops among them, arms swinging like a mad conductor and eyes just as wild. “Sea, sea, sea-siders! Sea, sea, sea-siders!”
He lurches to a stop in the middle of the bar, holds his arms out wide, and bellows a solo with his eyes squeezed shut, “Blackpool are back, Blackpool are back! Hello, hello! Blackpool are back!” Claude rocks backwards slightly and almost topples over, his eyes popping open. It’s then that he spots the one person not chanting.
A pair of dark eyes watches him over a half-empty bottle of beer.
He staggers over to them, hand slapping down on the booth table. “What?”
The eyes blink.
A wave of nausea hits Claude like a bucket of filthy water. He leans heavily against the table and his free hand rises to his forehead as he swears. “Y’got a car, mate? ‘S a million bloody degrees in here.”
The world loses focus for a while, until he finds himself slumped in a passenger seat, forehead now blessedly cool where it presses against the window. He squints over at Mister Watchful, who for once has those eyes of his on the road.
It occurs to him vaguely that this isn’t in fact a good situation he’s put himself in. “Stop. Stop th’car. Lemme out.”
His driver does so, pulling over to the side of the road and unlocking the doors. Claude wrenches his open and staggers out onto the sidewalk. He blinks up at the trees before him, nods at nothing in particular, and heads off in their direction. He quickly finds a hip-high stone wall rudely blocking his path, so, using it as a crutch, he trudges on until he reaches a gap. The sky opens up above him, a crescent moon floating in the air accompanied by a couple tiny pricks of light. He makes it about twenty feet when a voice behind him says, “This is Central Park.”
The blinding obviousness of this statement brings Claude to a halt as he tries to figure out a suitably scathing retort.
Unfortunately it doesn’t materialize before the voice continues, “You’re not living here, are you?”
That’s rich. We can’t all be bodiless voices, wandering at will. Some of us need places to sleep off massive amounts of alcohol, even if that place isn’t more than the space between two tree roots, and will leave us dew-covered and shivering come morning. Claude means to say all this- though maybe not the last part- but somewhere between his brain and his mouth it devolves into, “Yeah. So?”
“Come on, come with me. You don’t have to stay out here.”
That’s confusing enough to make Claude turn around very carefully. He discovers the bodiless voice has somehow found a home. “Mister Watchful... where’d you come from?”
He smiles, and Claude watches his lower lip pull strangely to the right. “My place. On Lincoln.” He cocks his head, “Come on, let’s go.”
Claude laughs- a low, almost bleating sound. He sidles closer and drops his forearms on Mister Watchful’s shoulders. “You in the market for an old, drunken fool, friend?” he breathes in his face with a leer.
To his credit, Mister Watchful doesn’t flinch. In fact, he smiles again. “Something like that.”
His eyes are black in the gloom, barely catching the light of distant lamps along the park’s path. Claude wishes like hell the thick alcoholic haze would clear from his head. “What… what’s your name?”
“I’m Peter. I work for the Company.”
The world tilts and blurs again. Later, Claude will recall taking a swing at the other man, and nothing else.
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve