HEROES ORIGINS
Note from the author: Since Heroes Origins has effectively been canned due to the Writer's Strike, I thought I would release a six-part story arc that would fill that void. There will be a multitude of new characters introduced. Be advised that there will be minimal overlap with the storyline of Season 1 and 2, although there may be certain areas where the storylines intersect. I want to ensure that this story does not completely uproot the established mythos of the show.
I hope you enjoy it.
PART ONE: TERRA FIRMA
- CHAPTER ONE -
It was a truly satisfying sensation.
A cool wind curled around the dunes of Imperial Beach as the sun abandoned the sky over Costa Verde, California. The visitors of the day had all vacated the sandy shores, carrying their beach umbrellas, blankets, and soaked towels. On the horizon, two WaveRunners darted around a lazily drifting yacht as they sped towards Imperial Harbor.
In the growing silence that accompanied the approach of the setting sun, a solitary figure – a young woman - remained amongst the dunes. A pair of worn running shoes – caked in mud – lay in the sand at her side. Silently, the woman practiced a peculiar ritual. Every few minutes, she would raise her feet above the sand to watch the sand trickle between her toes. After the tiniest specks of sand had gathered into neat little piles, she would bury her feet in the sand. And the cycle would continue.
It was a truly satisfying sensation.
Her eyes glinted like polished emeralds as she surveyed the path that the sand made across her feet as it snaked towards the ground. It was fascinating. She could feel the gentle tickle of every grain of sand as it brushed against her olive coloured skin. The sand was perfect. The way it moved. The way it felt. The intricate shapes that it formed as it spilled off of her feet. As the last rays of the sun sparkled across the sand, she stood up and dusted the sand off of her. Taking one final look at the ocean, she grabbed her worn running shoes and followed the faded footprints of former beach dwellers back to civilization.
As she walked barefoot along the sidewalk, she could feel the rumble of the city in the distance. The movement of cars and buses and the footsteps of citizens returning home from work created vibrations in the stone beneath her feet. The city was alive; people were shuffling around the streets, in and out of buildings, swishing and flowing like the grains of sand back at the beach. She reached an intersection and turned right. Her home was only a block away, and she had had an exhausting day.
---
Off of the coast of Imperial Beach, a solitary yacht floated lazily on the gentle azure waves. On the deck of the ship, a solitary figure – a man - was lounging in a chair facing the beach, intently focused on the sandy shores. For the past few hours, the yacht had remained stationary on the horizon surveying a single person on the beach. The subject had arrived at the beach at two forty-three in the afternoon, removed her shoes, and sat quietly on the sand dunes for the following four hours and thirty-seven minutes before she had departed barefoot in the direction of her residence.
He continued to survey her actions as she travelled along the sidewalk and turned down her street. After she had exceeded his range of sight – which was extensive – he stood up and entered into the cabin of the yacht. The cabin contained all the traditional luxuries of a yacht. Quickly, he approached a wooden cabinet at the back of the cabin, removed a key from the pocket of his jeans, and unlocked it. The cabinet housed two shotguns and several heavily customised Strayer Voigt Infinity 1911 .45 caliber semiautomatic pistols – standard issue.
Alongside the weapons was a small communications console. A tablet computer connected to a wireless Internet terminal, two cellphones, and a radio console. Calmly, the man picked up one of the cellphones and pressed redial.
"She has left the beach. En route to her home."
The voice on the other end of the line was faint as the message was related to someone nearby, before a gruff sandpaper voice spoke clearly and directly, "Surveillance team will rendevue at Imperial Harbor and prepare for extraction of the subject at 2000 hours."
"Who do we have working on the bag and tag?"
"Most were worried that the existing two teams would not be enough. Bob has sent us the Haitian. On loan, you might say."
"Nice. Refresh my memory, he can selectively neutralize abilities, right?"
"Too true. You and the other supers will be able to function without hinderance."
"Well, that is a relief. Now maybe you can explain this to me. Was it impossible to get Page down here to assist us on this?"
"No such luck. We all know that Eddy's talents would come in handy, especially for a bag and tag like this. Linderman has him on assignment monitoring the situation in New York. After they scooped up that Walker kid, I think they've reassigned most of us to monitoring Sylar. Problem is that the damn kid is too frightened by him to keep regular tabs on him. Calls him the "Boogeyman". And he is an elusive bastard. Or, at least that is what I have heard through the grapevine."
The voice on the other end of the line paused briefly, as if contemplating the validity of what he had just said. Finally, he muttered, "Just be thankful we got the Haitian."
"Yeah. I guess that is something. Well, I guess I will meet up with the rest of you at Imperial harbor. Conrad out."
---
Seven days of rain had loosened the dirt of her front yard and formed a small quagmire in the place of the fresh soil. Still barefoot, she crossed the muddy yard and felt it the moist soil squish in between her toes. Another fantastic sensation. Soft, moldable Earth compressed underfoot. With mud caked around her feet, she walked up onto her porch and removed a key from her pocket.
She turned around briefly to survey the neighbourhood. The street was dark and lifeless. Surprisingly, the houses of her neighbours, normally lively, seemed cold and vacant. Across the street, she could see Nick Martin – a fifty-year old plumber with a bushy salt and pepper moustache – walking in circles in his living room as he spoke to someone on a cellphone. He looked slightly anxious. Perhaps someone had a toilet backup. The thought made her shudder.
She shook the mud from her feet and entered her house. It was a simple residence. A living room with a couch and a television. A modest kitchen and bathroom. A single bedroom. She tossed her shoes into the living room and made her way to the kitchen.
But there was already someone there.
"Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?"
He was a tall looming figure with dark eyes and a shaved head. His gaze was piercing. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a striking red tie. But what she noticed foremost was the badge.
"My name is Phillip McGrady. I am with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"And what exactly are you doing in my kitchen?" she inquired as she met his gaze with as much ferocity as she could muster.
"We have been trying to find you for two years now."
"Excuse me," she replied, "do you even know who I am."
"Ashley Taylor, twenty-one years of age. Formerly of Flint, Michigan. Wanted for two counts of larceny and arson."
A look of disbelief flickered over Ashley's face momentarily as Officer McGrady pulled out a set of handcuffs. In the front of the house, she could hear the footsteps of other police officers that were moving in to detain her. In desperation, she focused intently on the remaining mud on her barefeet. She needed some method of escape, but – strangely – she found herself unable to do anything.
As her kitchen filled with police officers, she was forced to the floor and handcuffed. A solitary tear graced her olive face as she was hauled to her feet and dragged out of her home.
---
Across the street, Nick Martin watched in disbelief as Ashley Taylor was removed from her home by the local police. Moments earlier, the streets had been entirely vacant. Without any advance notice, four police cruisers had pulled up in front of the modest Taylor residence and officers had stormed the front foyer.
His cellphone buzzed quietly in his pocket, and he hurriedly answered the call. On the other end of the line, he heard the monotonous tone of his employer.
"What is the status of the Ashley Taylor bag and tag?"
"Bob," Nick replied, "the plan has been botched. The police have moved in and arrested Ashley. They are dragging her out to the cruisers right now."
Bob let out an audible sigh and was silent momentarily. After some contemplation, Bob asked, "Please tell me that she did not retaliate? If she used her ability, then we have a substantial mess to clean up."
"Don't worry Bob. The Haitian is already here and suppressed her abilities," Nick explained as he glanced towards the bald figure in the corner.
"Good," Bob replied, "I want you to take Benjamin and the Haitian with you and follow the police. Find out where she is being held. And at the earliest available opportunity, I want her brought in for analysis. Remember, she has a dangerous ability. Be cautious. And make sure the Haitian erases the memories of anyone you come in contact with."
"Very well Bob. We will head out now."
"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a scheduled conference call with Daniel about the Petrelli boys. Don't disappoint me Maarten."
The aging man closed the cellphone and glanced at the Haitian. Silently, the two men exited the home, got into a black sedan, and drove after the police cars.