Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes.
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Claire took the stairs up to her room two at a time, clutching Mr. Muggles to her chest. The little dog whined and struggled. He wanted to go back to the kitchen, she knew, and try to convince Mama that she really knew who he was. Who Claire really was.
Is it from the mindwiping? Has Dad made the black man mess with her head so many times that it's given her cancer or something? That had to be it. There was no other reason that Mama would have forgotten both her and Mr. Muggles.
Shutting the door behind her, she dropped the dog onto the bed and yanked her schoolbag out of the closet. This must be one of the things Dad had told her that he did to protect her—the ones he wasn't proud of. Opening the pockets on the bag, she turned it upside and shook until all her school supplies fell out onto the bedspread. Well, if Dad was against her, and Mama couldn't remember who she was, and her real mom—my biological one, at least—was heading back to Mexico, that left only one parent out of four who might be able to help her.
"And he's probably a total jerk," Claire muttered. Mr. Muggles whined and nosed a highlighter that had landed next to his head. She reached out and scratched his behind his ear. "Mom said he was rich and powerful, and rich and powerful men probably don't want their bastard daughters turning up their doorsteps. If he was willing to just give Mom a hundred thousand dollars, then maybe he can do something to help Mama. And I'm not at all sorry about throwing that rock at his limo…especially since it's going to help me find him."
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"This has to be it, right?" Claire murmured out-loud. In the crate by her side, Mr. Muggles let out a little moan. He didn't like being carried in the crate, since the only times Mama put him in there were when he was going either to the vet or to a dog show. Personally, Claire thought the little fluff-ball was more scared of the shows than the veterinarian.
She shifted the crate from one hand to the other. This was the last limousine company at the airport. If her biological father hadn't rented one here, then she was at the wrong airport. And she didn't think the "my uncle was supposed to drive me to the airport but he's got diarrhea" story was going to work on the cab driver again.
Swallowing, she pushed open the glass doors and stepped inside the rental office. The AC—cold as ice compared to the hot Texas day behind her—ruffled her hair, and she gave the man sitting behind the desk a weak smile. "Hi, my name is Claire."
The man looked her over, clearly not impressed by her outfit, the dog crate, or the over-stuffed backpack on her back. "Can I help you?"
"Um…" She licked her lips. "This is really awkward, but did a limo come back last night with a broken window? Because, you see, if one did, then it's my little brother's fault. Lyle—that's my brother—threw a rock at it, and my parents are so embarrassed and want to pay for it, but my dad's out of town on business and Mama's got to take my brother to hockey practice, so they sent me. So…um, am I in the right place?" This lying stuff got easier, the more stories she fabricated. This one definitely sounded more realistic than "my birth father was in the car, and I was mad at him and my birth mom and threw a rock at the window".
The man stood up and circled around in front of the desk. "Actually, miss, one of our cars did come back with a shattered back windshield, and your story does match what the man who rented it said happened. How are you planning on paying for this?"
Claire reached into the pocket of her capris and pulled out the check she'd torn from Mama's checkbook, taking the time first to carefully duplicate her signature. The 'S' was a little lopsided, but hopefully nobody would bother to do a comparison until she was long gone. "They gave me a blank check to fill out." She looked up at the man with what she hoped was an incredibly innocent expression. "You're not going to press charges against my brother, are you? My parents have already grounded him for six months. He can go to school and to hockey and that's it. Oh, and they took his Game Boy away."
"Well, it certainly sounds like he's being punished enough, and I find your parents' willingness to make things right admirable. Not many people would go out of their way like this in this day and age." He shuffled through some papers on his desk. "Here—here's the estimate for what it's going to cost to replace the back windshield. Unfortunately, tinted windows aren't cheap."
He held out the paper, and Claire forced herself to focus on copying down the sum onto the check (and not on the queasy feeling in her gut). This lying thing was too easy, and she felt horrible about it, but at least the window was getting paid for. It was her fault it had been broken, after all. "Um…" she said, eyes still down, "My parents wanted to know who the man in the backseat was—to check and make sure he was okay. That the rock didn't hit him or anything."
"I'm afraid we can't…"
"Please. My parents want Lyle to make an apology, as part of his punishment."
The man sighed and pulled out another paper from the pile. "Says here that his name was Nathan Petrelli. He listed his office phone number on the contract."
Claire smiled. "Thanks!"
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The Starbucks inside the airport was packed, but Claire managed to find an empty Internet terminal. Putting Mr. Muggles' crate by her feet, she brought up Google and typed in the phone number the man in the limo office had given her. The search engine responded by giving her an address in New York City. A couple minutes on MapQuest found her a general idea of where the building was in relation to Grand Central Station and JFK.
Now I just have to get there, she thought as she dug out the Discover card she'd stolen from Mama's purse at the same time she'd taken the check. The card was to Mama's personal account—the one that held the money Mama made from making Homecoming mums every year. When I find my father, I'll get him to pay her back for me, she promised herself as she booked a flight to New York. Thank goodness she'd turned sixteen recently—there wouldn't be any fuss about her flying as an Unaccompanied Minor.
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Her flight wasn't for another three hours. She spent them wandering around the airport, Mr. Muggles' crate banging against her leg. She bought them two hot dogs with cheese and relish from a vendor and sat on the floor to eat them, feeding bits of one hot dog to Mr. Muggles through the bars of the crate.
"You know, this could be considered cannibalism," she informed him as his little pink tongue licked her fingers.
The look he gave her clearly said that she was being an idiot.
"All right, let's go find some place to walk you. Then, we'll go stand in line for security."
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Her father's office building had a giant banner saying 'Vote Petrelli' trapped over the front door. Maybe she should have spent more time on Google. Who knew that her father was going to turn out to be a politician? She had barely managed a 'B' in government last fall. "He's got a funny-shaped head."
Mr. Muggles—thrilled to be out of the crate and on a leash—was too busy snuffling at the sidewalk to comment.
"And he's got brown eyes. I don't have brown eyes, and I thought brown eyes were a dominant trait. Maybe we've got the wrong guy…" Even as she said it, Claire knew that was wrong. There was something about Nathan Petrelli's face on the banner that was almost familiar. Maybe some part of her subconscious remembered him bending over her crib when she was just a baby. Was that even right? Had he ever seen her, or had he just fathered her and moved on, keeping in contacted with Mom only through the phone and child support payments?
Come to think of it, the name 'Petrelli' sounded pretty familiar too.
But the guards won't let her in, so now she was stuck out here, on the sidewalk, with a dog and no place else to go in New York City of all places. She couldn't die, but that didn't stop her from being afraid of being mugged. It's New York—from what she'd heard, everyone gets mugged in New York.
So it made sense that she screamed when she suddenly felt arms wrap around her and lift her off the ground.
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It turned out to be Peter, the man who had saved her life Homecoming night, and he had learned invisibility. He was learning to control his powers, and something about her just being her had helped him when his mentor threw him off a roof in an attempt to get Peter to fly.
"I landed on a taxi cab and ended up with this piece of metal sticking right through my chest. Claude had been harping on me to let go of my ties to everyone—that it was the only way I'd ever get control—but then I thought about you, and I was able to heal myself the way you can."
"That's awesome!" On impulse, she hugged him again. Here was the man who'd been the one to show her that she wasn't alone in being a freak. It felt good to hold on to someone who would understand just why she ran away.
"So," he said as they both stepped back, "What brings you to New York?"
Probably shouldn't tell him that I've come to blackmail the man who I'm 99 sure is my father into helping me save my mama who's being brainwashed by my dad. That's too weird, even for him. "I came to see him." She pointed at the banner.
"Nathan?"
"You know him?"
"He's my brother."
Mr. Muggles chose that moment to attack Peter's shoelaces, so Peter bent down to pet the dog and missed the look of shock that Claire knew had to be plastered on her face. She sat down hard on the top of Mr. Muggles' crate.
Peter looked up from the dog. "Everything okay?"
I have an uncle. I have a birth mom and a biological father and now I've got an uncle. Weirder still—it's the guy who saved my life! "I really need to get inside to see Nathan Petrelli," she finally managed.
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He recognized her. Claire could see it in his eyes—the same brown eyes as on the banner outside—as she walked through the office door, Peter only a step behind her. It must have been that picture her mom had snapped of her with the camera phone, because he knew exactly who she was as soon as she walked in the door.
Strangely, it felt nice. But it also didn't give her much of a chance to look him over before he was standing right in front of her, arms out in front of him like he had wanted to hug her and then realized that might not have been the best idea. Instead, he just sort of lightly put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her with a face full of pain.
"Hi, Dad," she said very softly.
Behind her, Peter made a choking noise and Mr. Muggles squeaked (doubtlessly from Peter's tightening his grip on him).
Claire swallowed. "I'm not here for money—I'm here because everything's gone all crazy and I'm only sixteen and I don't know how to make it right!" In spite of herself, a couple of tears oozed out of the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
Her father looked nervous, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with her crying. Probably didn't get a lot of girls sniffling in his campaign office. Peter, though, stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder after Nathan moved his. He was close enough that Mr. Muggles managed to stick his tongue into her ear. It tickled, and Claire couldn't help but laugh as she wiped her tears on the back of her fist. "Sorry about this," she said, giving him a weak smile.
"No," Nathan said, "It's ok."
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The door slamming against the wall was the first warning they got when she entered the room. The second was Peter letting out a cry of pain and crumpling to the side. The dog squirmed out of his arms and charged at the lady who had come through the door with a gun in her hand. The woman was blond and movie star-pretty and with one flick of her high-heeled boots, she sent Mr. Muggles sailing across the office.
There was a yelp, and Claire prayed he would be smart enough to stay out of the way as she stepped in front of her father and spread her arms. Stealing a glimpse down at Peter, she saw that he was still conscious, though blood was pooling out of his back onto the thick beige carpet.
"Get out of the way!" the woman with the gun snarled.
Claire's stomach dropped to about her ankles. It's going to hurt. It'll hurt, but it'll get better. I've survived being autopsied and jumping off a grain elevator—I can survive a bullet. She really didn't want to get shot, but more than that, she didn't want her father—who I just found—to get killed before he said more than three words to her. "No."
"Don't be stupid," the woman snapped, "If I have to shoot you too, I will…" Then, the expression on her face wavered for just a split second. "I will." And she pulled the trigger.
It felt like a rock had hit Claire in the chest, and then the pain blossomed outwards from the wound until her entire body was burning. She staggered, dropping to one knee.
In front of her, the woman dropped her gun to the carpet and fell to her knees as well, hands covering her mouth in shock. As if she can't believe she just pulled the trigger, Claire thought hazily.
Her hand shaking, she reached into the wound in her chest and felt around for the bullet. It hadn't gone in very far—had gotten stopped by her breastbone, which was probably cracked—but it was hard to get her blood-slippery fingers around it. Finally, it came out and spurted out of her hand, across the floor.
Nathan was crouched beside her, an arm around her back and his eyes wide with fear and horror as he watched the wound close up by itself. Brushing her hair out of her face and leaving a smear of stickiness in its place, she smiled. "You weren't expecting that, were you?"
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Author's Note: This is it. I'm serious. This was pounded out in a couple of days after seeing "Run!" I knew the airing of the next episode would make it AU, but my muse (damn him) insisted we get this out immediately. I meant to tack this note to it when I uploaded it but forgot. So, no, I'm not going to update this with more.