My first shot at some fanfic. This AU story revolves around Claire after Peter explodes, and how she deals with being alive when so many others are dead. I own nothing in this story. Heroes and all characters are the property of NBC and Tim Kring. Rated T for one nude scene (non-sexual), and future violence.

This is merely Chapter 1 of what will be a long and dark saga. Chapter 2 is mostly written out, but I have yet to finish it. Please review both my work and my writing style. I would love to have story ideas for the future.

November 8

Nathan – I still thought of him as Nathan – and my grandmother led me into his office. "The helicopter will pick us up on the roof in ten minutes," she said. "When the jet lands tomorrow morning, you'll be safe."

"But everybody else will be dead," I retorted. "How can you let this happen?"

"It's inevitable, dear." I was really starting to hate my grandmother.

"Nothing is inevitable! The future is not written in stone!" I shot back. The quote from Terminator 2 – "No fate but what we make" came to my mind.

"I'm afraid this one is," Nathan stated in a solemn voice. He didn't look particularly happy about New York exploding, while my grandmother seemed to be salivating over the possibility.

"If everything is so inevitable, then why have you been trying to keep us apart all these years?"

"There are simply some things you're not mature enough to understand," my grandmother chastised me.

I wanted to hit my grandmother. I've died twice, nearly been raped, seen my former best friend murdered because the killer thought she was me, and I actually care about people who are going to die in a nuclear explosion. What the hell does she know about maturity?

"He's your own son!" I shouted at my grandmother. Turning to Nathan: "Your own brother!"

"Thanks to you, Peter has the ability to survive," she said.

"So he lives, and kills millions," I gritted. "How can you let him be responsible for something like that?" I addressed Nathan: "And how can you live with yourself if he is?"

Nathan moved over to me. "This is all going to make sense very soon."

"Come with us," she said. "We can provide you with what you've always wanted. A home, a family."

Nathan – my father – opened his arms, and we embraced. I considered going with him. Then I remembered my other father, and what he had done for me. Noah Bennet had raised me. He had provided for me. He had even taken a bullet for me. There was no choice.

I pushed Nathan away, and glared at him.

"I already have a family."

I pushed him away, and took the nearest exit – the window. I fell for about three seconds before going splat on the pavement. Once my bones were back in place, I brushed myself off, and started walking.

When I entered Kirby Plaza, the scene did not look good. A blonde woman, a black man, and two kids watched from one corner of the plaza. An Indian man stood over Matt Parkman, who was on the ground. Dad was sitting with his back against a column, clearly injured. Sylar lay dead on the ground. And – my worst fear – Peter Petrelli was standing in front of a sculpture, his entire body glowing.

I took a pistol from my father, and walked towards Peter.

"Do it, Claire," Peter gasped, his hands glowing and pulsing with radiation. Tears streamed down my face as I cocked the hammer.

"Do it!" he urged. I shook the gun, as if I was trying to force the bullet out. I couldn't do this. This was my uncle, my hero. He had saved me from the man who had killed Jackie. I couldn't shoot him! The fact that he was urging me to do it only made it worse.

"Tell me there's another way!" I sobbed. I saw his hands glow brighter.

"Claire, I'm losing control!" he said. I tried to squeeze the trigger. It was taking all my willpower just to twitch my finger.

"No, no, NOOOOO!" Peter cried out. There was a blinding white light. And then everything went black.

November 9

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I was in the water. Actually, in the ocean. I then noticed that I was naked. About a hundred crazy thoughts raced through my head before I saw the smoke rising from New York and remembered what had happened. Peter had exploded. I must have been incinerated, then blasted towards the sea. And regenerated.

I swam towards the shore. It was tiring, but I made it. I came ashore in Brooklyn. The place had been devastated by the explosion. Everything was charred black – like how I had been after my close encounter with Ted Sprague. Every window facing Manhattan had been shattered. And there were no more wooden buildings. I saw a few wooden splinters the size of my leg embedded in a brick wall. I walked over to examine the splinters, when I found a few pieces of fabric. They were T-shirts – In-N-Out T-shirts. One of them was mostly intact. I slipped it on, glad to have found something to wear.

My bare foot stepped on something soft. I looked down, and was shocked to see a dead body. It was a man, probably in his thirties. He had been crushed by the remnants of an oven. I had seen death before – Jackie, for example – but there is a difference between seeing someone being killed and unexpectedly finding a dead body. The former is undoubtedly worse, but the latter is the one that makes you lose your lunch. Of course, my lunch had been obliterated along with New York.

I entered the building which had been hit by the giant splinters. Unlike the In-N-Out that had stood next door, this one had survived. Fortunately for me, it was a sporting goods store. And it had been abandoned. I took thermal underwear, ski pants, thick socks, basketball shoes, and a nice jacket. I also helped myself to a good backpack with a built-in Camelback. I filled the pack with a spare set of clothes, a sleeping bag and bedroll and as many energy bars as I could carry. I felt sorta bad about stealing, especially when there was a good chance that the store owners were still alive. But I needed clothes and food. Before leaving, I also took a sharp knife, in case I needed to defend myself.

I walked through the abandoned streets of Brooklyn. The place was devastated, and there were bodies in the open. However, I didn't find anyone alive. Either everyone was dead, or everyone had left. Probably the latter. I wouldn't want to hang out in the outskirts of a nuclear blast zone either.

Maybe an hour later, I found some other people. They, like me, were walking. Some had radiation burns. Most were unharmed. I got the distinct impression that many of these people were poor – quite a few had tattered clothes. Others were dressed like the wannabe gangstas at Union Wells. I noticed that everyone was headed in the same direction. So I followed. Nobody seemed to notice me, which I guess was a good thing. I was not in the mood to stand out.

An hour after I joined the group, we crossed the bridge to Staten Island. From the conversations I overheard, Staten Island was outside the danger zone. It was safe. There was a checkpoint, but it was just to collect names. I gave them my name, and I was driven to a community center where refugees were being housed.

We were each given food, and a place to sleep on the floor. Luckily I had grabbed a sleeping bag from the sporting goods store, so I was comfortable. As I ate, I listened to people talking. Theories as to what had happened were flying around. A lot of people claimed that it must be terrorists. Some theorized that the government had orchestrated this tragedy to gain power. One homeless man swore that he saw a flying saucer come in and blow up Manhattan.

I began to think about what had happened. I, of course, had all the pieces of the puzzle. I knew that it wasn't terrorists, or aliens, or even the government. But why had Peter exploded? Why had my uncle exploded and turned Manhattan into Hiroshima?

I went over the events in my head again and again. There was only one possible conclusion. I was responsible. If I had pulled that trigger, Peter wouldn't have exploded. But I didn't. It was my weakness that had destroyed New York.

I cried myself to sleep that night.