Redemption
By Alaricnomad
i. cherub or enfant
Claire Bennet-Petrelli
New Haven, Connecticut
Claire sat on the front stoop of the Raines household, her eyes numbly staring out on the endless expanses of suburbia, a picture of perfection in its straight rows of custom-built family homes, complete with green yards and well-kept gardens.
Just across the street, in one of those picturesque homes, a family of four was frolicking in the grass of their front yard, the wife sitting in a lawn chair with an infant girl on her lap, the husband washing down the SUV sitting in the driveway.
It was the fourth that drew Claire's attention, the toddling three-year-old boy scurrying across the yard after a playful golden retriever puppy, thick black hair constantly flopping down into his eyes as he chased after the canine as fast as his short legs could carry him.
Large, warm masculine hands gently came to rest against her shoulders, and she heard the shifting of the man coming to kneel behind her, and Claire leaned back against the reassuring strength of him.
Claude sighed, the whiskers of his beard brushing against her skin as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Looks just like his pop, doesn't he?"
Even as the words left his mouth, a tennis ball previously lying inconspicuously in the grass suddenly flung into the air, much to the dog's delight as he gave chase. Several feet away, the dark-haired boy stood with his hands outstretching, laughing excitedly as the ball continued to zigzag through the air, while his parents stared dumbfounded at their adopted son.
"Maybe a little too much," Claire twisted around just enough to look him in the eye, her gaze solemn, "Have you heard anything?"
"I'm sorry, love. He didn't make it."
Claire's eyes closed, but she could not summon the tears she would expect to shed. Somehow, she'd known from the beginning it would end like this.
Claude's hands tightened at her shoulders. "You're going to have to be strong now, love. For yourself, the boy, and the little bub there."
One hand rested over her abdomen, the other coming to rest over one of Claude's. "And you'll be here to help me, Dad?"
The address took him by surprise, for though his paternity had been revealed to her years before, it was the first time Claire had ever acknowledged the connection so openly.
Claude smiled sadly and squeezed her hand. "Always."
ii. seraph or diablo
Zachary Van de Camp
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Peter Raines stood outside a looming lecture hall on the impressive Harvard campus, absently fiddling with the sleeve of his coat as he watched the random passersby walk past him. The sixteen-year-old sighed with impatience, dutifully checking his watch.
Out of his peripheral vision, he spotted the figure of his intended target and his lips curled into a smirk, his eyes closing briefly as he brought his abilities into focus.
Zachary Van de Camp blinked in stupefied surprise as everything around him suddenly fell into suspended animation, freezing exactly in place, all sound falling into a numb silence. He whirled around, panicking, his eyes widening with incomprehension as he took in the sight of the teenager lounging lazily against a nearby tree, grinning at him with mocking amusement.
"You might want to close that mouth, brother dear. You'll catch flies that way."
"What did you just call me? And what the hell is going on?"
"The second question's a little easier to answer. The ability to control time and space. Something I inherited, kinda like a sponge effect. Nice talent to have, huh?"
"…"
The blank look on the older man's face drew another grin from Peter, cocking his head with amusement. "You look pretty dumbfounded for a twenty-year-old Harvard undergrad. What kind of education you paying for?"
Zachary glared at him, and Peter chuckled, continuing on with his cryptic explanations. "As for the first question…you ever hear the name Petrelli?"
"…tell me I'm dreaming…"
"Nope." He looked at the other man thoughtfully, smiling softly, "I tell you, I've seen pictures, but I didn't really believe it. Funny how we both came out looking so much like him, huh? Mom'll take one look at you, and she'll see Dad in your eyes, guaranteed."
"…what the hell are you talking about? Why are you here?"
"Grandpa sent me to get you, boyo, said it was time."
"…time for what…?"
"Time to save the world."
iii. fallen angels
Peter Petrelli, Zachary Petrelli
Lower Manhattan, New York
Most of New York had long since been rebuilt in the Petrelli campaigns rejuvenation projects, but there were still the occasional skeletal remains of buildings two decades passed their destruction.
Between the outbreak of deaths caused by the government's so-called cure that eventually wiped out over 70 of their kind, and the devastation the global-dividing and global-unifying World War III, the crumbling remains were an eerie reflection of what their society was built upon.
Zachary's face- eerily reflective of their shared father- twisted into a disgusted grimace as he gave a wave of his hand, casting aside the hulking figure hovering over a body.
He barely heard the grunt of pain from the hauntingly familiar man- Nathan Petrelli, better known as the Supreme Pontiff of the Western Nations after the United States led peace talks to end a nuclear disaster of a war- or better yet, the imposter once known as Sylar.
His stomach twisted with pain as he spared a glance at the body on the ground, the open skull but intact brain tissue lying nearby. Dead without hope of revival, but not yet prey to the monster's appetite.
Sylar was shakily rising to his feet, and Zachary spared a look to Peter, who flanked him at his right. Dark hair and blue eyes, a ghostly impression of his namesake, even more so than his brother- his boyish face was hardened with experiences Zachary wished his little brother had never needed to experience.
A curt nod and Peter raised one hand, freezing the approaching figure of Sylar. He looked to his brother, watching Zachary's rugged features go blank, expressionless and tight in a way that emphasized the scar running from brow to cheek on the left of his face.
It was a bitter trophy acquired just before Claude's death. Even after two years of their grandfather's training, their abilities had not blossomed enough then to save the old man.
"Are you sure you can do it like this?" Peter quietly questioned his brother, his eyes grim.
Zachary snorted, staring ahead as he sought to regain his power focus. "In a heartbeat."
And with that, Zachary summoned the telekinesis of his genetic birthright, sending a rusted traffic sign straight through Sylar's heart. Peter unfroze the body, and listening to the choking sounds of the killer's death, he stared off to the right, to the violated corpse of Claire Bennet.
"She didn't deserve it this way."
"…maybe it's for the best…she hadn't aged a day…do you really think she'd want to leave forever without him…?"
Blinking back tears, Peter numbly nodded, watching Zach walk slowly to Sylar, purposely pressing his booted foot to the dying man's windpipe. A cacophony of chocked, gasping breaths, and then Sylar's body was still.
Peter watched, unable to summon any emotion at all to the scene before him. Instead, he turned away to attend to their mother's body.
It was eighteen years in the making- and it was revenge in its ugliest, purest form.