Title: Pyrrhic
Rating: G
Pairing: none
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Post-Dual, Claire reflects on the aftermath and what comes next.
Spoilers: V3, through Dual
Acknowledgment: Thanks to jin_fenghuang for a super quick beta!
Disclaimer: Heroes, and its associated characters and situations are the property of NBC Universal and Tim Kring. No profit is being made and no infringement is meant by their use.
They stood together in the copse of trees just outside the Company for a long time, awash in the intense orange light of flames. Claire could feel the heat cresting against her skin, could feel it edge up to the threshold of pain – and thank God, thank the eclipse she knew where that was again. Yet she could not restrain herself from shivering.
The Company had taken a lot from her family, hollowed out her father's place in her life and left a lying shadow instead, a man of false promises and cover stories and shades of moral gray. The Company was also a fixtures in her life, though, impetus to run and then a mission to follow.
It was hard to be categorize what she felt about its destruction. She didn't feel free. She thought she would.
Claire wondered how many of the villains she, her father, had put away were out in the world again, watching the same blaze she watched.
"Cold, Claire-bear?" Dad asked, startling Claire as he draped his suit jacket around her shoulders.
"Probably just shock," she mumbled back.
Dad looped his arm around her, pulling her into an awkward half-hug. She closed her eyes, trying to absorb some level of comfort, but his shirt against her cheek still smelled of soot.
The night felt like deja vu. She remembered another hug, another fire in the sky shaking her nerves, wringing her dry of all emotion.
"Meredith was a good woman. A good partner."
Oh, Claire thought, disorientation hitting her hard enough to make her stumble. She clung to her father again. She'd almost forgotten that the fire she saw was her mother, burning and consigned to burn. Maybe Sylar is right about me. I'm just Daddy's little agent.
"And she's not... honey, we can't know for sure she's dead. She's immune to fire..."
"Like Peter was," she finished for him, and there it was. A flicker of new emotion, breath caught in her throat with fear. "Where is he?"
"He had his mission," Angela cut in, voice cold and hard as ever. "He'll call when he's done."
Claire opened her eyes to examine her grandmother, finding her outline against the bright flame, expression dim but nothing Claire thought she could not guess. There was a repressive slant to her posture, and with good reason. Sylar had mostly blocked her view, and as much as she had focused on the visceral satisfaction of taking him down, she could remember the desperation in Angela's voice as he squeezed her air pipe closed.
Angela fixed her with a fierce look, daring her to acknowledge the cracks in her facade; Claire shaded her eyes against the firelight, deliberating on her words, pretending not to see anything wrong.
"Are there any cars left?" she asked.
Luckily, there were. Two undamaged still in the facility's lot – not family owned, but that meant little when her father's full skill set was put to use.
Dad drove, Angela sat in the passenger's seat, arms wrapped around herself and sharp directions on her lips when she wasn't restlessly checking her cell phone for texts or missed calls. As if she could miss anything, tight as she clutched it. At one point someone did call, and Angela fumbled so quickly to flip the phone open she nearly dropped it.
But it was just that Matt guy checking in.
Claire, riding in the back, sat back with a sigh as Angela huffed out "Parkman" with distaste. His end was complete – Hiro rescued, the original formula destroyed. Angela told him to bring his group, meet them all at her house for a debriefing, prompting Claire to glare at the back of Angela's head.
The mission wasn't finished, yet.
They arrived back in Manhattan late, at a time of night when even New York City's roads were nearly deserted. Dad flicked the lights to low beams as they approached the Petrelli's house – mansion, really, and who has a mansion in the middle of Manhattan? Her bio-family was beyond bizarre in so many ways.
Four figures, sitting on the curb, squinting into their lights, became clear as the car approached.
Dad parked, and Claire stepped out of the car, shutting the door with a sound that felt more like her ears popping as she adjusted to pressure, sounds and strangers and reality. She just didn't know if she was going up still, or coming back down.
She recognized Matt, Hiro and Daphne right away, but couldn't place the third person in their party. A round of greetings were made, Claire working up a half-hearted smile for the new man, Ando, as he enthused over finally meeting "the cheerleader." His hand shake tingled, a shock that felt like it restarted her heart, leaving her to wonder what the hell his power was.
"What happened at Primatech? Why are we here?" Parkman asked loudly, as they made their way up the walk to the door
"Things got complicated," Dad replied, sharing a look with Angela.
Great. Like I needed them conspiring, Claire thought.
"But what about Pinehearst?" Ando asked. "And Arthur Petrelli?"
"We don't know," Angela snapped at the same time Dad said, "We'll have to regroup here before we move against them."
Angela opened the door, ushering the group in and pursing her mouth in annoyance at the in-taken gasps of wonder from Daphne and Matt. Ando and Hiro looked around with some curiosity, but given the apartment she'd seen Hiro's parents living in, the luxury was hardly a shock. Dad walked ahead, steps measured in a way that made Claire suspect he was surveying the house's defensibility, thinking of escape routes.
It was one area where she was ahead of him.
Her own eyes drifted to the staircase, past the chandelier, thinking of her old, barely used room, the wealth of possibilities and uncertainties that faced her the last time she lived with the Petrellis. Claire felt another lurch of emotion, and wrapped her arms around her stomach, pacing away from the group and the warm chatter arising among them.
"Where are you, Peter?" she whispered to herself.
She made a circuit through the parlor, kitchen, and dining room, footsteps loud in the expansive spaces, and coming to an abrupt halt when she entered what she still thought of as Nathan's study.
Peter.
Sitting on the floor, his back against the desk, legs outstretched as he stared at his cell phone.
Claire swallowed down her exclamation, resemblance between mother and son suddenly stark.
A muscle twitched in his jaw, apparent even in the harsh of blue LCD light, and he pressed a button, holding the phone to his ear. Claire had the sense it was not the first time he had done it this evening.
There was a slash across his face, dark blood casting his features into an even starker pallor, and as Claire took cautious steps toward him, she watched the wound resolve itself into smooth skin marred by a mere smudge. He could heal again. He had his power again.
It felt like it should be a momentous thing.
"Nathan?" Peter asked into his phone, voice thin and scratchy from use. "Nathan, pick up. Or listen to your voice mail. Or whatever. Just call me back. I know you didn't mean it. I don't believe you could ever mean it. I don't care if you're mad at me, be mad at me.
"We really need to talk about... about Dad, and what happened," his voice hitched on the phrase, the euphemism, before continuing with almost childish fervor, "Call me, I love you, bye."
"Peter?" she asked softly, wondering if she should join him on the floor when he didn't even look up. "What happened?"
She knew, partially at least. If what Sylar had said could be trusted. She didn't remember that bastard ever lying to her – she almost smiled at the thought. That should have been a sure sign he wasn't related to her.
"He won't answer," Peter said, like that explained anything. But maybe it did. She remembered her own phone calls with Nathan, the choking despair from the other end of the line overpowering her wistful sadness, based more than half in the fantasy of Peter. The idea of a rift between them was unsettling.
It was like Peter had lost his real power that night. He was supposed to save her. Not her life, not from Sylar, from herself and from killing him. And if he couldn't save Nathan...
"Peter–" Claire started again, just as Angela brushed past her into the room, falling to her knees swifter, with less dignity than Claire ever though her grandmother was capable of.
Wordlessly, Angela reached out a shaky hand, tracing the mark where his cut had been.
"He did this?" she whispered.
Anger and unshed tears filled Peter's eyes as he demanded, "Why did you ask me to do it?"
"Shhh," she said, kissing him on the forehead. "You know why."
"He won't forgive me," Peter said. "Dad is dead. I pulled the trigger and Nathan won't..."
Angela curled her arms around Peter, hands smoothing his hair away from face, assuring him, "He'll come around. We're family."
Claire frowned, a wave of sickness washing over her emotional numbness. She backed out of the room, away from the angry glare Peter leveled at his mother before he collapsed fully into her hug.
"I hope you aren't taking any cues from them, Claire-bear, bio-family or not," Dad said from behind her. Claire turned to find him smiling sardonically, reflections on his glasses whiting out his eyes.
She mustered a roll of the eyes for him. "I don't think I'll be shooting you any time soon, don't worry. I've seen that more than enough times."
They fell into step beside each other, walking and Claire soon realized patrolling. She could hear the other group, the happily victorious group talking and celebrating in a distant part of the house. Totally defenseless.
It wasn't comfortable, not really. She distantly felt like she would prefer to be with Peter, comforting him; or on the phone, yelling at Nathan; or perhaps alone, crying over the mother she had lost. But she felt compelled to continue in the path worn smooth and easy by her father.
Maybe she really did have a destiny, and it was to be a killer. Ran in the family, after all.
"Dad," she asked, after a time. "What did we win?"