I guess you guys really liked this one, so… ta-da. It's magic; I actually found time to continue something.

[If this chapter seems a lot different, perspective-wise and the like, it most certainly is, and I'm aware, and it was on purpose. Let's say Elle's more awake now, and that, if the story continues, so will this trend of 'enlightening'. Ha.]


When the time came to move, Elle didn't remember much of what happened. Like a bad movie, bits and pieces filtered through the darkness. Gabriel—no, Sylar—and Noah—or, Mr. Bennet—they were fighting; they were yelling and bleeding. And Claire… Claire was…—everything was too loud. It hurt inside, like she'd swallowed nails, or knives—and there was a gun, wasn't there? She could have sworn there was… She remembered it in her hands. Though, the memory of the event itself was broken, fragmented, like that picture of her mother she dropped on accident when she was ten, shattered and distorted…

But she thought maybe she'd just blacked out again, like she used to when she was little. It happened a lot, didn't it? Daddy always said that's why she could never remember getting all those scars… Maybe it had just happened again…

Yet, now she was conscious and aware, and she remembered that Daddy used to lie to her. She remembered that Daddy was dead. Now she was awake, and confused, and there were arms around her, and they were trying to make her stand up. She tried to follow them, clumsy and feeling numb, and held whatever limb was nearest in a shaky grip, raising her eyes to—

"Can you stand alright?"

Claire. It was Claire who had her arms around her. It was Claire helping her to her feet. For a moment, Elle stood limply, her hands at Claire's elbows, so close she could feel the warmth from the cheerleader's body echoing through the ugly taupe sweater against her chest. Her face grew hot, reddening under the heated rush of the younger blonde's breath.

"Elle?" Claire tried again. Her eyes were dark with a concern Elle didn't understand. "Are you alright?"

Was she alright? She was on fire. She was overloading and short-circuiting, lost in Claire's eyes, caught in shining streaks of memory, in a downward spiral; a nervous flier taking down an airplane. Elle pushed back, but stumbled. Claire was there to catch her. She was there to take hold of her hand, and the plane evened out—and just like that, it was over. Over…

Answering herself, the cheerleader sighed. "Apparently not," she mumbled.

Elle felt the hands on her shoulder and her hip tighten, and she stiffened, expecting the worst. Whenever Daddy would tighten his grip, it meant that he was angry—but this was Claire… Claire was fierce, but she was gentle. Elle had never known gentle. She'd heard of gentle, in books and magazines, she'd seen gentle, on the television, through window panes, but she'd never been a part of it. As she regained her footing, guided by Claire's steady hands, she decided that she liked gentle. She liked that it felt warm…

"He's gone."

The voice that broke their tense silence was laced with defeat and frustration, and Elle turned towards it to find Mr. Bennet, thoroughly disheveled and beaten, leaning against the doorframe, gun held loosely in his hand. His breath was deep with exertion, exhaled in short pants, and his eyes were bright with the diminishing fire of a fight. He spared her a fleeting glance, but focused intently on Claire.

"He got away," the tired father sighed, and leaned more heavily against the doorframe, tiring.

"There's nothing he can do now," Claire responded after a similar sigh, just as serious. "He's powerless."

The conversation went on around her, but it was lost on Elle.

Powerless?

She felt her legs falter under her slight weight. She remembered now; they were powerless. They'd come to capture Claire. She'd tried to shock her, and it hadn't worked… Then—she nearly lost her footing. She'd tried to shock Claire. Suddenly, unlike anything she'd ever felt before, shame burned beneath her skin, something like acid, or liquid fire; like alcohol on an open wound. In Claire's protective embrace, she hung her head.

She didn't understand. Her memory was still in shards. Some things were vivid, and some things were hazy; some parts were just black. Inconsistencies and holes riddled her mind. But she remembered some pieces. Her father's death; being attacked by Sylar. Letting out the prisoners on Level Five. The excruciating pain of it all. Hunting down Noah Bennet to make him fix her, only to find Claire, a different kind of help that she never imagined she'd find…

Claire had willingly suffered with her. She'd taken all of her pain; she'd flown halfway across the country to try to help her find a way to fix her—and Elle had come back days later, 'fixed', and ready to shoot her down. Why? Why was she so empty? Because had felt guilty. Because Sylar woke the deadened sociopath inside and fascinated her. Because she was still shattered, still unstable and weak… and she didn't understand.

She didn't understand why Claire was still so gentle.


Anybody still like it? Or did I ruin it?

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