***

As Nathan reached for the clock in his cabinet, away in New York, Claire Bennet stretched her arms behind her, and shook her long, blond hair from behind her neck, all from the comfort of her home in Costa Verde.
She was sitting on the couch of her living room, every so often flipping through the vast schedule of TV programs in preparation to switch the channel. Claire was watching the news. All day. Every day. She would think that any parent would be happy if their child expressed interest in the daily news. But of course, for her, anything close to the realm of normality found its way to the extraordinary.

And her father's behavior was extraordinary – extraordinarily suspicious.

Whenever Noah Bennet came to visit Claire and Lyle, still wearing his signature horn rimmed glasses, he would peer into the living room at the television, or pick up the newspaper from their kitchen, immediately folding it beneath his coat. He remained living in an apartment not too far away from his family, but the close distance to his previous home was only a precaution against the various potential threats against Claire now that she had been exposed.

"Why do you watch so much TV every day, Claire?" Noah said softly to her as he held open the door to let her through the front door.

Because I don't believe you. Because I don't believe that he could ever die. Because you've lied to me, tricked me, forced me…

But the answer that came through her mouth as she stepped through the doorway was simply, "I watch the news."

"The news?" Noah asked her skeptically, still keeping his eyes on her as her pulled the door shut behind him.

"Yes. It changes every day, you see." ( This line is from Harry Potter.)

He frowned at that, many lines appearing across his forehead as he did so. Noah opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it, and that was the last he said of it as he pulled out the keys to his car.

***

Though Claire Bennet was still in sunny California, Peter Petrelli was preparing to fall asleep in his apartment in the Big Apple. His hair had grown remarkably unkempt in the six weeks that had passed, the six weeks that Peter had spent trying to rekindle his relationship with his brother, who did not seem the slightest bit interested in him.

Peter leaned over his sink to splash water on his face. The various drops against his skin glistened faintly in the low lighting.

As he folded his shower towel on his rack, Peter stepped on something with his foot. He glanced at the shabby tile to discern what it was, though sleep beckoned him to ignore the problem and dream.

Wearily, Peter picked up a lone paintbrush, abandoned far from where it could be of any use.

I must have dropped it while I was rinsing the painting supplies.

He shuffled out of the bathroom, where it became evident why he had used a paintbrush.

Upon the wooden floors, which at one point had probably appeared decent, lay thick coats of random, splattered paint – victims of the failed artists' fury.

But the artist had not failed for lack of trying. At least three canvases stood upon easels, halfway finished, though clearly forsaken. A pallet of various colors lay recklessly thrown on the checkered couch, followed closely by five more paint brushes. Ruined jeans had been cast in a corner.

As Peter turned the switch of the lamp on the end table of the couch, he came to a halt. Again, he twirled the switch. Confusion colored his features; his mouth turned downwards at the corners, his brows arched closer together.

That's when he remembered: he had taken the light bulb out.

Peter searched the mess that was his living room until he found it, innocently next to an unplugged toaster.

No power worked for him – except for flying, which he had taken from Nathan. He could not call forth Elle's electrokinesis, Ted's radioactivity, or even Isaac Mendez's ability to paint the future.

He sat down on his couch, closing his eyes as he remembered Isaac Mendez. Inevitably, his mind wandered down his memories that were of Simone. And of her death, and of how he couldn't stop it, and of Isaac, Isaac who…

Redness coursed through him.

A groan loosed from his lips, he felt a heavy lump at the back of his throat. As he raised his hand to brush the moisture from his eyes, the world in front of him went white.

** Several hours later **

Peter's eyelids fluttered in front of him, skittishly twitching at every attempt he made to open them fully. Finally, he was able to open his eyes completely.

Still blinking from this, Peter was shocked further to see that he was holding a paintbrush and a pallet.

He peered in front of him, then widened his eyes – eyes that were so reluctant to open earlier.

He had painted something…

he had painted something!

Excitement rippled through him, and he tore the canvas ferociously from the easel. Peter scanned the painting eagerly, analyzing it thoroughly.

In it were unmistakably Ando and Hiro. While Hiro's arm was outstretched, as if to stop Ando, a woman, who he could not identify, for her head was turned, held him firmly. From Ando's own arm was a stream of red light, being transferred into a figure he strongly suspected was himself.

So Ando was going to shock him? How? And more importantly, how was he able to paint this picture?