Disclaimer: Same as last time, unfortunately. I still don't own Heroes. -sigh-
Author's Notes: I'm sorry this one took so long to finish. The
last part kept kicking my butt, so that's why it ends the way it does,
and angry!Peter's head was unusually difficult to get in to. (Must be all that negative emotion or something.) Of course,
that bodes ill for me, because I plan on writing a certain scene
from "Parasite" that concerns a certain psychotic serial killer pretty
much mindscrewing a certain pretty Indian geneticist next... So anyway. Please enjoy.
liana
"Why'd you do it, Isaac?"
Isaac whirls around at the sound of Peter's menace-laced voice, eyes open wide in shock, but he doesn't answer the question. "How'd you get in here?"
Peter ignores the painter's response. "Did they give you money? Drugs?" His voice takes on a tone of spiteful, amazed curiosity. "What's a Judas get these days?"
"I was trying to stop you," Isaac explains. His voice shakes a little despite his best efforts, the forbidding picture of Peter fresh on his mind. "You're dangerous, you said it yourself. Without them to help, you'll become that." He gestures at the painting of the explosion, all bloody crimsons and stark ebonies, a promise of horrific destruction of an unimaginable magnitude.
"I had help. I was learning to control it, but you scared away my only chance of learning how to stop it!" The harsh reminder of Claude's departure sparks memories of remarks made during their final conversation, ones that had never been explained.
"Well, that's how it works. At least, that's how it did in my day. You drop off the face of the earth for a few days; wake up with a memory hole, a killer headache, and a souvenir."
"Did he have a set of these?"
"These are for the lucky ones."
Peter lunges at the artist and throws him facedown on the table, sending paint supplies clattering loudly to the floor. Pinning him down, he roughly yanks down the collar of Isaac's shirt, forcibly exposing the twin black parallel lines on the back of his neck. "What are these marks? Huh? What do they mean?"
Isaac breaks free of Peter's grip and staggers away. "They're nothing. They mean nothing," he insists
"Don't lie to me!"
Peter unconsciously reaches for the connection with the murderous telekinetic from that fateful night in Odessa and sends Isaac flying back with a wave of psychic energy. The artist crashes through a few paintings and easels before landing heavily on the floor. There is nothing subtle about the blast, like when he deftly snapped the stick that Claude was smacking him with back on the rooftop. There is no restraint. This was nothing but pure, adulterated force.
--
Rage.
It immediately begins to burn through his system, and it amazes him how real and tangible it feels. He had always thought that the fire metaphors associated with this emotion were nothing but clichés, but with this blazing inferno sweeping through his veins, he can understand it perfectly. This is nothing like the petty anger he's felt before; no, this is so much more pure and raw. It is all he can do to not be completely consumed by it, and it threatens to overwhelm his senses, but Peter doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all; in fact, he embraces it.
--
Over to Peter's right is a painting of Simone and Isaac together on the rooftop, the day's last dying light a somber red behind their dark figures. He stares for a moment, realization sinking in. "This is why you sent them after me? Jealousy?" Peter asked incredulously. "To get me out of the way, to have Simone all to yourself."
"You stole her away from me!" Isaac cries, momentarily losing control of his own emotions. Peter can hear the anger and frustration in his voice, as well as a desperate longing for something he's lost. Maybe he would have cared at a different time, but right now it just fuels his own anger. He stole Simone away from Isaac? The other man never deserved her in the first place. Picking himself off the floor, Isaac staggers over to a table, his back to Peter, hands reaching for something Peter can't see.
"But I did it to save New York," the artist continues, his voice much calmer now. "To stop the bomb. I can do it right now." And then he turns, a sleek silver gun in his hands, pointed straight at Peter. "With just one bullet, I can be a hero."
Peter doesn't bother reaching for Claire. It would be so easy for Isaac to put a bullet in his brain at this range and he doesn't quite know if he can regenerate on his own without consciously remembering someone. He was fortunate when Claude threw him off the rooftop, and he doesn't want to push his luck right now. Besides, he can't recall her sweet sadness, not with this smoldering anger pounding in him, and he doesn't think he wants to right now.
So Peter does the next best thing.
He turns invisible.
--
Contempt.
Claude's typical state of mind. An intense, almost pathological dislike of all mankind. Peter never really understood, always trying to see more of the good in people than the bad. But now that he's connected to the invisible man through his powers, he can comprehend exactly why, especially with the prime example of humanity's faults standing right in front of him.
--
"You're not a hero, Isaac," Peter tells him, hurling heavy paint cans at him with telekinesis. He watches as the artist attempts to fend off his assault as he moves through the studio. He moves near, whirls away, steps infuriatingly close to Isaac, mocking his inability to catch him. He could reach out and touch him if he so wished, or yank the gun from his hands, but he lets the confrontation continue because he wants, needs, the other man to truly understand just how hopeless he is.
"You're a joke. You couldn't even save yourself." Isaac whirls around, searching for the source of Peter's voice, but he's constantly moving, not letting the painter get a bead on his location.
"That's why she left you, Isaac," Peter explains, his tone scornful as he stalks through the room. Isaac never really understood Simone's reasons for leaving him, had he? How very pitiful that he couldn't even get that, but what else could you expect from someone like him? As he continues mock the painter, the contempt and the rage course through him and combine like some sort of dark alchemical reaction, and his voice rises into a crescendo as he shouts, "It had nothing - to do - with me!"
Peter's constant taunting finally causes Isaac to snap. "Show yourself!" he yells. Peter doesn't care, doesn't listen, doesn't bother. He's had enough. He's getting out. And then—
The sound of a door opening.
What?
Peter recognizes who it is – Simone – and a sudden sick flash of fear and comprehension cuts through that dark veil and he realizes what is about to happen and that he is absolutely helpless to stop it just as he sees Isaac turn towards the source of the noise and fire blindly twice.
The gunshots crack through the air louder than any explosion ever could. There is a second of absolute silence and stillness. Simone looks down at the twin crimson stains blossoming on stomach and chest and then back up at Isaac, her eyes reflecting bewilderment and fear. She doesn't say anything, just starts to fall back, shock already beginning to set in. Peter tears across the apartment and reaches her first. He catches her in his arms as she collapses and lowers her down gently. He hears a sudden clatter of metal on concrete and Simone's name being screamed, but none of it registers until Isaac is right beside her. She looks at the both of them, the confusion still evident on her face, and she trembles slightly in Peter's arms before abruptly stopping.
And just like that, Simone Deveaux is dead.
Peter and Isaac stare at each other for a single long moment. All of Peter's thought processes have ceased. There is nothing.
No.
Almost nothing.
No.
It can't be.
No.
