Chapter 3- Help Wanted
Damian adjusted his glasses nervously and it felt like his first day in Senator Petrelli's office all over again although he had been promoted from his dreary intern job to a colleague in the Chimera project. He still didn't need his glasses and as a rule he didn't wear them after Sylar's embarrassing palm reading trick in Maria's basement, so he wasn't even sure why the hell he had them on in the first place, but he clung to them like a safety blanket perhaps simply out of habit. If anything, the Senator's popularity had grown since the night he offered up his public mea culpa and there were rumors of him possibly seeking the nation's highest office although he hadn't publicly thrown his hat in the ring yet. Even after being personally trained by a Jedi Master in how to use his ability, Damian couldn't help but feel intimidated by being in the presence of such power.
Nathan sat in his plush leather chair and grinned knowingly at his former charge, easily reading him like one of the morning reports he used to bring. The last time Damian had occupied the chair opposite his desk it was after "Sylar's Raid" as it had come to be known in history classrooms across the country as though he pulled off the entire feat singlehandedly. As he remembered, Damian's pants were around his ankles and he was bleeding profusely from the old gunshot wound in his thigh as Emma tried her best to do what she could to stop it. Although he healed reasonably well considering he had not received adequate medical treatment for days after his injuries, he still walked with a slight limp and Nathan felt marginally guilty for allowing him to be swept into the system in the first place. If he would have acted sooner, left one of his security personnel behind to guard him, or had him transferred to another hospital, or even found a private doctor willing to take cash under the table, things might have been different. In reality he knew he couldn't protect him any better than he did Peter and Claire at risk of blowing his own cover and it was a duplicity he had come to regrettably mentally justify. It was but one of many things that stained his conscience, each misdeed blending with the next into a muddled mass of indiscernible darkness that he could never hope to dispel despite his best intentions.
Damian's attention was drawn to a young brunette who timidly approached and asked him, "Would you like any coffee, Mr. Montgomery?" He immediately pegged her for one of the Senator's new interns and he couldn't help but involuntarily smile at the realization that not too long ago it was him making the offer to visitors to the office. It further sounded odd to be addressed by his surname as though it signified some measure of respect and influence just because he occupied a spot on the Senator's incredibly busy daily dance card. "Please," he politely accepted, "black." It made him feel a pang of bittersweet nostalgia for the days when his diet consisted almost solely of black coffee and office leftovers while spending many hours poring over the latest bill or report. He glanced around and the absence of muffins, sandwiches, or any sort of foodstuff told him that his time with his former mentor would be brief. His visit would not warrant donuts.
His successor gently nodded and apologetically turned to her boss. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can never remember how you like yours." She felt acutely embarrassed and she was well aware it was no way to start off her tenure. How could he trust her summarizations if she couldn't remember how he took his coffee?
"Blonde and 4 sugars." Damian blurted out before he even realized what he'd done.
Nathan grinned at him, surprised he would remember such a thing after so long. "What he said," he nodded toward his guest, "unless it's after 4 and then it's a shot of Bailey's."
Damian chuckled at his own guffaw, but saw no need in keeping up appearances. "Or he has a meeting with McCaskey in which case it's just a shot of whiskey straight up." He wasn't quite as in the loop as he used to be, but even he frequented the halls of power often enough to know that the veil of cooperation between Petrelli and McCaskey was a thin one. In reality, the competition between ideologies couldn't have been more fierce and Damian was well versed in exactly how quickly the winds of fortune could shift, so he among others were always just a little nervous that all they had worked for could be taken away at a moment's notice. It seemed that McCaskey's hopes of a purified society didn't die along with Sylar.
"So," Nathan smiled congenially after his employee took leave to fetch their cups of pick-me-up, "how's life been treating you since the war? I hear you've been doing great things over at the Chimera project."
"I try." He shyly demurred. In fact, he worked incredibly hard to try and improve the lives of specials by building on Maria's framework of attempting to knit together social safety nets of lodging, jobs, and healthcare for specials from those who were sympathetic until Nathan could officially line things up on his end. It was an unfortunate truth of politics that no matter their personal convictions, legislators were only going to publicly agree to what would get them reelected and not every part of the country was willing to hold hands and sing kumbaya. It was nothing so obvious as advocating for the chip program to be reestablished, but specials were kept in their place by quiet civil disobedience. They often languished in emergency rooms because doctors were conveniently too busy to see to them, job positions were miraculously filled by "better qualified" candidates, and evictions and foreclosures on the smallest of technicalities were all too common.
"I'm glad to see you've been able to find your place in the world despite having it turned upside down." He chuckled. "Last I remember you were a little uncertain about your future."
He gratefully accepted the steaming cup of caffeine from the intern and waited for her to exit before answering, "I think we all were." He wasn't sure how much information was safe to divulge- a habit left over from the days of the war when secrets as to plans and positions were worth more than gold and guarded even closer. "Still are in some ways." If being outed as a special wasn't risky enough, one never spoke of being an ex-rebel because too many people still viewed them as traitors and it only invited more trouble than they were originally in for.
Nathan hissed to cool his mouth from the coffee that was way too hot to drink, but he was pressed for time and had to cut to the chase. "I received a call from Peter," he informed him in a conspiratorially low tone, "it seems one of our long lost colleagues is ready to offer his services, but as you might imagine, this has to be handled with care."
Damian's eyebrows shot up in utter disbelief. "Really?" Although the message was coded, he was reasonably sure he knew exactly who they were talking about and it seemed bloody unlikely that he would want back in the game given his not so satisfactory experience and general distaste for federal operations. He couldn't claim to know Sylar very well, but he thought he made himself pretty clear on that subject.
"Yes, and he naturally has some reservations about it. He made it clear that he is retired from his old…" he paused to reflect on how unfortunate yet accurate the word was, "occupation. That makes things infinitely more difficult because it would be much easier to find a position for him as a problem solver." Indeed, Sylar was almost as adept at solving pesky problems as he was creating them and the government would sell their souls for a man with his set of skills and a willingness for foreign travel. But Sylar was no longer an assassin and the government had no soul to sell, so it was a moot point. "But that's where you come in."
The sense of dread couldn't be more evident in his voice as the realization sunk in. "You want me to find him a job." None of the contacts he had could offer the caliber of work Sylar was capable of and he just knew the former General of the revolution wouldn't be content grunting it out in a factory somewhere nor was he really the public relations type even though the project could never have enough PR to try and promote harmony and advocate for even the most basic social justice. He pitched his glasses onto Nathan's desk with a heavy sigh as he buried his face in his hands at the monumental task.
"I know, right?" Nathan smirked, obviously glad to pass the task onto someone else. His job wasn't pretty, but it did have perks. It was good to be king. "Well, the nice thing about him is that if he hates the job you gave him, he'll just wander off into the darkness before you ever even know he left. He's not exactly a 2 week notice kind of guy but if he can tolerate the work, you'll never find anyone better." He would know. Sylar was the best employee he ever had to save Claire from the facility and take over wartime operations as well as fall on his own sword when the time came. They just didn't make them like that anymore.
Damian looked up with hopeless filled eyes. "It's not his leaving that bothers me. It's his return after the fact to tell you personally that you suck that worries me." Damian heard about the Jessups- it was almost part of company lore not to mention historical cannon for the war propaganda machine that was meant to prove what a heartless bastard Sylar was to torture 2 supposedly helpless humans, but it wasn't entirely a lie and he knew it. No one bothered to dig into the details to discover why he was motivated to do what he did, but that was beside the point. Sylar had a reputation for showing up out of the blue to make what he determined to be the rest of your life a living hell before killing you for wronging him. It was money in the bank that if he went to the trouble of finding you, he damn sure was going to make it worth his while. He could kill you 6 ways until Sunday and was smart enough to think of a few more while he was at it. That was a fate Damian wished to avoid at all cost and simply put: failure was not an option. "How long do I have?" He asked miserably resigned. He couldn't tell Sylar no and he sure as hell couldn't tell Nathan no. Both men had the ability to crush him like a bug either physically or career wise.
"From what I understand, he's in town." He hastily replied, glancing at his gold watch. It seemed he never had enough time in the day to fully deal with anything. His life was a constant stream of unfinished business, unsaid intentions, and loose ends and that was not likely to change if he was looking toward a promotion. "I'm guessing you know how to find him?" He asked expectantly, clearly indicating that he had to be elsewhere and that perhaps his question was meant to be rhetorical.
"I…" Damian stammered, his blue eyes squinting in an effort to crack the code. He got that it wasn't prudent to speak out loud, but he didn't want to drop the ball on a personal request of such magnitude either.
With a sideways glance toward the staffroom to keep a watchful eye for his intern, he mouthed 'Rebel' so subtly it would have made a ventriloquist proud. He gave a tight nod when he saw the proverbial light bulb go off in his guest's head and continued on like nothing ever happened. "I do apologize for the brief meeting," he announced in a more formal tone for the benefit of his intern who he knew was probably eavesdropping, "but I have a very important vote on the floor in 10 minutes. Please," he smiled congenially while standing to extend his hand for a final goodbye, "stop by again. Call ahead and have my secretary set up a lunch. You pick the place, my treat."
A wicked smile graced Damian's face as he retrieved his discarded glasses and folded them up to place in his shirt pocket. "How about the steakhouse we went to when I worked here?" Although he was making more money that he did then, the eatery was still steep enough to be considered a special occasion kind of place- or the place to go if your former boss was footing the bill.
Nathan laughed easily as he walked Damian to the door. "You have fine taste as well as audacity, but ambition will serve you well." Almost as an afterthought, he paused and playfully asked, "You still live in New York, right?"
Damian stopped a short distance down the hall and cast back a puzzled glance. "Technically, yes. Why?" After what happened to him he didn't have the desire to live in DC even if he could now afford to live in a slightly better neighborhood. He found Brooklyn a more familiar if not entirely safer option even if his commute was considerably longer. In reality he spent most of his time in government subsidized housing in nearby Virginia, but that was true of a lot of federal employees. It really was nothing more than a timeshare with no view or beach and he only made it back to New York often enough to pay his rent and sort through the pile of mail that had accumulated in his absence.
With a sly grin Nathan reminded, "It's reelection time. Vote early and often."
He nodded in understanding and chuckled to think that his vote could be bought with a nice steak dinner. A few years ago that might have been the case, but he was wise to the game and knew how to better gauge the worth of his assets. He figured he could at least hold out for a nice bottle of wine to go with it and perhaps even leverage a desert, but likely not because Nathan was almost certain to steamroll anyone foolish enough to run against him without even campaigning, so he was lucky if his vote was worth a pack of Skittles.
At 27 he was already wise beyond his years and he hated to admit it, but being in the fast lane of politics had made him somewhat cynical to the entire process. He didn't like how the game was played, but if he couldn't change the way business was done he was determined to smile when it was required, pick and choose his allies carefully, and always try to stay one step ahead of it all if any of it would help other specials who could not speak up for themselves or work the system the way he could. He could feel himself sliding down the slippery slope of moral and ethical ambiguity one meeting at a time and the only way he could sleep at night was to tell himself that it was all for the greater good, that it would all even out if he could affect real change in the lives of others. Now he had the opportunity to do that very thing for one person who he knew deserved a helping hand, but as his footsteps echoed off the marble floors of the Senate he felt his heart sink deep into the pit of his stomach because he didn't have the first clue where to even start. He simply didn't have the political capital or influential sway needed to do Sylar justice and if feeling slightly tainted in the pursuit of basic equality wasn't bad enough, knowing he let down what he considered a war hero was crushing. Sylar was deserving of the very best for sacrificing himself, of that there was no question, but he didn't have a clue on how to deliver other than to do his very best and hope it would work out somehow- or hope that Sylar would understand if it didn't and not cut his head open even though he already had his ability.