Shot 3 - Meet Noah, Try Not To Die.
"You?" said Bennet, disbelief plastered across his face, pretty horn rimmed glasses (she always liked men who wore glasses, and glasses themselves) askew and gun unwavering in his steady palm. This is before Sylar and Gabriel, before Claire and even Mohinder – Matt is still a failed policeman and Peter? Peter hadn't even dreamed of dreaming of flying yet. And she is only a teenager – sixteen last autumn and fresh from London.
She smiles, and feels his resolve weaken. Her eyes brighten and widen, using her prettiness like she has her entire life. Because she's always been pretty – beautiful, even. Porcelain cheeks and red-brown hair, long and waving like always being lightly lifted by a breeze. Her eyes are big and green and gold like leaves hiding expensive pirate treasure. He always called her his pretty doll and, even if only occasionally, was telling the truth.
"Yes, me" she said, and flipped her fringe out of her eyes, "And really, Noah, there is no need to sound so disbelieving."
"But you have a small power, lower level! I've heard you sing!"
"Hun, you ain't heard me sing, otherwise, you would be in a completely different position than you are now, and most likely, you would have jizzed in your pants." She knew her grin had turned into a leer and she relished the look on his face, eyes wide behind the reflected panes of light on his lenses, gloating "Oh yes, I'm that good"