A Note From Lara: So, for my utterly random ramblings in my author's note, I thought I'd tackle a subject that's been going around in my brain for about two weeks: Is Dianne a Mary Sue?

Honestly, I have to say that the answer is partly yes, mostly no. I actually went and looked up the exact definition of a Mary Sue, and Dianne doesn't fit the bill. Maybe you don't agree, perhaps I don't get it across in my writing, but the idea I have of her in my head is definitely not a Mary Sue. So I went and took a Mary Sue litmus test, and Dianne scored a 24 on a scale that goes up to 60(+). It's a pretty good score. Not the best score, but still a good score, and I am satisfied.

Okay, enough rambling. You can read the chapter now. Oh btw, I wasn't sure exactly how rich the Petrelli's actually are, so I just picked a number out of the air. If it's much lower (or higher) than what I said, let me know and I'll try and fix my error in later chapters.

--

I sat up stock-straight in the darkness, clasping at my throat. Then I dropped my head into my hands, sighing. I'd had "the dream" again. I flopped back against my pillow, trying to put the nightmare out of my head. Maybe if I just closed my eyes and went to my happy place it would go away...

Twenty minutes later, I was still lying there, staring at the ceiling. Fuck this shit, I'm not going to get any sleep, I may as well do something useful. Nothing I did was going to get me back to sleep tonight; I should have known that from the start.

Pulling on a sweatshirt over my pajamas, I walked out of the apartment and climbed the stairs up to the roof. It was becoming a favorite haunt of mine: I'd always kind of had a thing for rooftops. I sat down on the gravel, and leaned back against the low ledge running along the edge. The stars were veiled by the bright city lights, but I fancied that I could see Venus through the haze of smog.

I thought back over the events of the day before, wondering what Isaac's paintings could mean. How could anybody paint the "future"? If it had been some weirdo in the underbelly of Gotham, I wouldn't have been that surprised, but in real-world NYC I had to be a little more skeptical. God, I had to get over this stupid sense that things were going to go back to the way they'd been. I closed my eyes. Damn Barry Allen and his offhand comment about "things changing." If it weren't for that, I wouldn't be half so paranoid...

--

"Hey... uh, lady?" A hand shook my shoulder and I opened my eyes. Disoriented, I stared up at the man who had awakened me. Ratty red hair and dingy jeans... he stirred at my memory and I tried to place him. As my mind focused, I realized where I knew him from. Spens, the music-blasting, beer-swilling upstairs neighbor.

"Whaddaya want?" I groaned, slapping his hand away. My muscles, sore from sleeping on the hard ground in an awkward position, protested at my movement.

Spens shoved his hands in his pockets. "I was just makin' sure you hadn't OD-ed or something." I nodded vaguely, rubbing my temples. Official note to self: never sleep outside again unless it's absolutely necessary. "Yeah, yeah," I said to him. "I'm fine."

"Hey, don't I know you?" he suddenly asked.

Forcing a smile onto my face, I said. "Yeah. The day I moved into the building I beat the living crap out of you."

His eyes widened. "That was you?" he asked. "Man, that was hot." Inside, I groaned. So not what I needed right now. "So..." he said, apparently not noticing my expression, "Do you always kick a guy's butt on the first date, or is that for an extra charge, Spitfire?"

The obvious implications shocked my mind out of it's sleepy haze, and I belted him. "No, that's free. But there is no 'date', asshole. Just tell me what time it is."

"Time enough for us to get it on," he said, leering at me. I rolled my eyes. What was it about guys that made them think a really bad pickup line would work on any random girl who'd just broken their nose? I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him (again) and forced him to the edge of the roof. "I swear to god I will hurl you off this building if you don't just tell me what time it is," I said. Okay, I was exaggerating, not having the equipment to jump off myself and save his sorry butt from getting splattered, but he didn't know that. And my pounding head and sore muscles probably didn't help my mood.

"Fine, fine," he gasped. "No need to get all huffy. It's nine thirty, happy?" I released him, and he dropped with a heavy thump to the gravel rooftop.

"Nine thirty?" I said. "Oh shit." Late for work, that's just great, Dianne. Just freaking great. I dashed off the roof, leaving Spens sitting dazed on the ground.

I flew through the apartment, dressing in sixty seconds flat. "What's up?" Tanya yawned, stumbling out of the bathroom with a hung-over look to her.

Groaning in frustration over my inability to find my other shoe, I called an answer over my shoulder. "Had a... bad dream. Went up to the roof last night, fell asleep, and I didn't wake up until just now. And now I'm late for work, that is just great." I hissed in frustration and the building fury that I generally felt any time I was late for anything.

"Oh, so that's why you didn't get your alarm clock this morning. I figured you just had a one-night stand or something. God, you could have at least had the decency to turn the damn thing off; I had to get up at seven to go hit the snooze button!" Tanya grumbled.

Wrong thing to say. "You know what Tanya, it's nine thirty in the morning. The only sleep I got last night was sitting up on the roof, my head hurts like a mother, and why can't I find my goddamn shoes? But whatever, this is not the time to go pissing me off, okay?" I yelled.

I whirled around, finally deciding to wear an ugly old pair of Mary Janes I wasn't even sure were mine, rather than waste another minute on searching for a decent pair of shoes. Tanya's beautiful face was furious as I walked out of the apartment, but she didn't say anything.

As I hailed a cab, too incensed and in too much of a rush to walk, I remembered whose shoes they were: Lana's. Back when we'd hated each other's guts, she'd hurled them at me after I told her she had no fashion sense for even looking at them in the store. The thought made me smile briefly; Lana and I had laughed about that incident for years afterward. But it didn't seem quite as funny as it usually did this morning.

I pulled out the collapsible hairbrush that had been sitting in the bottom of my purse for ten years and ran it through my dark hair. Then I glanced at my reflection in the mirror on the back side of the brush, and noticed that the skin around my eyes was puffy, as if I hadn't slept at all. Great, just great. I swabbed some blue eyeshadow on my top lids in an attempt to disguise it. My pathetic attempt failed miserably, so I gave my face up for a lost cause and settled back in the seat.

--

Angela Petrelli was a very wealthy woman, that was to be sure. With the death of her husband, Arthur, she had inherited almost four billion dollars and a huge mansion in the Upper East Side. Her short black hair was coiffed at the most overpriced salon in the city, and her perfectly manicured nails had cost her several hundred dollars. But money and houses do not buy peace of mind. The only way to settle your conscience is by doing what you think is right.

And Angela was doing just exactly that when she entered her late husband's office and locked the door behind her. She picked up the receiver of his telephone and dialed a secure number in L.A. After two rings, her call was answered.

"Daniel, it's Angela," she said in a soft voice. "I had another dream. And something's changed."

Three thousand miles away, Daniel Linderman sat back in his leather chair and smiled indolently. "I'm sure it's nothing, Angela," he said. "The future is in constant motion, but whatever minute change has occurred to set things off will not affect the plan."

"No, you don't understand, Daniel. This is more than some little variation of time and place, or one more person to add to the body count. The... the catalyst event may not happen at all," Angela said, the tension already so visible in her eyes coloring her voice.

Linderman sat up straight. He was suddenly very intent on the conversation. Usually when Angela called him like this, he paid little attention. She had never been entirely satisfied with this venture of theirs, and she had good reason, but he was sure she was overreacting. God knew, if it was his own son, he wouldn't be half so concerned. But the fact that their entire plan might be thrown off... that was reason for concern.

"What do you mean?" he said.

Angela sighed. "It was very... confused... and I can't really be sure what will happen. It's as though there's a divided future, two possible outcomes." "Tell me all about it, Angela dear," Linderman said in a comforting tone.

"There is a young woman," Angela said, "About Peter's age and tall, with dark hair. Blue eyes. I saw her fighting with Bishop's daughter, and she was killed. After that, New York was devastated as per your plan. But then the vision returned to that... tussle... with the Bishop girl. And this time, the other girl was saved, by that... that blonde you've been watching so closely all these years now. And if she survives, New York stays right where it is."

Linderman pondered this, thinking carefully. "Where does this confrontation take place?" he asked slowly. Angela sighed. "Somewhere out west," she said. "I saw palm trees. It was sunny, the middle of the day. Maybe somewhere in California?"

How could one young woman he had never heard of before wreak so much havoc on their carefully mapped-out plan? Linderman tried to picture the scene Angela described; it was a technique that sometimes helped his thought process. Suddenly, an errant thought crossed his mind, inspiring him. It was a wild, completely illogical thought, but it had been on his mind lately. "Brunette. Blue eyes, you said. Did you happen to get a name?"

"Maybe," Angela said. "I could hear some of the voices, but I'm not sure. Diana maybe?"

Linderman smiled slowly, his icy blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. He just loved irony. The fact that this girl should come back into the equation when he had been counting her out of every venture he entered into for nine years was absolutely delicious. "Mm, yes," he said slowly. "Dianne."

"Do you know who it could be?" Angela asked.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly know for sure," he said. "After all, there are probably plenty of blue-eyed brunettes named Dianne or Diana or Dinah or such, my dear. But it seems too much of a coincidence that one should turn up just at this stage of planning, doesn't it, for it not to be the one I'm thinking of?"

Angela stared blankly at the wood-paneled wall of the office. "And just who do you think it is Daniel?" There was a short pause before Linderman answered, but when he did, Angela's mouth hung open in surprise. "You mean she's not--?"

"Yes my dear, that's precisely what I mean."

--

I slid into my desk chair, hoping no one would notice that I hadn't been there half an hour ago. No such luck. Mr. Sully paraded his oversized butt over to my little corner by the door and huffed and puffed in my face. "Ms. Morton, you were supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago! What do you have to say about this?"

Obeisance had never been my strong point, but I figured that if I wanted to keep my current employment until it's termination, I'd better make some right now. "There was a, um, traffic jam. I had to get out of the cab and walk. I'm so sorry, it'll never happen again." I crossed my toes under the desk.

Sully's piggy eyes narrowed. "Well, you'll take it up with Mr. Petrelli," he said. "This is the second time you've been late, Ms. Morton. It's up to him whether we keep you on for the rest of your tenure here. When he gets a free minute, he'll speak to you." I nodded blandly until he'd turned away, then made a face at his back.

For the next few minutes, I busied myself with filling out what was meant to look like a spreadsheet if Sully happened to come wandering back my way. Then I minimized the screen, ready to bring it up at a moment's notice, and started playing Tetris. Yeah, I know, definitely the wrong thing to do, but I was sleep deprived and the only work going on anyway was over in the graphic design divison, where they were trying to come up with designs for new mailout cards.

And thus I spent an entire workday on utterly useless crap. Nathan never did get around to chastising me or deciding my fate or whatever it was he intended to do. He was too busy arguing with the artistic people about different shades of blue and red. I can't imagine that one shade of navy will influence someone's vote one way or another, but apparently these people know what they're doing, so who am I to argue?

--

Mohinder Suresh was a handsome man in his early thirties, and a respected professor of genetics at the University of Madras. He enjoyed his work, and took great pleasure from lecturing the best and brightest young minds in India. Today he was rambling in his usual tangent-riddled style on evolution.

"Man is a narcissistic species by nature. We have colonized the four corners of our tiny planet. But we are not the pinnacle of so-called evolution. That honor belongs to the lowly cockroach. Capable of living for months without food. Remaining alive headless for weeks at a time. Resistant to radiation. If God has indeed created himself in his own image, then I submit to you that God is a cockroach."

He had intended it to be funny, to be something that would pique his students interest, but only one or two of the young men and women chuckled. Mohinder sighed inwardly. It was frustrating when his lectures were poorly received. He tried a different track, trying to capture their attention through the metaphysical flipside of these theories.

"They say that man uses only a tenth of his brain power. Another percent, and we might actually be worthy of God's image. Unless, of course, that day has already arrived. The Human Genome Project has discovered that tiny variations in man's genetic code are taking place at increasingly rapid rates. Teleportation, levitation, tissue regeneration. Is this outside the realm of possibility? Or is man entering a new gateway to evolution? Is he finally standing at the threshold to true human potential?"

Suddenly, Mohinder spotted his colleague and friend, Nirand, standing in the doorway, watching him with sad eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm out of time," he said. Quickly and quietly, his students dispersed.

When all of them had left the room, Nirand approached the front of the class where Mohinder stood. "You sound just like your father," he said.

Mohinder turned to him. "I know, I know. They can fire me too, if they like. But there's something to it, Nirand, as crazy as it sounds." Something in his friend's expression cued Mohinder to some solemnity in the atmosphere. "What is it?"

"Your father... he's dead." Nirand bowed his head.

It couldn't be possible, Mohinder thought. He hadn't seen his father in months, but surely this wasn't possible. But... "What? How?" he asked.

"He drove a taxicab, you know," Nirand said. "It's a very dangerous job. They found his head smashed in..." Nirand trailed away, unwilling to describe the full extent of the tragedy.

Mohinder narrowed his eyes, resolving in that instant to follow Chandra Suresh to New York City and finish the work his father had started.

--

Another Note From Lara: Because you just know that the scenes with Mohinder, Nirand, and H.R.G had to have taken place a few days before the eclipse in order for Mohinder to be in NYC to see it.

And yes, even though it's a definite Sue move, Dianne is connected to the Linderman conspiracy in a way no one would expect. But before you freak out because I'm incorporating Elle in S1, just be glad we get to see lots and lots of everybody's favorite bitch. ;)