A Note From Lara: As unusual as that is at the moment, I actually liked this chapter. I got sudden inspiration for a clever little short subplot that will make several of my faithful reviewers very happy...

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I perched impatiently on Peter's counter as he fussed at my black eye with his bandages and salves and things. He applied a daub of some kind of cream to my eyelid, then stepped back. "Alright," he said, "That's done. Is there anything else that needs bandaging?"

"Nope. I'm good to go," I said, hopping off the counter. I was lying, of course. There were scratch marks from Eden's fingernails (translation: talons) all up and down my arms, which I'd carefully concealed under my sleeves, and I could feel about a hundred bruises darkening all across my body. Eden had really done a number on me. It'd been awhile since somebody had gotten the upper hand of me in a fight, and it wasn't exactly the best feeling in the world.

With quick steps, I crossed to his door and out into the hallway. I heard him sigh as he followed me.

"What happened to you?" Tanya gasped as I came into the apartment.

I shrugged, grabbing her laptop quickly and settling in to reenter the GPS system, thankful I'd left myself a back door the last time. "She got in a fistfight with a girl who can control people. Twice," Peter answered for me. "Practically got herself killed. Now she's trying to GPS her using the girl's cell phone."

"Actually," I commented, not looking up from the screen, "It looks like her cell phone might be off. I can't find her." My fingers flew across the keys. "But maybe if the entry codes for that FBI tracker satellite are the same in this universe, I can still... Dammit. Not the same. If they were, it wouldn't matter that her phone's off. I still could've located it. But no codes had to be different...."

Peter and Tanya glanced at each other, but I hardly noticed. "Well, if somebody hadn't let them get away," I muttered. "Ah whatever, you're new in the game. You'll pick up fast." Tanya raised her eyebrows, giving Peter a deeply confused look, but neither he nor I felt like enlightening her.

I bit my lip, thinking. "You know what? It doesn't matter. This... Company... probably has other agents in the city, right? It's just a matter of finding them. And don't we have another puzzle to work on?"

"Save the cheerleader, save the world."

"Right. So, did you talk to Simone about the missing painting?" I asked. "Isaac said he gave it to her, right?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. She said it got sold. To Daniel Linderman."

The little conspiracy theorist in my brain borrowed control of my mouth long enough to squawk, "You mean the mobster who had your father in his pocket and employed both my parents?" I immediately vowed to strangle said conspiracy theorist, no matter how useful she might be. Peter's dad had only been dead a few months- that was no way to talk about him.

"Yes, that's him," Peter replied.

I grinned. "Well then, it's just a matter of family connections to get it back, isn't it? Either you convince Nathan to get it for you, or I go cross-country to demand employment, then make off with the painting when he's not looking."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I think we'll try the asking-Nathan option first. I'm meeting the family for lunch tomorrow. I can ask Nathan then."

"I'm coming with you!" I announced immediately. "Knowing Nathan, he's not gonna give this one up easily. He's already convinced you're deranged or something; he won't feed that, now will he? You'll want me there, for moral support or for arguing your case or both. Trust me on this one."

He looked like he wanted to argue. But in a stunning display of self-preservation, he wisely decided not to.

--

Hiro and Ando- back together again!- sat down in the Sunup Diner in Cooksville, Texas. It had been a long drive from Vegas, but they had accomplished it in under two days. A pretty redheaded waitress approached their table. "Tourists, huh? How can I help y'all?" she asked, smiling.

"How did you know we are tourists?" Hiro asked.

"Just a lucky guess," the waitress said. "What can I get for you boys?"

"Waffles!" Hiro said immediately. Ando mumbled something about fatty foods and the waitress, grinning cheekily and sharing a conspiratorial look with Hiro, suggested cottage cheese. Hiro giggled, and the woman smiled at him.

Twenty minutes later, Hiro was engaged in teaching the waitress, whose name was Charlie, Japanese. "You learn Japanese very fast..." he said, awed as Charlie repeated the phrases he was teaching her perfectly.

"Yeah, well, lately I just seem to remember everything I read or hear," she said uncomfortably.

Hiro's eyes widened with excitement. "Ooh! You have power! Big memory!" Charlie smiled, attempting to dismiss the comment.

From a shadowy corner of the room, a dark figure watched.

--

"Come to bed."

DL Hawkins was a man who usually knew where he stood- with his friends, with his son. And he had thought he knew where he stood with his wife. She was mad at him. No, scratch that, she hated him for leaving her and Micah. What had happened in the last few minutes to change her mind? He reviewed his time at home in his mind.

He had successfully avoided the cops parked outside by walking through the back wall. He had talked to Niki, who had threatened to scream. When suspicious cops came to the door a few minutes later, however, she lied for him, sent them away. They talked. She told him he could stay the night but had to leave in the morning, then insisted that he sleep on the couch.

But now, not only was she wearing her wedding ring again, she was inviting him to bed? Strange.

There'd been a lot of strange in his life lately. First this weird walking-through-walls stuff that had started just a few weeks ago, and the mess with his heist gone wrong... That was confusing. He had planned to take a couple million from Linderman, just to get bills off their backs. But someone- a woman, from all accounts- had slaughtered his team and framed him. Since then, he'd been on the run for the murder of some of his best friends.

Oh well. Tomorrow... tomorrow, he would learn the truth. He would see some of his contacts, ask what they knew about the murder of his team, and take it to the police. Then all of this would be over. He wouldn't be a suspect anymore, and he and Niki and Micah could go back to a normal life...

--

11 a.m. the next morning

Petrelli Mansion

"Holy crap," I whispered, staring around as Peter lead me through the halls of his childhood home, "I knew your family was loaded, but... holy crap!"

Peter laughed at my reaction. "My mother's taste is a little... ornate."

"I can tell. Nobody needs that much marble."

"That's what I always said, but the house had already been built, so there wasn't much they could do about it." We passed through a lovely green room that opened to the outdoors.

As we stepped onto the terrace, I was confronted by the sight of the entire Petrelli clan plus a reporter arrayed against me, at a breakfast table complete with lace and crystal table settings.. Part of me thanked god that Bruce's "cover identity" loved ritzy parties or I had a feeling I would very quickly be way out of my depth.

"Well what is this?" Peter asked goodnaturedly.

The older, dark-haired woman I assumed was the infamous Angela Petrelli said, "This is brunch. We always have brunch."

"Since when?" Peter asked. I suppressed a grin. Caught in a lie, Mama Petrelli, caught in a lie.

"Sit down, Peter," she commanded, ignoring his surprised question. "Now, who's your friend?" She gestured imperiously to a servant- yes, an actual servant, just like Bruce had for special occasions- to bring out an extra chair.

As I sat down between Peter and one of his newphews, he answered his mother's question. "This is my friend, Dianne Morten. I've mentioned Dianne, haven't I? She used to work for Nathan?" Speaking of Nathan... I glanced up to the head of the table where my former employer was sitting next to his shockingly beautiful wife, Heidi. He smiled distantly at me.

"Ah yes," Angela said, although I had a sneaking suspicion that she didn't remember hearing me mentioned at all. "Dianne. Of course. Charming to finally meet you."

"Likewise," I said, already feeling sick of the pleasant charade. It was always this way- having to fake charming and cordial and pleasant left an oversweet taste in my mouth that I hated. But for Peter's sake, I would try to keep an open mind. After all, the whole family couldn't be crazy, if he'd come out of it, right?

Nathan cleared his throat. "Uh... Pete, can I talk to you for a sec?" Peter glanced at me, and I nodded.

The Brothers Petrelli: exit stage right. The Petrelli women: making small talk with the corderoy-soaked reporter. Me: wondering what the hell to say to feel less like a ninth wheel.

I turned to the kid on my left. "So... you're Nathan's son, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah," the kid said like it was the stupidest question he'd ever been asked.

"Are you Simon or Monty?" I asked. Peter had mentioned his nephews, but I'd never seen pictures, so I had no idea which was which.

The kid grinned at me. "I'm Monty," he said. "I'm seven."

I nodded. This was why I completely and utterly hated kids. They made no sense. "I can see that," I said. "So, must be pretty... um... interesting to have your dad be running for Congress, huh?" Monty shrugged and popped a strawberry into his mouth. I sighed inwardly. Had I really been reduced to making conversation with seven-year-olds in one of the ritziest mansions on the eastern seaboard? This was a sad, sad state of affairs.

Two long minutes later, Peter and Nathan returned. "Peter!" I heard Nathan call in a panicked-sounding voice, right before they reemerged on the terrace.

"He was just giving me a hard time about showing up in cords," Peter said nonchallantly. "I'm trying to stay grounded, y'know?" I glanced at him quizzically, and he shot me a small smile.

The reporter across the table- whose name, I'd gathered, was Oliver- immediately latched onto Nathan. "Mr. Petrelli, I understand that your campaign recently accepted a donation from the Linderman Group."

"Yes, he was a friend of my father's," Nathan said coolly.

"Such a friend as to warrant flying down to meet with a reputed mobster in person?" Oliver asked. Ooh. Snap. I'd seen Lois Lane in action, so I wasn't impressed by many "reporters," but this guy was good, I had to hand it to him. Best of all, he continued to press his advantage once he had it. Good for you, Oliver, don't give up your edge, I thought. "I understand that there was... a bit of a scare at the casino, wasn't there? You went missing for several hours... and there was a blonde involved?"

Peter shot Nathan a glance across the suddenly silent table. "Yeah, I'm sure you've heard about my recent, uh, mental health... issue. Nathan was going to see a specialist... a female specialist... about my about my care. That's just the kinda guy he is- taking time out of his busy schedule to help out his messed-up little brother."

I almost choked on the cinnamon bun Heidi had passed me.

When Oliver and the rest of the family were sufficiently distracted, I leaned close to Peter and whispered, "They should call you Saint Peter." He shrugged, digging into the mixed pile of breakfast items his nephews had ungracefully heaped on his plate.

"So," I whispered in his ear, "What did you say to Nathan earlier to make him freak out so much?"

A devilish grin crossed his face. "I told him I was gonna fly off the terrace." I laughed out loud, suddenly drawing the eyes of the table back to us for a moment.

"You should have done it," I whispered when the gazes of the rest of Peter's family had turned back to the older brother.

Peter shrugged. "Nah, I wouldn't do that to Nate."

"Doesn't change the fact that you should have done it."

He rolled his eyes. "So, did you talk to him?" I asked.

"Yeah. He did a lot of topic-changing. But just in general, he said he wasn't going to help us get that painting."

I sighed. "Looks like I'm going on a road trip to Vegas after all. Just freaking great." I paused. "It's a sad, sad day when I'm mad about having to go to Vegas," I said after a moment of thought. Peter laughed.

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A Note From Lara: Now, I completely love irony (and if you hadn't already figured that out, there's something wrong with you but whatever), so the subplot that's going to be introduced next chapter is just an ironic little thing that you'd probably have to be in my head to fully appreciate, but it makes me happy, so whatever.

Reviews equal love.