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4. The Beheaded Cockroach
Matt Parkman decided that he didn't miss Audrey Hansen as much as he initially thought. And he decided that he didn't like Baltimore. He also decided that he definitely wasn't going to read any more priests minds for a long time. There were a lot of things one was prone to deciding during your flight and taxi ride home from the most tedious assignment ever.
Honestly, the only good thing that was going to come with this was a possible early return to work, and another recommendation from Audrey for the detective's exam. But Matt wasn't even certain he wanted to sit for that again. He certainly stood a better chance of passing this time (he had had a lot of free time for studying during his recovery), but as Janice's due date approached, he naturally anticipated fatherhood more and more. How much time would be he able to contribute to taking care of his child? Would he even be a good detective, given there was a chance he wouldn't be sleeping very well for the next few years? There were a lot of things for Matt to consider in his free time, all while dealing with his abnormally hormonal (he swore this to everyone) wife.
He got to his doorstep, fishing around for his keys. Although he was sure what he'd be debating with himself all weekend, he was glad he didn't have to deal with anything else. Audrey's frustration with her case gave him enough grief for one week.
Entering his home, he found an Indian geneticist, a ten year-old human Mapquest, and a quirkily dressed Asian girl sitting on his couch.
"Matt, babe!" said Janice, walking in from the kitchen, "Look who came to…" She saw her husband staring at their three guests. "…Visit." She finished.
"Officer Parkman!" Molly exclaimed, running over to embrace him.
He was happy to receive the hug from the little girl, but as he watched Suresh stand up from his place on the couch, he couldn't help but realize that his whole weekend schedule was probably just shot to hell.
There was a ringing, and then a voice. "Mr. Petrelli's awake," said the young woman standing over him, answering her phone. "…Understood, sir. See you soon." She hung up and smiled at Nathan. "Good morning, congressman."
He tried to speak, but it was hard to push it out of his voice box. Nothing more than a hoarse croak came out.
"I wouldn't try to do much yet, if I were you," she told him. "You're sick. But you should be good as new pretty soon. You remember the explosion? Better yet, do you remember who you are? Blink once for yes, twice for no."
He blinked once.
"That wasn't just a natural blink, was it?" No, it wasn't. He blinked twice. "Great, Mr. Petrelli. My boss will be pleased. By the way, my name is Candice."
She seemed nice enough, but there was a certain falseness natural to her voice. As if she could be inclined to pull off his oxygen mask, tear off the tube, and shove it down his gullet at any given moment. And smile snottily the entire time. Nathan wasn't scared of her, though, simply aware. At any rate, there wasn't much he could do but blink her away.
"It's been four months, you know," said Candice, "since you died."
Since I died? Gee, that's a sensitive way of referring to my being comatose. Nathan didn't like this girl.
"But you're alive now, thanks in no small part to Mr. Linderman. He may be dead," she said this with a bitter edge to her voice, "but he left you with one last favor."
Candice picked up a remote, and turned on the TV across the room. "Why don't you catch up on the news while we're waiting?" Nathan was lying flat, so he couldn't see, but could hear it just fine.
"…No new developments in the case of New York congressman-elect Nathan Petrelli and his brother, Peter Petrelli, who have been missing since November 8th, 2006. However we do have word that the FBI is scaling down their search for the brothers, which in four months, has produced little evidence to their whereabouts. Mrs. Heidi Petrelli, wife of Nathan Petrelli, could not be reached for comment…"
Nathan's eyes widened at the news, and he was vaguely aware that Candice was watching his bewildered horror with some interest.
I've been missing?! He looked into Candice's eyes hatefully, wishing he could scream. I'm not even in a fucking hospital? For God's sake, my wife and kids aren't even aware that I'm alive!
"I'm sorry we couldn't tell your family," she said, inferring a lot from his furious stare. "But we couldn't tell anyone. It's the boss's orders."
Who the hell are you? Where's my brother, what have you done to him? And the sad prospect hit him instantaneously.
…Is Peter even alive?
"But how does it feel?" Candice asked him, leaning in. "Waking up in a new world?" And then, withdrawing with a smug smile, she said, "Must be a pretty bad trip."
The tempo of his heart rate monitor accelerated, the only sign of the intense frustration storming inside. Shut the hell up and tell me what's going on! Where is Peter? Who are you, why won't you-
The door opened again, and Candice left Nathan, walking over to the man who had just entered.
"Good morning, Mr. Aster," she greeted.
"Hello Candice," returned a young Englishman, it sounded like. The tall, pale man walked over, watching a still fuming Nathan with interest. He looked only a few years older than Peter, wearing a very fine suit and blond, clean cut sideburns.
"Nice to meet you at last, Mr. Petrelli," he greeted amiably. "My name is John Aster." He pulled up a chair and sat down at his bedside, as if intent on making it a welcoming visit. "Although we've never met, we have a bit of a connection. Both of us have lost our fathers in the past year. You knew mine, Mr. Linderman."
At any other time, Nathan would've been surprised. Linderman was a deceptively genial son of a bitch, but the man gave no indication whatsoever of having a son. Nathan didn't think even his father knew about his best friend's family, aside from the wedding band.
But obviously, Nathan was still lying paralyzed in a bed, unaware of where he was and listening to a condescending Brit yap at him about his heritage. So the shock wasn't there. What the hell is this? Are you going to tell me where I am? He wondered. What's happened? Why am I here?
"I rarely got to see Dad," Aster continued on, to Nathan's dismay. "My mother and I lived in London, but he made it a point to visit every holiday. Didn't want to go too long without seeing his own special boy. He said it always rejuvenated him. Speaking of which-" he examined Nathan's charts, "you've recovered very nicely. You should be well fairly soon. And you'll be well enough to talk even sooner. Be able to voice all that pent-up anger of yours, eh?"
Goddamn bastard.
He smiled sympathetically at Nathan. "I'm sorry we had to do things this way. I'll explain it to you in due time, I promise. Be glad you're here now, awake."
Aster checked his watch. "I need to be leaving in a few minutes," he explained, "I have a company to reestablish, you see. After my father's death, and then all the information sabotage…this organization and its cause almost didn't survive. But," a bizarrely proud, wistful look came across his face, "I like to think that this company is nearly indestructible. Able to withstand anything. I have a lot of faith in its rebirth." He looked intently at Nathan now. "If even a beheaded cockroach can live to see another day, then so can my father's legacy."
He said goodbye, and exited with Candice, leaving Nathan alone in his new universe.
Peter was unconscious again.
It had to be at least the fifth time this week. And Claire hadn't even needed to give him tranquilizer; Bennet had thrown a few plates into the air for him to shoot a few fireballs at when one soared a little too low and smashed into Peter's head.
Bennet had worked very hard to make that one look like an accident. His entire routine of throwing the plates was carefully plotted out, calculated so that the one toss looked like a slip of the wrist, complimented by the appropriate look of surprise. And it worked marvelously; Claire rushed over to Peter immediately without another word. Of course, that meant that the guy still needed much more practice using his instincts in a fight, but at least now he had a good indication of where Peter was with his skill.
"Dad, is he okay?"
He squinted nonchalantly as he examined Peter's healed forehead wound. "He looks perfectly fine. Tell you what, Claire-bear, we'll let him have a little nap. He's been working hard."
"…You're going to let him nap on the dirty floor?"
"Why not? That seems to be his favorite place."
Claire laughed. "Dad…"
Bennet took off his jacket, handing it to her. "You can put this under his head."
Carefully, she tucked it under Peter's hair, surprised that he didn't even wake up or stir. "He's gotten a lot better, huh?" she told her father, with a proud grin.
"Much better than a few days ago," he answered, smiling back. "He should have it completely under control very soon. I think your cheerleading really helped him."
Claire stood up and hugged her father. "He couldn't have done it without your help, though. Thanks for doing that, Dad."
"Don't worry about it, honey. I owed him, anyhow. For saving you." They picked up the tranquilizers and started walking back to the shelter area, leaving Peter to doze away.
"You mind checking up on your mom?" he asked, as he started to pack everything.
"Come on Dad, she's with Lyle, she's fine-"
His eyes peered at her over his glasses. "Claire…"
She sighed, pulling her phone out. Her father had been very adamant about taking care of her mother, ever since they moved into town with their new identities. It was one of the few things he really focused on these days, since working a legitimate job in an industry as booming as personal computers still bored him to death.
"Hey, Rodrigo left me a message!" she noticed, dialing her voicemail excitedly. She had a huge grin on her face the entire time she listened. "I'll call him right after I check on Mom," she said.
"You know, I still haven't met this boy yet," her father pointed out, trying to sound as casual as possible.
She rolled her eyes. "Dad, we're not even going out-"
"—Now hold on, Claire. Please, if you would just humor my parental paranoia for a second."
"And do I have to keep doing that until you're 80?"
"No, I think by that time I'll probably be senile," he joked. "But just let me know what you think, because I'd like to know your objective opinion about him."
Claire eyes lit up when she thought about Rodrigo. So much for an objective opinion. "He's really funny and sweet. And he's smart too. I told you he wants to be a lawyer."
"And do you think he would be a problem?" he asked seriously.
Rodrigo was prone to cutting classes on occasion, along with other harmless offenses, but she knew very well that this wasn't what her father was asking about. "No," she answered certainly. "Everyone at school thinks he's a great guy, and really dependable. I haven't heard any rumors about him, either, and his friends told me he doesn't even date that often."
He smiled. "Alright then. I just wanted to know, Claire-bear."
"Don't worry, Dad," she said, "I know which boys are worth it now."
A groan echoed in the open room outside, and they saw Peter stirring from his nap. "Five more minutes, Mom…" He muttered, turning over. "Okay, but only if there's waffles…"
Claire laughed as her father watched him quizzically. "Definitely not one of Peter's more heroic moments," she noted.
"—I'm so sorry about this, Matt. I really don't mean to impose on you, and I did call, but no one was at home," said Mohinder apologetically, as he went over to another open suitcase, rummaging through it urgently. "But my flight is tonight, and I was running out of time."
"Hey I told you, it's no problem, I love Molly," said Matt, although he felt somewhat flustered watching the professor continue to hurry back and forth across the guest room. "Anyway, I think Jan had a bunch of doctor's appointments this week, that's why she wasn't able to answer your calls."
Mohinder found what he was looking for, a bag containing several pill bottles, and went over to Molly's suitcase, packing it in securely. "These are Molly's medicines; she needs to take all of them every night and one of them in the morning. Don't worry, she's good about keeping on schedule." He paused for a second, as if in thought, and then abruptly he rushed over to the mess in his suitcase, his hand groping for something under a pile of shirts.
"Um, did you forget something in Chicago?" Matt asked.
"No…I'm just-no, that's not it. Is it in the other suitcase? …No Matt, actually, I'm just incredibly disorganized. No, not this one…"
"Look, why don't you go ahead and sort this out after lunch?" he suggested. "You're going to be leaving Molly for a week, she's going to miss you."
He looked over at Matt, still looking a little distressed. "Well, I suppose I can do this later-"
"—Yeah, you can, Mohinder. Come on, relax. She told me that you've been really high-strung lately."
"…Molly said that?"
"She's a little concerned about you, yeah."
Mohinder rubbed his temples. "It's just that Molly needs so much attention, especially because of her illness, and…I don't know, I honestly don't think I'm cut out for this 'parenting' thing."
Matt snorted. "Hey, I have a kid coming in five months, do you think I'm ready for it? I'm scared to death, man. I'm afraid that I'll screw it up. But Jan keeps telling me that it's something you work at. It's terrifying, but you'll do fine, with practice."
"I suppose you're right…Still, it would be nice to have help taking care of Molly."
"What about that girl, Lucy?"
Mohinder laughed at the notion of Lucy as a babysitter. "Molly has to actually help me supervise her. Lucy's very prone to trouble."
"Why are you taking her along, then?"
"Because that's the kind of person I'm going to need to help me, Matt," he said seriously. "Even though I'm only going to Portugal to speak to a scientist about a cure, I can't risk anything anymore, just because Molly's ability is so important to other people."
He noticed that Matt had a rather impressed look on his face. "What?" he asked.
"You've got the whole protective thing down," he observed. "That's the most important skill of any parent."
He woke up to darkness, once again.
And that smell. But he was used to the routine.
Crawling out of bed, he went upstairs to his dingy bathroom, splashing water on himself in the sink. The mirror reminded him that he was in need of a shave. He looked over at the can of shaving cream on the shelf, and raised his hand.
The canister flew easily into his palm.
He smirked. That was the fastest he's been since November. With another small gesture, the razor followed, and he proceeded to dab his jaw. While shaving he nicked a spot under his chin, but he pointed his finger at it, allowing a thin layer of ice to cover the area momentarily. He brushed it off, and the wound was clean.
The precision is better, he thought to himself as he looked in the mirror. Soon I'll be ready.
When he finished, he went down his favorite tunnel, peering up at a grate. It was sunny outside. Not a cloud in the sky.
Sylar smiled. He had healed, had recovered into his old self again. Such resilience. I bet I could even survive the end of the world.
Gazing up into the grate fixedly, he looked forward to the brand new day, the brand new hunt.