TITLE: The Boy of Tomorrow
RATING: PG-13
COUPLE: Claire/Zach (Clach)
SUMMARY: To win the battle of the future, Claire must save one last ally with powers beyond compare.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters from Heroes and am not making any profit with them. They all belong to NBC. If they were mine, then I guess I'd make Zach and Claire a couple and wouldn't let Thomas Dekker leave for „The Sarah Connor Chronicles" (because I would have hired him with a contract and not per episode).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: No Zach yet – but we're getting there. A tiny glimpse of him, maybe here, and an entire Zach in #5.

The Boy Of Tomorrow (4/?)
by Dare

"What the hell is that?" Claire asked.

James Guildenstern, a tall man with a receding hair line and nothing remotely resembling a haircut, stood next to a yellow monster. "Erm, this is Pandora," he introduced his cab, possibly built 1804. "She is much faster than it seems – and I have removed her original motor in order to --"

"Yeah, I get it. I get it." Claire sighed. Magdalena would so going to get it – if she had the guts to appear again.

This was no car, this wasn't even an oldtimer, this was as disease, she decided when she slid onto the backseat and sniffed.

"Oh, that just my cat Rufus," James said. "He is sleeping under my seat. Don't disturb him and he won't disturb you."

Claire spotted a huge, red cat with piercing yellow eyes somewhere in the darkness of the car.

"Does he ever leave – Pandora?" Claire wanted to know.

"Nope. He kinda resides here," James said. "Do you mind if I smoke, Miss Claire?"

"Yes," she said sharply.

"Cool," James announced. "You really are exactly like Mr. Banks told dad told me. Now – the money?"

"Oh, yeah right." She handed him an envelope and James opened it. His eyes grew huge.

"For that, I'll drive you anywhere you want," he announced. "Mi cara es tu cara."

"I'm sorry?" Claire asked.

He looked at her via the driving mirror. She saw his embarrassment. "Well, you know – my car is your car."

"Right. Just drive – and let me do the talking," Claire told him and handed him Rosencrantz' business card.

"Midland, huh?" He placed a black driver's cap onto his hat. The sheer corniness of it made Claire roll her eyes. "Here we go."

He started the motor and Pandora howled with what Claire hoped was enthusiasm. The entire car jerked once, twice and then, a high sound emanated from the engine, grew higher and higher, and finally the entire vehicle bolted down the street.

Claire's last thought was: I hope I'll make it alive.

James Guildenstern talked the entire way until they arrived in Midland. He talked practically about everything: the prices at the local supermarket, Chad Vader, internet pornography, his new Nike shoes, his doctor's misconceptions about his headaches, a new brand of cigarettes he had recently found out about and the his neighbor's affair with the postman (Claire couldn't find out if the neighbor, or the postman for that matter, were male, or female, or neither – or both). No matter how much she snapped at him for shutting up – the silence lasted about for ten seconds and then he started again.

The office of Rosencrantz & Sons was in a small, dark alley were James could park Pandora and then, the alley was full. It was an old office building, a bit run down, and Claire couldn't care less: she almost screamed "Land!" when she was finally leaving his bad excuse for a vehicle.

Someone was standing at the window and when he saw Claire, he waved. Claire was just about to ring the bell when someone opened her.

It was an elderly men with gray hair and a long, thin face. He sported a friendly expression, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses and the air of the archetypical grandfather.

"Hello," he said, wearily, when he saw James' car and James, leaning on it, smoking a cigarette. "Are you lost, young lady?"

"No," she said and fished a piece of paper from her backpack. "Are you Mr. Rosencrantz?"

"Why, yes," the man said, clearly surprised. "What can I do for you?"

She looked up at him. "My name is Claire Bennet," she clarified. "I am here to talk to you about Mr. Michael Bartholomew Banks?"

The man stared at her. "You are Claire Bennet?" He stared at her and suddenly recognition seemed to dawn in his features. "Just a second." He closed the door and after some moments opened them again.

Claire opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off when she noticed a swift movement in the corner of her eyes. When she looked down, she noticed the ugly gash on her forearm and Rosencrantz, standing there with a now bloody knife, looking down at the wound with growing fascination.

"Are you crazy?" she snapped at him angrily. "What are you doing?" She slapped him on the chest, but the man remained unimpressed.

The blood on her skin immediately started to disappear until nothing more than a slightly red stain was visible on her flawless skin – and seconds later, even that had disappeared.

Rosencrantz looked up. "Just had to be sure. Do you have a passport?"

"Just how many girls with with ability to spontaneously regenerate come and visit you, Mr. Rosencrantz?" Claire asked, still annoyed.

It hadn't hurt very much and her self-inflicted wounds had been much worse, but people still couldn't come up to her and stab her – just for identification. Hello, are you Claire Bennet? Oh, just let me cut your throat and then, we'll see.

"That's a good point," Rosencrantz admitted. "Still, do you have a passport?"

Claire sighed. "I have student ID card – and a library card and a monthly bus ticket," she said.

James laughed softly and Claire shot him a glance that silenced him immediately.

"Maybe you should come in, Miss Bennet," Mr. Rosencrantz advised her and opened the door.

"Are you going to stab me again?" Claire asked suspiciously.

"No," he assured her. "You're now perfectly save. I'm sorry, but I have instructions I need to follow."

"What if I hadn't been Claire Bennet and you would have injured some innocent girl?"

Rosencrantz shrugged. "I don't know. Bad luck?"

Claire followed him up a large stairway to his bureau. Everything, from the floor, to the ceiling, to the frames of the windows were mahagony colored. Even the light, floating through large, spacious windows seemed to be dark golden. The walls were covered with bookshelves, as were the tables and sometimes, even the floor.

It didn't seem like an office, but a library. Claire told her host so, and Mr. Rosencrantz chuckled. "I only had one client in my entire life," he said. "And he was very generous. The only thing I do is reading – and waiting for you."

"You've been waiting for me since forty years?" Claire wanted to know.

"Oh, possibly longer," Mr. Rosencrantz said. "But I don't mind. I owe Mr. Banks so much."

"Aren't you leaving those rooms ever?" she asked.

"Of course I do – I go shopping and play mini golf every Saturday. And since my discovery of Ebay, this place is practically bustling with life." He winked at her and motioned her to sit down in front of his desk. He himself took his seat behind it, readjusted his glasses once again and smiled. "Now, your student ID, library card and monthly bus ticket, please."

She handed them over and with lots of "Hmm"s and nodding, he finally gave them back. "For the official proceedings, I might need your passport, though," he informed her, while opening a drawer.

"What official proceedings?" Claire asked.

"Mr. Michael Bartholomew Banks has named you as his sole heir," he asked and handed her some documents. "You get his money, his estate, his shares and his bonds, under the condition that you save the so-called Boy Of Tomorrow." He nodded towards a sealed envelope. "His last will."

"The man never met me," Claire protested.

Mr. Rosencrantz smiled behind those glasses of his. "I concur. And yet, he has," he said and nodded at something behind Claire.

The girl turned around and paled visibly.

Next to the door within a large, golden frame, there was an oil painting ...

... of herself. Her long tresses flowed down her neck and touched her shoulders. On the picture, Claire was looking down, her long lashes visible. A smile was gracing her lips, and it was obvious that she knew a secret.

"That's me," Claire concluded. "That's really me."

Mr. Rosencrantz laughed. "Yes, I know. Mr. Banks drew it. There are lots of sketch books preserved which also show pictures of you. In the meantime, I will give you this. Mr. Banks' instructions inform me that you'll need it." He handed her a credit card. "And this. There is a date on the backside of it."

She took the map and looked at it. A large X marked a spot. And the date on the back ...

She looked up. "That's tomorrow. Just great."

Mr. Rosencrantz chuckled. "Yes. I had several bets going with my sons. Looks like I lost them."

She looked at the credit card. "Aren't those for people who, at least, hold a job?"

"Yes – and technically, the account is still registered for me. However, you can take as much money, as you want," Mr. Rosencrantz said. "I imagine you'll need it. After all, it belongs to you and I am told your father shouldn't get it."

"Yes," Claire said, slowly. She wondered just how much Mr. Rosencrantz knew about practically anything. "Yes, I guess so."

"Do you have any questions?" Mr. Rosencrantz asked.

Claire looked at him, trying to figure him out. "What do you know about this so-called Boy Of Tomorrow?"

Rosencrantz sighed. "Not much. Mr. Banks was always very vague on the subject. He is very important; he is another person than the one you are going to save on the date of the map." Raising a finger, he suddenly remembered something. "However, Mr. Banks once drew a picture of him." He scanned the contents of his drawer and finally placed a picture carefully on the table. "There. That's the one."

Drawn with red chalk on a ivory-colored piece of paper, Claire looked at the face of a young boy. He was beautiful, a bit sad, and had the most expressive eyes she had ever seen. Long lashes surrounded them, making him look just a tad feminine. He somehow looked familiar, but Claire couldn't put her finger on the feeling and trace it back to the corresponding memory. He was holding a pair of thick glasses in his left hand – and Claire imagined him wearing them and saw something of a rocket scientist.

"Can I keep this?" she asked.

Rosencrantz nodded. "Sure – go ahead. What about --" he gestured towards the Will and all the documents. "Everything else?"

She hesitated and furrowed her brows. "Do you think you can manage everything until I am fully of age?"

"I haven't been doing anything else for all my life. I think I can manage," Rosencrantz responded dryly. He watched her getting ready. "What are you going to do now?"

Claire looked at the map. "I will visit ... the person that is not the Boy of Tomorrow and save him ... or her, though I don't know what this is all about. And then, we'll see." She shook her head. "I don't believe all of this. Maybe I'm going crazy, slowly."

Rosencrantz shook his head. "Most certainly not. You know why?"

"Why?"

He leaned towards her and his voice was tinged with benevolent humor. "Magdalena doesn't visit mentally ill people." He winked ...

... and for the first time on this day, Claire laughed. And she had never enjoyed the liberating feeling so much than in this very moment.

End (4/?)