Claire Bennet

Club Mutant, New York

While Claire sipped at a Diet Coke at the bar, she watched the shifting mass of other talented people. She'd never seen so many in one place, didn't realize that so many existed. How could a small group that included only her grow to such a number? She'd never allow so many strange people in, that's for sure.

Smokey had disappeared moments after letting her in, leaving her in the hands of the bartender Rose, who claimed to be able to grow a tree from seed to adulthood within half an hour. Rose regaled her for hours about tales of the clubs growth in four months. It wasn't until midnight that Claire began to grow restless of watching the others dance and listening to tales from Rose.

As she stood to leave, a band went onto the small stage at the front of the club. The guy at the mike looked more than a little anorexic, and the bass player looked strung out on some kind of drug. It was the guitarist that drew her attention. There was no mistaking the faded white hair, even in the dark atmosphere of the club.

The band started up, with covers of hard rock bands. She looked on in wonder and amazement at the music Smokey played. She was amazed that the noise that disturbed her so a few nights before had turned into this.

When the set ended, the band all left the stage into the crowd. In moments, Smokey was seated next to Claire, ordering himself a drink. He threw back his shot, and then looked at her with a massive grin on his face. "You seem shocked."

"It's not what I expected," Claire said, blushing.

He laughed. "With this ink, there's no way I could have been a cop. So, what did you expect?" She shrugged, and he downed another shot. "You do realize that I have to get you home by one."

Claire gave him a smug grin. "Why is that?"

"Well, first, I don't want you to turn into a pumpkin," he said, semi-seriously. "Second, you are underage, and if a cop does show up, it'll mean the club has to shut down for an investigation. And then there're your fathers. I've heard about them, and I don't want on their bad side."

Nathan Petrelli

Agency HQ, New York

"So, what are we going to do about this?" Noah asked, sitting across from him.

Nathan honestly couldn't understand the problem. The press knew nothing of the situation, and neither did the public. For all they knew, it could have been apart of a sting operation, and here they were, heckling the only people who stood between them and a psychotic, super-powered killer with a brain fetish. "Tell the truth. We support Matthew Parkman one hundred percent, especially since there were no fatalities in the incident."

"Except the girl's father," Noah said.

The flying man frowned. The more this working relationship went on, the more he disliked Noah. First, there was the discouragement about Peter, and now, the man was constantly pointing out the bad stuff that continued to happen. He'd already given Noah free reign to handle the policing of Evolutionarily Advanced people, but he still had to bug Nathan as if the world was on his shoulders.

"Noah," Nathan said slow so as not to enrage himself, "this is a very sensitive subject. If you have a better idea of how to handle it, then by all means, do it. However, in this case, we had the location of where Sylar would strike, not the person. We didn't identify that until after the attack had begun. There was nothing Matt could have done to prevent the death of Theodore Gillespie, although I'm sure he would have done whatever necessary to save him. That's just who Matt is, and I will stick with him until he shows otherwise."

Noah nodded. "Good. I just wanted to make sure that was how you felt. By the way, there still has been no sign of Hire Nakamura. I know you've wanted updates on him, but the Japanese administrator has found nothing to indicate that he's there."

"That's where Molly says he is, and I believe her," Nathan said. "After all, she's pinpointed Sylar for us three out of four times, and the last time, he was just gone."

"Is that what finally proved that Peter was dead?"

Nathan slammed his fist into desk. "Shut up!" he screamed, then regained his composure. "You do not know Peter, and until you do, I don't want to hear about him from you. Got that?" The other nodded, solemnly, hiding his own anger. "I haven't given up on Peter. He'll turn up, or he won't, but I will never give up on him again. I have just decided to make the search more personal, away from business."

What he'd said was, in essence, the truth. Since telling Claire, Nathan spent his free time flying around the globe in search of any sign of his brother. He suspected the Company had something to do with, but neglected to say something, knowing that at the time, Noah didn't work for them anymore. There was no information to be had from him.

"I'll go write up the press statement regarding Agent Parkman," Noah said, leaving Nathan once again to his thoughts.

It was strange knowing that you were working above men who have more knowledge than you in a subject as intimately as what he was. He liked to believe that he was selected for this job for more than just a face to gifted people, him being one himself. He had so much to offer, but everything he could give; Noah or Mohinder was an expert at it. He often wondered if this is what it felt like to be a lab rat. The scientists looking down at you in the maze, knowing every twist and turn, and letting you wander blind, looking for your bit of cheese.

Nathan pulled his phone out of his pocket. Thinking of Pete again got him wondering about Claire. Noah had said she was frazzled, but okay, But Nathan felt that his colleague's methods were a little less than ethical. Besides, he really wanted to hear from her. Once again, he was directed to voice mail. "Damn it, Claire. I really want to talk to you about this. Please, call me back." He said, before hanging up.

When it rains, it pours, and when it pours, it floods, and those who can't swim, drown. Nathan Petrelli was not going to drown, not if he could help it. He had to reach out to Claire, had to save this fledgling relationship with whatever gesture would work, just to get him talking to her again. There was only one answer; he had to tell Heidi.

Noel Gillespie

Hart Center, Los Angles, California

She sat in the holding cell with no real reason why. She could always just walk out, anytime she wanted. Perhaps it was the thought that Sylar couldn't reach her here. It was a safe place. She was still numb from shock, watching that monster kill her father. Some things didn't just get better.

It was the reason why she didn't see the doors open on her cell, or feel the hand grab her arm. The officer led her down a long corridor to a waiting room of sorts. Inside was a massive man, gruff, with a thick nest of brown hair encircling his head. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a big hug. If felt even safer than the cell had been, and she finally let herself cry. He patted her head.

"Everything is going to be alright," he said softly. "Everything will be fine in time. You'll see."

That was Uncle Oren for you, with his everything in its place mentality. She knew about her Uncle's gift. It was the reason why her dad moved them away from Las Vegas to Sacramento. He didn't want Noel to catch the mutation in the genes. People said it was contagious. She guessed they either didn't move fast enough or she got it from someone else or maybe, just maybe, that Indian doctor was right. It was genetic.

Perhaps, if her father was gifted, he wouldn't be dead now. In fact, she'd like to see Sylar storm up to Oren and try his little tricks against him.

Oren was perhaps the strongest person Noel knew, even beating out the guy who through the car. She'd seen it. He lifted it up, and threw it one handed. Oren, though, couldn't be hurt. His skin turned a dark brown, with jagged edges, rough as a mountain. Once, she'd seen a man try to stab Oren with a knife, and the change came over him, and the knife bent, cutting the man. Oren was a rock, literally.

Samael

New York, New York

He hated the sight of the freaks that walked in front of him. He put his hand inside his jacket, rubbing the butt of the pistol. Soon, he would show them that fear didn't come from the magic tricks of some sociopath. It came from the angels. He was an angel, perhaps of death, but he liked vengeance better.

Yeah, an agent of a vengeful God, sent to wipe out the menace from these sick people who corrupted others with thoughts of rising above such a god. Who did they think they were?

He stood across from the club, watching them file out. It was closing time, and he would finally reveal the wrath of God. He eyed them each with contempt. One of them short and fat painted like a scarlet woman. Another was a young blonde woman with the arm of white haired man wrapped around her. The last to exit the building was a tall man, with a number of piercings on his face.

Samael shuddered, imagining where else the crazed demon had metal studs protruding. Petting the gun, he followed the studded youth down the street, hoping to find a good spot to do the work of god. Finally, the youth stumbled into an alley to relieve himself of the poisonous alcohol he'd consumed in his night of debauchery. Samael followed him in, pulling the silenced pistol in his hands. Setting sights at the boys head, he spoke. "You fowl demon of Hell, I say to you in the name of the Lord Jesus, get off our plane!" He pulled the trigger before the youth could use his demonic powers.

The studded youth fell dead on the pavement. Samael felt a rush of blood. His first kill had been easy. He knew it wouldn't be easy for long. One time, he would run into a demon with great abilities that would challenge him, but, with God on his side, Samael was sure he wouldn't suffer greatly.

Using the dead youth's blood, he painted a message to others on the brick wall.

"I am Samael, Angel of Death, Weapon of God.. To all the demons that walk this earth, I give you warning. I will find you and dispatch you to the great undying Hell from which you were spawned."

He left the alley, leaving the scene undisturbed, and waited for his divine message to reach the demonic masses.

Claire Bennet

New York, New York

It was way past one when Smokey finally stood from his bar seat, a more than a bit wobbly from his drinking. Claire giggled, and let him put an arm around her for support and helped him out the door. Their apartment building was only a few blocks away, so they skipped a cab and walked.

"I," Smokey hiccupped. "I probably drank too much."

"You think?" Claire asked. "You know, for such a skinny guy, you sure do weigh a lot."

Despite his being wasted, he seemed to be a little anxious about the three guys behind them. He urged her to walk faster. He sobered up quick, making her believe it was just an act. "Come on," he whispered. "I don't like the look of those guys." He started to pull her towards the building, now in sight, but she wanted to enjoy the night air.

The bat came out nowhere, striking her in the back of the head. It came with a hard, jagged voice greeting her. "Mutie bitch!" She went down hard, blacking out.

When she came back, she heard the bickering men. "Oh, man! I think you hit too hard, Kale! Look at all the blood!"
"Steve get a hold of yourself, and hold this guy tighter! Who knows what he can do?"

"Shut up, both of you!" the first guy yelled. She let her eyes open just a bit and saw a tall man standing over her, a baseball bat hung loosely in his hand. "She's fine. She's still breathing. I'll fix that." He lifted the bat and slammed it into her back, eliciting a scream from both Claire and Steve.

"See, Steve," Kale said. "You just got to trust Logan in these things. She's fine. The mutie's can take it."

"You realize that all of you are in serious trouble," she heard Smokey tell them. She struggled to turn so that the Smokey and the two guys that held him were in view.

"Why don't you just shut your mouth like a good little boy," Logan said. "We'll get to you in a second." He slammed the bat into her back again, this time bringing blood to her lips in a gushing cough.

"You're killing her, Logan!" Steve said, in a sharp falsetto voice. "That wasn't part of the plan. We were just going to scare them, remember?"

Watching through a haze, Claire witnessed what happened next. Without her knowledge of talented people, she would have swore she was going nuts. Both of Smokey's arms became transparent, swirling about like smoke. He jerked his elbows back, which became solid, into the guts of the people holding him. They both fell to the ground. Logan stepped up and took a home run swing, which went through his smoke changed midsection and wrapped around the assailant. Smokey kicked one foot back into the chest of Steve and leapt into Logan, still recovering from his swing.

Now running, he lifted Claire to her feet and dragged her the remaining distance to their apartment building. He didn't let them slow down until they reached her front door.

Taking a moment to breath, she put a hand to the back of her head and pulled it back, sticky with blood. "Damn it," she said, more to herself than to Smokey. "They went and ruined a perfectly good day."

Smokey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from her lower lip. Where it had split on the pavement, it had already healed, as with her head and all the internal damage from the repeated blows to the repeated blows to the back. Looking at her with intense sincerity, he asked, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she said, wiping the blood off on her jeans. "Healing is what I do."

"Well, make sure you look your door. They saw us run in here, and I wouldn't put it past them to try and find us again. Try and keep a low profile for the next few days. They might decide we just came in here to call the police."

"Aren't we?" Claire asked.

Smokey shook his head. "I didn't get a good look at them. Did you?" She shook her head. "Then there isn't much they can do besides take a report, and since there aren't any injuries to speak of, I don't really feel like arguing with them to get them to believe us, do you?"

Claire sighed. "You're right." Life was so much more complicated than it used to be. He looked at her earnestly for a few moments, before smiling. Feeling self conscious, she wiped her chin, thinking there might be more blood there. "What?"

"You have really pretty eyes," he said, before going to his own apartment, one door down.

She smiled, then went into Peter's apartment. She locked the door, pulling on it to make sure it would hold, and then went to bathroom. She showered, keeping her bloody clothes away from the rest of her laundry. When she got out, she pulled on a pair of Peter's scrubs, and crawled into the bed, trying to block out the attack, and only remember the good parts of the night.