I knew this was a dream/

It was too good to be true/
Coincidences were a bit much too/

Claire had a massively strong, apparently unconscious talent for drawing people in. Hana could feel it already, after knowing the girl only a few hours—and invisible hand reaching out to her, asking her to take it and come in and be part of Claire's life. Whether she knew it or not, Claire was the focal point of all this—she was the sun and the rest orbited around her. She had brought them together, coalesced them and was now driving them all forward to their unknown fates.

Hana hoped the girl never lost that, the selfless magnetism—if nothing else, it was a fantastic defense mechanism.

Peter, too, was something special—there was far more to him than his eyes would tell her. He had the look of someone carrying a large black problem, festering and unresolved. It was rather at odds with his natural demeanor, sweet and gutsy and bright like a candleflame. She let herself admit she was attracted to him, off in the corner of her mind where she locked such things away. Nothing remarkable, nothing epic—she defied any woman who spent more than five minutes in his charming company not to want to propose marriage on the spot.

It was enough to even make her hope he didn't get himself killed. She'd been extremely uncomfortable with the notion of sending him alone into Camp Linderman, while she and the little Bennet (Bennet's daughter! That had thrown her for a curve—strange bedfellows, indeed) sat in her apartment, twiddling their fingers. However, she had eventually been convinced that short of an extended siege, this was really the only feasible plan.

So it came to be the daughter of her former sworn enemy was sitting on a stool at her bar, eating challah like there was no tomorrow—possibly a smart idea, Hana thought morbidly, considering that there very well might not be.

"This is really good," Claire said, so surprised she forgot to swallow before speaking. "What is it?"

"Challah bread," Hana told her, leaning her elbows on the marble countertop. "It's Israeli."

"Oh," Claire said, looking at the chunk of bread in her hand. "Are you from Israel? I thought you sort of looked like it."

"Yes, I am," Hana said, giving a small smile despite herself, amused at the girl's unabashed bluntness. "I was born in Israel and I lived there, serving in the army, for many years."

"So that's where you learned to fight like that," Claire said, suddenly straight-focus intent. "I was wondering. When you grabbed Peter—I've never seen anyone move so fast." She looked down at her bread, staring at it as if it held all the secrets of the universe, trying to build the courage to ask what she wanted of this woman she barely knew. "Do you think you could teach me?"

"What?" Hana, floored.

"I know what you're thinking," Claire said defensively. "You're thinking I couldn't ever learn anything like that, that I look like a Barbie doll and I'm really fragile. Well, I'm not—I can't get hurt at all, I told you that. I'm a really fast learner, I wouldn't be a problem."

Hana glanced the girl over thoughtfully—she was right, she did look like a Barbie, pretty and skinny and blond. That was probably what most people saw when they looked at her, but they didn't know to look for what Hana did—the carefully hidden third-layer grit in her eyes, the seemingly delicate fingers curled into furious fists, the strength of character threaded through her teenage bearing. "Of course I will," she said, jumping lightly off her stool and falling into an easy, open stance. "When do you want to start?"

Claire eyed Hana's ready-to-take-on-ten-battalions posture nervously, suddenly remembering Claude and Peter's brutal training sessions, wondering what on earth she was getting herself in for. Well, she reminded herself grimly, you asked for it. She pushed the stool away and stood, brushing challah crumbs off her sweater. "Now," she said.

---

It definitely wasn't the first time Peter had ridden in a limo—as the brother of a Congressional candidate, he was forced into all sorts of limo-enabled functions on a regular basis. However, it was the first time he had ridden in a limo while actively wanting to be sick, trying not to think about how quickly he was being driven towards his possible demise.

The Las Vegas skyline had moved steadily in until it surrounded him, sweeping glitzy rhinestones-and-gold buildings that bit into the clouds, pretending to belong, obscenely out of place. Every surface was neon and every breath was filled with smog; it was beautiful and deadly like a siren, a near-authentic imitation of real life. He didn't like it—this was Nathan's world, not his, and it made him feel twitchy.

The limo slid smoothly to a halt outside The Monticello, and Peter took a deep breath, preparing himself for to draw back the curtain and face the real wizard. Despite how inextricably the man had been intertwined with his family, Peter had never so much as seen a picture of the elusive Linderman. Unless the man had three heads (very possible), he trusted himself not to jump and scream when he met him—he did not, however, have any idea what he would do. The scene was set and the lights were going up—he hoped this would go well

He stepped out of the limo, copycatting Thompson's self-aware, grounded posture, buttoning his cuffs as he was ushered into the casino. The black-clad security personnel, completely indistinguishable from each other, hurried him past loudly blinking slot machines and cocktail waitresses wearing too much makeup, into a cleaner side-venue. The plush carpeting faded into tile, and soon he could hear healthy, busy sounds coming from the door ahead of him.

It was the kitchen. Which was surprising, to say the least—wild visions passed before Peter's eyes of being stabbed to death by chefs with butcher knives, but they only lasted an instant and he had composed himself again by the time they stopped. Taking his bearings now that the casino wasn't rushing by him at an alarming rate, he found himself staring across a stainless-steel table at a grandfatherly white-haired man who seemed to be ignoring him, intent on slicing a loaf of bread.

As he began to realize who this man probably was, his body tried to do a double take, but he muscled firmly past the reaction and analyzed the situation. So this is Linderman. Interesting.

Linderman finished cutting his bread and set the knife down, finally looking up at Peter. "Ah, Thompson," he said congenially. "I've been expecting you." Behind him, a tall Hispanic chef flipped a pizza crust distractingly into the air, but Peter kept his eyes determinedly on Linderman.

"I came as soon as I could, Mr. Linderman," Peter said, carefully keeping within Thompson's dry, unemotional tones.

"Try this," Linderman said, handing him a piece of still-steaming bread.

Peter took the bread uncertainly, completely unable to pin this man down. Based on everything he'd ever known, he would have said Linderman was the single most evil person on the planet—yet here he was, smiling serenely at him, cooking, offering him bread? It didn't fit. Still studying Linderman furiously, he took a bite of the bread, and tried to figure out if the man was sincere. He could almost catch double, triple entendres hovering under his words, but they were so slight you could never grab hold of them—and meanwhile, here he was, charismatic and harmless.

"It's excellent," he told Linderman, buying time by taking another bite.

"Why, thank you," Linderman said, leaning back against the table, arms crossed. "It's the butter that does it, you know. There's this odd sentiment nowadays that margarine out to be used in cooking, but that's a fallacy, I can tell you. If you're willing to trade low calories for taste, you shouldn't be cooking at all. Don't you agree, Peter?"

He felt the lethal two-syllable sound of his name like a small explosion in his chest, rocking him back on his heels and freezing him completely from his heart out to his fingers. He knew. How did he know? Wrestling his body away from the shock, he immediately turned to escape this sudden deathtrap, but he stumbled, catching the counter for support. There was something wrong with him, something that was more than surprise and fear. His eyes were blurring and his hands were losing feeling, toxic immobility racing through him like grassfire.

"That's right, I know who you are," Linderman said, looking calmly down at him as he fell to his knees. "And yes, the bread was drugged. It's remarkable how much the taste cooks out, really."

Over Linderman's shoulder, Peter saw the wiry pizza-making chef walk over, shimmer-blurring like a mirage, finally cutting through to reality. Candice. That explained a lot.

Linderman watched dispassionately as Peter crumpled to the white tile floor, changing back to his own body as he blacked out. Admittedly, he had been wanting to meet the boy, but not like this. He looked so much like his father, the long eyelashes and the slender taut frame—in many ways, he was far more like him than Nathan was, he wondered if Peter knew that. Ah, well.

"Take him down to the vaults and put him in a cell," he told Candice, turning away.

"Um, no can do, boss," Candice said, nudging Peter with her toe. "We've only got one cell with the capabilities to hold him, and Sylar's in it. Maybe you should have thought of that before you laid him out on your kitchen floor."

"Then put him in the cell with Sylar," Linderman ordered her. "But—do try to see that they don't kill each other, would you?"

"You want him to be roommates with a crazy serial killer?" she asked skeptically. "He'll be dead before he wakes up."