AUTHOR'S NOTE: 200 reviews, hooray! And about 10 short of 200 pages—that has to mean something, or at least it's a cool coincidence. Anyway, thank you to everyone—your reviews make my day, you gorgeous, fantastic readers. They just make me want to…write you a haiku.

Reviews are lovely

Make want to jump and sing

Thank you everyone

Right, that sucked. But it's the thought that counts, yeah? All right, on to the story, you don't really want to hear me talk, or attempt horrible poetry.

You painted me in pastel/
Colors that don't tell of any boldness/
That's the way you'd love to see me/
So delicate, so weak, so little purpose/

When Claire opened the door and saw Peter, sitting up against the wall with his hands hidden, tied behind his back, she felt as if her heart might break into pieces. She wasn't sure she wanted to be part of this family, where there were as many layers of deception as levels of Hell and people attacked each other on a regular basis. She hurried to him and Katie knelt on the floor beside her, shaking him gently, trying to get him to open his eyes so they could escape like cat burglars out into the city. His eyelashes fluttered open and he looked at her with mild surprise, confused and angry and struggling out of her grip.

"Why am I tied up?" he asked flatly.

"Oh," Katie explained helplessly. "Nathan thought you might run off."

"Damned right I'm going to run off, get me loose, Claire!"

"Calm down," she said soothingly. "That's what we came here for, but I'm not letting you free unless you promise to take me with you."

"What?" Katie said. "That wasn't part of the plan."

"Wasn't part of my plan, either," Peter agreed. "You're staying here where you're safe, Claire."

"Sorry," she said breezily. "I'm going with you. Isn't that what we do? Run off on crazy dangerous missions without telling anyone where we're going? We've got this whole Batman-and-Robin relationship going on, Peter, don't screw it up. Besides," she pointed out logically, "so far I'm the only one who's been able to get near Ted when he's going nuclear—what was your plan for stopping him, Mr. New-York-Apocalypse? You don't even know what he looks like."

"Good point," Peter admitted. "All right, get me out of here and I'll think about it."

"Right," Katie said, sounding wistful. "I'll just stay here and face the music for your prison break, shall I? Have fun in Washington, be sure to pack a raincoat."

"Oh, stop whining," Peter said good-naturedly as Claire untied his wrists. "You can come with us, of course. The more the merrier, right? They can have a big triple funeral for us after we get ourselves killed."

"Don't be morbid," she scolded lightly. "And I wasn't kidding about that raincoat, it's pretty wet this time of year. Go pack, and for God's sake, be quiet."

---

Candice: Hi there. I'm surprised to hear from you, I thought you were dead.

Jonathan: You would, wouldn't you, after the way you completely ditched me? No heroes among thieves, right?

Candice: I never said I was a hero. So are you still walking, or what?

Jonathan: Yeah, I've still got all my limbs, though it was close there for a minute.

Candice: I should be so lucky. Want to tell me what happened?

Jonathan: Oh, you know—blood, death, schizophrenia, the usual. The funny part is, looks like our friend Sylar has picked up an extra personality, from killing Niki Sanders and all. He's actually a nice guy, when he's not a raging killer.

Candice: You're right, that's absolutely hilarious.

--dead air--

Jonathan: You know I hate you, right?

Candice: Yeah, I'm pretty okay with that.

Jonathan: Just so you know. Anyway, I'm sick of standing here on the side of the road like a particularly attractive sort of homeless person. Tell me where you are and I'll come stalk you.

Candice: I'm a few blocks away, at the Marriot on the corner. Bring your pet serial killer, unless he turns into Sylar again, in which case you're probably screwed.

Jonathan: I guess you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? I'll be there. Don't wait up for me.

Mr. Bennet read over the phonecall transcript Hana had sent him for a third time, carefully highlighting the parts that could be useful. Most of it was snarky back-and-forth between two vastly unhappy people seeking an outlet for their frustration, but there were some specific location clues that he was definitely going to highlight. He was pleased to finally be turning the tables back to their proper positions, with him holding the gun instead of standing between the crosshairs. He couldn't wait to get out and run them to the ground, these people that had hurt him and hurt Claire, playing with their hands and their hearts and their heads, thinking that they were in control and that nothing could ever change.

They were about to find out how very wrong they were, and he hoped he could be the one looking in their eyes as they bled their surprise out and died. He wasn't a sadistic man, but he was currently a very angry one, and he imagined that killing them would feel very good.

---

Angela treaded the hallway quietly, noticing as always that they kept this floor oddly dark. They didn't often use it, not since Peter had moved out, and the absence of his smiles and buoyancy had so seemed to darken the house that she hadn't even noticed the literal dimness for some time. Now, though, it was cloying and claustrophobic, so reminiscent of some gloomy cave that she half-expected the roof to start growing stalactites.

She wondered what she could possibly say to Peter; "Hi honey, I'm sorry your brother knocked you out and tied you up, you know how he is"? Her family was so unnatural in the twists and turns of its relationships—there wasn't a single parenting book that made sense in the context of her nuclear-emo-nurse younger son and her unethical-flying-Congressman older one. Perhaps, she thought, she should write her own book: Mobsters, Murder, and Other Family Issues.

She opened the door to Peter's room and stuck her head in, looking around in the darkness for her son. She looked for some time, standing awkwardly part of the way in the room, legs and torso sticking out into the hall. Then, she pulled her head out of the room, calmly shut the door, and stood with her arms folded under the moody half-light.

She wondered what Nathan would say if she told him Peter was gone.

---

Jonathan didn't even bother to knock, tossing the door open and walking into Candice's suite with the careless arrogance of a king or a teenager. Candice looked up from her magazine with a slow, annoyed glare, taking in the sight of him and the man behind him, still as a painting and dripping all over the carpet. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" she said, as condescendingly as she could. "What would you have done if I had been making out with the bellboy on the couch?"

"I don't know," Jonathan said unconcernedly. "Why, is that something you're likely to do?"

"If I get bored enough," she said with all honesty. "He is sort of cute."

"Thanks so much for sharing that," Jonathan said, making a face. "In other, more important news, this is Gabriel Gray. I believe he's on your checklist of runaways, no?"

"Hi, Gabe," she said, and she saw him wince at the abbreviation. "I'm Candice Wilmer. How are you?"

"I've been better," he said shortly, shivering with fear and wet.

"Oh, you two are just soaking," Candice said, mock-motherly. "Let's get you out of those clothes." She used her voice to layer implications into her words, letting her eyes linger long enough on Gabriel to make him thoroughly uncomfortable. Then she broke focus, jerking her head toward the phone on the table. "Call room service, they'll get you something to wear." Then she walked over to Jonathan, pulling him to the side so they could talk. "Forget the bellboy," she said softly. "He's sexy as hell."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "And completely evil half the time," he reminded her. "Then again, that makes you a good match, doesn't it?"

"He is on Mr. Linderman's Extremely-Dangerous-Shoot-to-Kill list," Candice mused. "I guess that rules out any casual relations, doesn't it?"

"More than somewhat," Jonathan said, rubbing his hair dry with a towel so that it stood up at incredible, gravity-defying angles. "So what are we going to do with him?"

"This," said Candice, and she pulled a gun out of her jacket, took aim, and shot Gabriel in the head.

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