A/N: OMG!!! I swear it took FOREVER to get this chapter written! I was soooooo stuck!!! And then there was Thanksgiving and work's been killing me, ughhh!!! But alas, here it is!!! AT LAST!!!! This chapter is LOOOONG and is all about the Character Development of Claire. There's a theme going on here in Volume Two - absence and it's effects on the heart. I think, at the end of the chapter, you might start to see someone *else* enjoying a nice little float trip vacation in Egypt... I dunno... whatchoo think?
I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D
8) Jason
It was cruel, being back in New York. She could hear the ghosts of long dead voices drift up from the alleyway below. She sat on the balcony of the Oglesby family home: a non-descript third story apartment belonging to what appeared to be a simple taxi driver, his wife, and teenage son. With her back against the bricks and her knees being warmed by a slowly setting sun igniting a lingering heat in the surrounding greenhouse gases, she watched a parade of faces march their haunting promenade beneath her, belonging to the ancient family who used to live there – her family, her own memories made manifest across the dreamscape of her own disconsolate imagination.
She was laying low, having narrowly escaped capture at the space station once her co-worker, Tami, had raised suspicion against her for sympathizing with the modular rebellion. After having spent two days holed up in the apartment with nothing to watch but somber news reports covering the Zephyr explosion, she'd had quite enough and had crossed Duncan's wishes by making a trip outside.
It had been a long time since she'd made her last trip to New York. Some traditions died hard – she got herself a slice of pizza and was surely going to visit a real bakery. She'd made the mistake of looking for the old high rise that housed the company she worked for when she was married to Craig. She couldn't even find the street, the locale had changed so drastically. Deciding it was for the best, she gave up and didn't even bother trying to find their old apartment. She was afraid of getting lost, anyway – not because she was afraid of being hurt, obviously, but because she was afraid of being discovered. The last thing she wanted to do was put Duncan even further at risk after everything he'd done for her.
She was plodding down the sidewalk like a zombie, heading back toward the train station with her fet in her hand trying to find directions to the closest muffin shop, when a weird sixth sense tingled between her ears, stopping her in her tracks. She straightened slowly and turned away from her busy handheld display, scanning the area for the source of her sudden distraction. It lay immediately to her right. She came around to face it, retracting a step and tilting her chip up for a better view. She stood stock still for several minutes, head tilted and lips slightly parted in wonderment, reading the sign over and over before she truly registered that what she was looking at was the storefront for a little jewelry shop – one that mostly specialized in the sale of watches and other small timepieces, all different kinds and all different units of time (because not every colony shared the same diurnal cycle). She knew, from perusing her father's file on him centuries ago, that Sylar had been a watchmaker, here in the city. She wondered where his shop would've been. She wondered where he'd lived. She wondered if she was standing anywhere close to where he'd stalked and terrorized any one of his countless victims…
He was gone. She felt like the breath had been snatched from her throat. It had only taken the two days she'd spent with him for her to be completely suckered into believing that he was different than every other walking meatbag in the known universe, and she'd been wrong. Well, he had always been kinda different, but… okay, very fucking different, but whatever. He ended up being just as expendable as anyone else – he was a joke that nature played on her. She was aware that if his body could be recovered, it very likely could be revived but it was the recovery that was impossible. The explosion of that ship flung debris in a wide sphere at such a velocity that, in the frictionlessness of space, it would've kept moving on the same trajectory at the same speed forever and ever, or until it collided with something, which was astronomically unrealistic. Trying to find his body would've been like looking for a grain of sand on a faraway beach… on some other planet. And that was wholly dependent on whether or not he'd been completely vaporized. He had been a gift from the fates – a representative of her life allowing her to live as 'Claire Bennett' for just two days before he was ripped away. If she'd known her time with him was final, and was truly to be that short… she would've done more with it. What she would've changed she couldn't easily admit, her mind tossed with countless wild daydreams, but she would've said something more than just 'You've repaid me more than you know'. She would've told him that she did see a change in him, and that she was proud of him.
She would've told him she'd miss him. He would've known someone would mourn his passing.
Duncan's son, Jason, had found her an undetermined amount of time later, still standing outside the shop. He'd driven her home (presumably under the direction of his father) and talked the whole way – something she'd found unusual in a seventeen year old boy, as she often found them nervous and awkwardly silent while Jason was strangely outgoing – but she hadn't heard a word he'd said. She'd sequestered herself to the balcony after that, not wanting to hear what Duncan would have to say and really not in the mood for human companionship. All she wanted was some time to herself, a really good cry, and a new I.D. so she could start moving on. Alone.
Through the glass door, and over the sound of a steaming tea kettle, she could hear Duncan being addressed by his wife, Zari.
"I think she knew him, nyonda," she heard her say.
"What gives you that impression?"
"She is upset. No one is that upset over a stranger. Do not be angry with her."
Upset was a severe understatement. Claire was devastated. A million years from now the universe will implode to the size of one little lifeless, lightless floating lump of rock and she'll be left to stand on it with nothing and no one. Even a reformed serial killer was preferable to the eternal solitude. No one understood what it was like. She wore her tears like a brand – a mark showing the world exactly what she was. She didn't draw up her knees, she didn't conceal her face in her hands, she didn't hold her breath or try to keep them inside. She spilled them proudly, like a bleeding wound in battle.
Until the balcony door opened to test her mettle.
"Here," said a male voice that wasn't Duncan's. Through a watery haze she saw Jason over the rim of the steaming mug he was handing her. "Mom made this for you. It's tea – an ancient African blend. It'll make you feel better. I'm – we're – sorry for your loss. Careful it's ho-"
Claire swallowed a large gulp. It was really good – a fruit blend of some kind, she was unable to identify.
"… hot." Jason huffed a small laugh. "I bet you eat pizza straight out of the oven too, without blowing on it."
"That's me, living life on the edge… Thank you though, this is nice." It dawned on her that Jason had referred to Zari as 'mom'. Jason took after his father – pale, Norse features with crystal blue eyes and dusty blonde hair – while Zari was clearly of African descent. Jason picked up on her curiosity, and was glad – his story meant he could relate to her.
"My real mother died. So, I, uh… I kinda know how you feel."
"I'm sorry." He had no idea how she felt. Be nice, Claire.
"Oh, it's alright, it happened a long time ago. I was really young. She was killed in a Federal raid on a known rebel compound. Zari's great, but dad's always worried about me. Says dealing with death is hard on people our age."
She couldn't stop herself.
"… our age?"
"Yeah, like you and me."
Sometimes she forgot she was eternally locked in the body of a teenager.
"So… your dad hasn't told you anything about me has he?"
"Just that you're a natural born, and that your boyfriend died on the Zephyr."
Why did everyone insist on calling him that? Ughh… Acutely aware her face was still wet, she was eager to change the subject.
"What's your ability, Jason?"
"Same as my dad, I'm a telepath. I've been rakin' in killer cash at poker tables. Pisses dad off, though." He absentmindedly fiddled with a leaf that had blown in on the wind. "Says he's scared I'm gonna piss off the mob… but mods need the money, right?"
"Don't piss off the mob, Jason." He just laughed and focused his attention on the leaf.
"So, what's your power?"
"What, you can't just read my mind?" she dug through a weak smile.
"Not without permission." But it was okay to jack with the mob…
She leaned her head back against the cool, old brick and lidded her eyes against the waning glare of the setting sun, idly tracing her fingertip up and down the handle of the mug.
"Cellular regeneration," she admitted. "I can heal from any wound and I've never been sick. Not a single day in my whole life." Her. Whole. Life. After a pause, she decided to drop the other shoe. She turned to face him, driving her stare right into him to import the significance of what she was about to tell him. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't even age." She chewed her lip a moment. "I'm three hundred and twenty-five years old, Jason."
His first instinct was to smile incredulously, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. She huffed and turned away from him.
"You have my permission," she scoffed, waving a hand. "Tell me I'm lying."
He tried. He couldn't.
"…holy shit… you've had a few boyfriends then." He was startled by his own boldness, feeling like he'd just called her a slut. "Uhhh, I mean… that's not what I meant, I -"
"I know what you meant. Typically, though, I don't do a lot of dating."
"But, what about -"
"Not my boyfriend." Seriously. "Just… someone I was close to. Our relationship was complicated. Look, I really appreciate the tea, it's very good, but I wonder if I could have just a few minutes alone? I've got a lot on my mind."
"Uh, yeah, sure," he said, rising on well muscled legs. When he wasn't cheating the mob out of money he also ran track for his high school. He brushed his hair out of his face – a nervous tick she'd seen him display several times. "Sorry, I just sensed this loneliness coming from you and thought you might want the company… telepaths don't always get it right." He smiled a lop-sided smile that reminded her a little of Peter.
"No, no, you're sweet, thank you. I just…"
"It's alright. I'll catch you later. And if you want to go into town, just let me know next time, 'kay? I, uh… I can take you, you know… if you want."
"That'd be great, thanks."
He nodded hard enough that the errant strand of hair he'd worked to displace disobeyed him. He opened the door and left her to her thoughts.
Two days and a couple of dirty jobs later, Duncan granted Claire her wish – she was to become Melissa Gant who would be starting her first day as a file clerk for a doctor's office on a very affluent colony in the Leo sector. She was moving to the colonies, and leaving every haunting memory of Earth behind.
~*~*~
*** three years later ***
Painfully aware that her ability did not grant her preternatural grace, having learned the hard way many times (regardless of her past as a talented tumbling cheerleader), she placed her scalding hot cup of tea as far from her own reach as possible in an attempt to protect the envelopes she was opening. It was the first thing in the morning, Monday, and she'd just sat down from her trip to the mailbox. Because, when it came to medical records, some things still needed to be in hard copy, she still had unopened letters to look forward to every day. She didn't know why she enjoyed them so much – perhaps it was just nice to see something not change through all of her many years. While real, physical paper had predominantly disappeared from most industries, she began to feel like her records were almost a link to the past… stirring echoes in her heart like a lost old flame. Therefore, they were precious to her and she was happy to treat them as such, regardless of whether or not they were a big part of her job. That was just an additional bonus.
She sorted and categorized all of the different papers: explanations of benefits where required, explanations of services rendered, authorization forms for services to be rendered, consent forms, medical history forms, receipts, new patient paperwork, and so on. For fun, she took the corner of a form authorizing the release of medical records and sliced it across the pad of her left thumb, watching the small wound heal before the blood could well up. She just wanted to be able to say she'd had a papercut. She was in the process of reaching for a band-aid that she could wear to further validate her claim when she noticed something extra sticking out of the envelope that had originally contained the form. It was a piece of paper, thinner than usual and lined – the kind she hadn't seen in forever – and it was folded like a note. Curious to see what extra words the patient had to offer about the release of their personal information, she tugged it free and opened it up.
And immediately thrust it under her desk and out of sight. It was handwritten from Duncan, which also meant the accompanying form was false. It told her that Jason was nearby and was in trouble. There was the possibility he was under suspicion and needed safe transport to a contact who would ferry him to a safe-house in the country near the northern edge of the bio-dome – one that would be visited by rebel shuttlecraft chartered with the task of bringing him safely home. Duncan apologized for contacting her, stating he realized she never signed up to become a rebel agent, but he could really use her help. Fuck, talk about guilt trip. He ended his note with a set of coded coordinates and a kind thank you, which Claire found presumptuous, but she couldn't refuse the man. He was telepathic, after all – perhaps he could tell from an incredible distance that she wouldn't be able to deny him his request. She committed the numbers to memory before sliding the paper through her shredder. In an attempt to mask her guilty face, she reached for her tea and pulled a long, slow slurp.
Later that evening, after running her usual errands before using public transportation to get home like always, and against her better judgment, she wrapped her body inside the plush concealment of a large, grey hoodie sweater and left her home on foot under the cover of darkness. She walked a long, meandering path until she reached a transit station she rarely visited. An adjacent building housed a company that rented all kinds of motorized vehicles, from scooters to trucks. She used the credit card Duncan had provided her when she'd started this life, making a mental note to shred it the next day at the office before calling it in stolen – perhaps she could convince anyone scanning her charges that the rental had been made by the perpetrator who'd 'stolen' the card. She was able to procure a small but quick two-seat sedan under the premise that she'd needed to pick up some packages that were simply too large to transport using the trains. She left the business and followed an even longer path, stopping first to treat herself to some dinner before winding her way through the city in the general direction her memorized coordinates specified.
She was dismayed as she grew nearer to her destination to discover that the surroundings had become somewhat… dismal. The section of the city seemed to be devoted to warehousing and storage – most likely food stores and other goods awaiting transport. It wasn't the kind of place one would expect to see a lot of people… since most likely the inhabitants were kidnapping victims awaiting ransom or torture and were expertly hidden from view. She was going to have to search for Jason, and she was unarmed. She was morosely unsurprised. Glancing at her fet one last time before flipping it closed and tucking it snuggly into the rear pocket of her jeans, she determined Jason's location to be inside a large concrete structure designed for the housing of crates filled with textiles, nearly infinite in number.
She found a loading dock whose garage-style door was left slightly ajar – just enough for her to sneak through, but not if she were ten pounds heavier. Once inside, she brushed herself off and allowed her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim conditions, illuminated only by the narrow shaft of streetlight beaming softly under the door. She rose to her feet and was immediately startled, bumping her shoulder into a stack of crates and nearly causing a severely unfortunate catastrophe, when she heard a voice. One hand over her mouth, stifling her breath, and the other over her throttling heart, she came to the realization that the voice she'd heard came from within her own mind – she was the only person to hear it. It was Jason.
'Don't walk straight ahead. And definitely don't speak.'
He wasn't alone. She wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing there, who their 'company' was, and how the hell she was supposed to get him out of there, but kept her lips firmly pressed together.
'I've been gathering samples of cloth,' he answered her unspoken question. 'The fibers these fabrics are made from aren't synthetic – they're naturally grown from a native plant that dad and some others suspect might have… special properties when mixed with certain other compounds. They're not positive, though. This isn't the first time I've been after this stuff… so… you can guess the rest.' She knew too well how deadly habits could become. She began to feel like an idiot standing inside the doorway, doing nothing.
'There's a gap between the crates behind you. Trust me, it's there. Follow it until you can turn right – this will take you to the wall. I know it's dark, and a long way, but you can feel your way along the wall until you get near me – I'm holed up inside a box over here in the far corner and some Feds have set up camp right next to me. You'll see them before they see you. I think I can keep them from hearing you, but it's hard. I'm not powerful enough to keep them from seeing me. Thanks for coming, I owe you big time.'
Yes, yes he did.
The warehouse was a massive, yawning chasm and it took her countless tensely agonizing minutes, placing one foot before the other, hands pressed to the clammy concrete in the pitch black while her breath rattled in rasps between her ears, before she began to notice the nearly imaginary glow of an electric lantern flickering ahead. The wan light marked the silhouette of a nearby stack of crates. She crept on silent feet until she came up behind them, crouching low to steady herself and listen.
'I think there's three of them,' Jason told her as she came to the same conclusion. No big deal. Claire had an idea, and she hoped Jason would be quick enough to jump out and run in time. She stepped from her hiding place to stand in the lantern light, interrupting conversation and recklessly presenting herself with absolutely zero inhibition.
"Howdy!" she waved, cheerfully. "What's goin' on?"
All three men were on their feet instantly, toppling the lantern on its side and nudging precariously stacked crates. They were pretty good – she almost didn't even see them draw their firearms.
"Who're you!" one of them demanded.
"I'm here to whoop yer ass," Claire answered plainly. "Unless you'd shoot a sweet little girl like me…"
"She's a mod," she heard a whisper.
She took a challenging step forward and raised her arms like lightning was going to shoot from her fingertips, mimicking her beloved, long-lost nemesis, when the youngest of the three – obviously the rookie – opened fire. It was a weapon of impressive caliber and had been discharged at close range – the force lifted her off her feet and sent her body, predictably, to careen backwards into a large wall of stacked crates. She smiled as her shoulder blades smacked into the box that broke her fall, her wounds already having healed and the misshapen hunks of lead already rolling away across the floor. She tilted her head up in time to watch the cube at the top of the stack teeter forward, almost in slow motion, before finally dropping away, the herald of a deadly crushing, splintering domino effect. She briefly caught sight of a blond head bolting away before the avalanche crashed down around her, engulfing her and her intended victims in a colossal pile of sharp wooden stakes and strangling bolts of cloth. For a split, panicked moment the wind was knocked from her and she couldn't suck it back in for all the weight that pressed down on top of her. Shortly thereafter she mercifully lost consciousness.
She awoke when she felt her right shoulder dislocate. She winced out of involuntary reflex at what should've hurt, noticing for the first time that her lungs could fill entirely with sweet, glorious air. She gulped and gasped as Jason pulled her from where he'd been digging through the wreckage.
"We've gotta go," he said, this time with his actual voice. The pounding in her ears evolved into a series of short, piercing bursts. "The accident has triggered some sort of alarm…"
"Heh," she huffed, sitting on her butt to keep from rolling down the mountain of debris, "you think this was an accident." Using her left hand to guide it back into place, she rolled her shoulder until the wound was set. An open set of fingers appeared before her eyes.
"Here, lemme help you get down."
Her line of sight followed the outstretched arm until it met the face to which it was connected. He had changed a bit in three years. He was taller, more defined, with a graceful elven jawline and cheekbones. A golden coat of facial hair peppered his chin, softening his wicked lopsided grin, but the lock of sandy colored hair that was persistent about hanging into his piercing azure eyes hadn't changed an ounce. While he didn't possess the qualities that had historically proven to be her 'type', he did exude some sort of roguish, adventuresome charm that she found to be infectious. She returned his smile, and took his warm, confident hand.
"So, dad's got you in the business now, eh?" she asked, carefully testing an outcropping of jagged wooden planks with her foot.
"Against his better judgment. What sucks about this situation is I'm actually here investigating other rebels. Dad thinks these fibers are linked with several colony attacks, explosions and what not. Doesn't keep the Feds off my ass though."
Claire let her mind linger a moment on the fate of the doomed Zephyr.
"No, I suppose it doesn't," she admitted. "I've got a car outside – if we can get to it fast enough, maybe the Feds won't see us."
They followed the wall to the exit where, upon inspection of the eerily quiet nighttime landscape, they spotted a Federal police car idling, parked next to the rental.
"Shit…" Claire hissed.
"No problem," Jason reassured her with a gentle touch to her elbow as he inclined his forehead and stared at their pursuers intently. "Drive away…" he whispered twice. Claire felt her fingernails digging into the palms of her balled fists, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, praying they'd do exactly that. She got her wish.
"Not so tough to do with just one," he smiled, "we don't have long though 'til he comes to his senses. And chances are he's already called in the car."
"Can we meet your contact on foot?" She turned to him and he grimaced his negative response. "Didn't think so. Well, what choice have we got?"
They scrambled quickly to the car and sped away.
"You know," Claire began, pausing to allow Jason the opportunity to point directions, leading them to their rendezvous point, "once he comes to, he's gonna know he's dealing with a mod."
"Personally, I think he already did."
She drummed the steering wheel nervously. "Do you think he'll call in the Black Guard?"
"Probably."
Great. Good bye real paper in real envelopes. Good bye Monday mornings. Good bye normal office job with mediocre pay, yet decent benefits. Hello, again, running for her life and performing disturbing tasks to procure yet another life that would only, eventually, burst into flames. Welcome back, vicious unbreakable cycle – how she'd missed you. She drove for several blocks before she saw a sign.
"Um… where are we going…" Jason inquired, grasping the dashboard as his body crammed against the passenger door when Claire made a sudden left turn into the parking lot of a 26-hour shopping center (yes, 26-hour – the planet was a tad bigger than earth, right?).
"Picking up water guns," she stated plainly, ignoring his mystified gape. She was perfectly sane. "History has taught me many things. One of which is that we'll need them."
Thirty minutes later, possessing a gaudy pair of super-soakers, they arrived at a non-descript duplex in a quiet residential subdivision. Claire sat for a moment after Jason exited the vehicle, staring at the normalcy that comprised the tan vinyl siding with its windowed wooden door, complete with well-manicured bushes lining the walkway. She contemplated the inhabitant. This was another person like her… well sort of – just another mod trying to fake a normal life, lying awake at night counting the bumps on the ceiling, blinking maddeningly in paranoia, terrified that someday this freedom would be stripped away – obsessing over every detail that would further insure the future. Forgetting that this person was a rebel – someone who'd willingly given away the prospect of an ordinary existence in order to provide others with the same chance – she regretted what her arrival could potentially do to disrupt this life and this quiet home. She didn't want to get out of the car… until she thought she saw a shadow move out of the corner of her eye. Shuddering from ancient flashbacks, she stepped out and briskly jogged to the open and waiting doorway.
She entered in time to witness a latina of average size and build grill Jason with questions.
"You sure you weren't followed? What about that car parked outside, eh? Is it hot? They got its number? Real stupid! And what the fuck is that, a fuckin' water gun? What, you gonna drown 'em? Is that it?!?"
Jason gestured at Claire, but couldn't manage to get a word past his lips.
"And how well you know this girl, eh? Swear to god, your papa's crazy."
Claire could feel her blood pressure rising.
"You ever been chased by the black suits?" she growled before she could stop herself.
"Excuse me???" her ungracious host countered.
"You know, black suits – the Black Guard – the shadow men. Have they ever chased you?"
"Please. Never caught wind o' me after I got out of the camps. I've worked really damned hard to keep it that way to, which is why I really don't appreci-"
"They use gadgets. Lots of them. Little flying mini-robots that shoot things at you, and nasty red electric nets. None of the stuff likes water. Here," she handed her soaker to the girl. "As for the car, it's not parked. It's leaving, and it wasn't followed. My job was to deliver Jason, and I've done my part. I'm gonna go back to my life now. It's been a pleasure meeting you, you have a lovely home."
Claire turned in time to see something move outside of the front window. She sighed and snatched back her water gun, bitterly chewing on her own words. She could hear the other girl open a drawer behind her, obviously looking for some very particular items – the kind that made heavy metallic clicking noises.
"Claire?" Jason started but was silenced.
"Shhhhh…."
"This way," the latina whispered, "to the garage. Let them come inside, I have a surprise for them."
Claire took a step backwards before flinging her arms wide when the window suddenly crashed inward, bursting under the weight of a metal ball flashing with blinking lights and emitting a high-pitched screech that made her ears ring. Glass shards still protruding from her chest and arms, she took aim with her water pistol and doused the ball before it could unleash its sticky green sleeping gas. The object sparked and protested loudly before dying a violent death. Claire tossed a victorious glare over her shoulder at her companions, but the latina only had eyes for Claire's rapidly disappearing wounds.
"What the hell?!?" Jason cried, lifting the soaker in which he now had a bit more faith. Claire whipped back to watch a drone, with its disturbingly innocent toy hum, venture through the open hole of the window. She could see at least two more flitting around outside. What a circus.
"Shoot it Jason!" she cried. "Shoot it, or it'll shoot you!!!" They both sprayed a steady stream of water, drenching anything between them and the drone – Claire made her best effort to coat its sensor array. The barrel of a large handgun appeared in her periphery over her left shoulder – the latina had drawn the weapon she'd procured from the drawer and was preparing to fire.
"NO! No bullets! You'll get someone killed! The thing has a force field!"
She held out her arm, beckoning for a cease fire, when the machine dipped low to its left, seeming disoriented and lost.
"Quick," Claire directed, "we don't have much time. The water's confused its sensors, but the effect won't last forever. You said something about a garage, and a 'surprise'?"
"This way!"
The trio scrambled into the kitchen and through a door that Jason slammed shut behind them.
"Oh my god…" he muttered when they heard a deafening bang come from inside the house followed by the thunderous sound of multiple sets of searching footsteps.
"Get in! Get in!" cried the latina, gesturing toward a Jeep whose front seat she occupied –standing with her feet on the floorboards, gripping the steering wheel to keep herself upright. Claire and Jason both neglected the conventional usage of the car doors and opted to jump in the old fashioned way. The engine roared to life but the vehicle didn't move. Claire turned from where she sat in the passenger seat to gape with wide, impatient eyes at the driver, only to find her hunched down, face pinched tightly in concentration. Her eyes snapped back to the door when it opened to present a black, shadowy figure.
He was unable to take another step. It started with an ominous rumble Claire could hear, before the bottoms of her feet began to vibrate. In a fraction of a second the innocuous tremor developed into a full-fledged quake, bending and flexing the boards in the walls and the door frame in unnatural bulges. The bucking floor tossed the black-suit's feet out of his control – he fell backwards and rolled out of sight, presumably to be further buffeted by the shockwaves rising from the uncompromising ground.
"Hang on!" the latina yelled as she yanked the gear shift into reverse and floored the gas pedal without opening the garage door. The thin metal provided minimal resistance and buckled easily to grant them their escape. They tore a giant swath through the bushes and across the soft, grassy lawn, flinging chunky clumps of black mud all over the drones and shadow men that attempted to make chase. The tires barked and squealed as they made several hairpin turns through the city blocks of the neighborhood until they reached a straight thoroughfare that would lead them away from civilization, north out to the countryside farmland.
"Yep, here they come," Jason sighed, turning to watch behind them. Two white Jeeps charged after them like a pair of angry rhinos. "We're gonna have to lose 'em."
"Let me get a bit further from the city. There's a bag under the passenger seat – get it out."
Claire pivoted on her hip to watch Jason retrieve a burlap sack from under where she sat. He reached inside and pulled out a pair of 9mms. She could tell by the remaining protrusions in the fabric that the bag was far from empty. He handed her one of the weapons.
"Do you know how to use this?"
She nearly laughed.
She turned the cold metal over, from one palm to the other, testing its lavish weight. It fit into her hand like a writer would hold a pen. She sat staring at it, with the wind whipping her hair about her cheeks and shoulders, realizing she was a puzzle whose pieces were scattered the day she faked her death and began her three centuries of solitude. The day Sylar blew back into her life those pieces were picked up and arranged, if not somewhat haphazardly. But this – this… was the final piece. Sitting in that seat, screaming down an open stretch of highway, desperately on the run, pursued by an entity that meant her no good… this was her life. Had always been. This was normal to her. She stroked her thumb down the hand grip before she rose up with her knees in the seat and held the weapon in her fully extended arms, lining up a tire in her sights. Jason ducked nervously. It had been ages since she'd felt so complete – it was amazing that all it took was a gun. She was Claire Bennett and she was alive.
"When you live as long as I have," she said, "you pick up a few things."
She squeezed the trigger and Jason clamped his hands over his ears. The front passenger-side tire on the Jeep directly behind them exploded before completely disintegrating. The inertia, at the speed they were travelling, caused the vehicle to cartwheel out of control, taking it away never to be seen again. That didn't stop Claire from firing at the second Jeep. Jason fumbled for his own firearm before turning in his seat to join her.
The latina glanced at Claire momentarily before asking, "… who are you?"
"I'm Claire," she answered between pumping rounds.
"Angela," the driver replied, "and the pleasure's all mine!"
Several miles out of town Angela brought their Jeep to a screeching halt before leaping from the vehicle and running to stand behind, watching their pursuers draw nearer, waiting for a pinnacle moment. With a roar she brought her arms up, like she were praying to a vengeful and fickle goddess, and then sliced them down. The earth behind them split with a cacophonous boom, opening into a long, jagged fissure devouring collapsing dirt and tumbling rocks in its wake. No vehicle was going to get across that interrupted section of road. They were free.
Sylar had always told her that she'd never be normal. He'd promised her she was destined for something greater, but of course at the time she'd thought he was just… sick in the head. But now she smiled as the alien moons graced her shoulders with their whispery glow and the smoke from her gun wound hotly up her arm. She wasn't so angry anymore that he was right. A tiny part of her wished he could've been there to see her.
Because that was the day that Claire realized she might've be born to be a rebel.
~*~*~
*** a few months later ***
Claire could start to see a pattern emerging in the missions she was being given. As precious and coveted as natural-borns tended to be, cellular regeneration was a tough trick to come by - especially without needing a regular injection to prolong the effect. The thought was humorously ironic - to be able to live forever... until one died from it. But because she was eternally hard to kill it could've been assumed that if a mission was particularly... troublesome, she could expect to be on it.
And because Duncan liked having a personal investment in the tasks he couldn't allow to go wrong, she saw a lot of Jason. His continued presence mollified her disappointment at being back on Earth a lot more.
Her courage fortified with the knowledge of how quickly she could literally become someone else (being an active rebel had its perks), she faced the Black Guard with a little less trepidation than usual. She, Jason, and two others had been asked to free some agents from a mod camp north of Dallas, Texas, along with anyone else they could liberate. The agents had been captured in the line of duty and possessed valuable intelligence. She had proven herself a force to be reckoned with, unstoppable as she'd moved amongst the shadow men, drawing their fire to ineffectually pummel her before she dispatched them with their own weaponry. Jason had used his ability to determine the best way to incapacitate the force field surrounding the camp. While he and Claire rounded up nearly one hundred individuals and countless crates of mod injections to a spot in the sprawling wilderness out on the open prairie, their partners procured a transport from a charter company in Corpus Christi under the premise that they were transporting produce for a local agricultural conglomerate. It was out in the open, as the sun was setting and groups were building small, concealable fires while they waited for the shuttle to safely arrive, that Claire saw for the first time how fragile the mods actually were.
For most of the day Jason had behaved unusually. His customary surefire aim and steady shots had become inaccurate and shaky, and he appeared clammy and light-headed. At first she'd thought he was just becoming ill, but was admirably pressing on – putting off his own convalescence in order to ensure his duties were performed. It wasn't until later, after she'd spent several unsuccessful minutes trying to get a pile of kindling to ignite, that she'd heard him vomiting in a distant pile of scrub. Alarmed, she'd opened her mouth to call for him but found she didn't need to as he was already making his slow return to her side. He removed from her hands the sticks she'd been rubbing and made a more enterprising attempt at building the fire.
"I need your help," he'd muttered to her before she could ask, keeping their conversation private. "I've waited too long… I'm too dizzy to do it by myself." Once the flames were cozily crackling away, he dug into an internal jacket pocket and produced a small leather-bound kit and one of the vials from the crates they'd stolen. The kit opened to present a syringe, a rubber tourniquet, and a collection of needles. "My organs are already starting to shut down."
While she pressed the plunger and watched the amber liquid slide into his vein, she understood how someone with naturally born cellular regeneration could be so brutally and jealously coveted. While she might not be able to hide the fact that she could mitigate any damage that was dealt her, she promised herself she would do her best never to reveal the origin of her ability.
"Rest," she told him, "I'll wake you when the shuttle gets here. You're gonna be fine now."
He nodded to her and stretched his legs out beside him, angling his body to get as close to the fire as he could without igniting accidentally. Her hands leapt from her lap as, unsolicited, he laid his head on her knee. Stunned into stillness, she didn't know what to do. Her nasty maternal instinct threatened to betray her again, demanding she provide him comfort when her heart wanted nothing to do with anything that would render it vulnerable. She couldn't afford to provide anyone with comfort when she couldn't allow herself to receive it. Anything she would allow herself to love would eventually die. She wasn't happy at all that she was being asked to step outside her protective cocoon of isolation.
And yet, she couldn't deny the spark of heat that bloomed somewhere beneath her belly. Far beneath her belly, in parts she didn't want to recognize, embarrassed that they'd probably grown cobwebs from disuse. The pull of the natural sensation was hypnotic and intoxicating – and irresistible. She let her hand slide through his hair and down his smooth cheek purely in the interest of satisfying a need for physical pleasure. Unsettled, she wasn't sure whether or not she was pleased to see the shuttle when it arrived.
~*~*~
*** one year later ***
Duncan was trying to make her crazy.
The mission to which she'd been assigned was promising to test two of her greatest fears: the first – allowing herself to be captured by black suits; the second – getting married. She'd put in a lot of faithful servitude and had requested very little in return. She didn't quite know what she'd done to deserve this.
The same colony they'd left behind in the Leo sector the year before – the one breeding a fiber connected to unsupported rebel acts of terror – had also been suspected of tampering with mod injections as a base of several inhumane experiments in a camp that housed mods placed in local work assignments. It was believed that these experiments were the inherent cause behind the explosive operations. Because Claire and Jason had been chased from the colony before and their goal was to get inside the camp, it only made sense to send their still-familiar faces back to be captured, and what better guise than to be placed in one, singular home as a young married couple.
Claire wasn't exactly a born-again virgin. While she didn't invite a lot of action, one didn't live for over three hundred years and not occasionally succumb to carnal necessities. Typically, however, she didn't know the names of her infrequent bedmates since sexually transmitted disease wasn't really an issue for her. She knew nothing about them, they were strangers – random pieces of meat selected in much the same way, picked only for their suspected ability to perform their appointed task. To satiate her appetite.
Jason, on the other hand, was a friend that she'd wanted to keep that way.
They'd successfully shared a bed for almost two weeks without incident, maintaining the innocence of their actual relationship right up to the night before they'd been caught. And still, several weeks after they'd been rescued and the details of their mission tied up, they'd avoided contact with each other, refusing to acknowledge what had happened. Even that didn't last forever.
Claire was surprised at how much she used her college degree. Organizing refugees was very much like consulting others in how to run a business. It happened after a long evening of managing new IDs and researching potential job placements for the mods they'd been able to rescue, and even that came after getting them fed and a temporary place to sleep. She had returned home to her New York apartment, subsidized by rebellion funding while she was considered actively serving, and had just dropped a tea bag into a steaming cup, soothed by the calming sounds of a long, hot bath being drawn. A knock on her door disturbed her.
She channeled her father. Knocking made her nervous. There were two kinds of visitors – the expected kind, and the unexpected kind.
"It's Jason," she heard through the door. Her shoulders dropped fractionally. "We need to talk about what happened. You know. Between us."
He was probably right, but that didn't make her want to. The last person who'd made her feel lonely was dead. She wasn't ready to let someone else take that place. She wasn't ready to admit she needed companionship. She wasn't ready to break every rule she'd made and let someone back into her life – someone else she'd have to let go of. She wasn't ready to nullify her human instincts to a broken heart again. No matter how badly she wanted to.
No matter how nice it would've been to share that hot bath with firm, exploring, massaging fingers…
Images from that night flashed all around her. He'd rolled over in the night and had absentmindedly tossed his arm over her, his hand landing softly to cup her right breast. She'd awoken immediately… he hadn't. She'd brought her hand around to quietly remove his… but instead found herself pressing it against her harder. That had drawn his attention.
"Claire, c'mon… let me in. Don't I need to apologize or something? I don't know what to do here…"
He'd lifted his head from his pillow, blonde hair drifting into eyelashes that parted to give her a sleepy, quizzical expression. She'd shown him what she wanted. There was nothing to talk about – none of it was his fault. She'd wanted it. She was the one who'd squeezed his hand around her breast. She was the one who rolled over and kissed him, rubbing determined fingers down the front of his pajama pants, stroking, pulling… demanding… She'd practically begged him to give in to his masculinity, stripping her and climbing on top of her. And while there had been others in her life and she couldn't quite explain the difference, something about the way he panted against her damp, sweating neck as she gripped bruises into the small of his back, forcing him to pound into her harder and faster, made her feel alive in a way she hadn't felt in ages.
If she didn't answer the door, she was just going to crawl into that bath and pleasure her own frustrated self all night long.
She twisted the doorknob and pulled it open, unprepared to see the clear and present anguish carved over his youthfully devilish features. What had passed between them had meant something to him. She was in trouble… yet was powerless to stop herself.
She drew him in, forgetting the door left standing wide open – she stood and embraced him for as long as he needed before she finally told him she was sorry. Then she asked if he was hungry. They slipped away for some late-night Chinese and the start to a relationship she wasn't sure she wanted… but probably needed anyway.
~*~*~
*** five years later ***
Claire and Jason Oglesby proved to be a dynamic duo, working very well together – better than some married couples who thrived on the daily distance their respective jobs granted them. They'd taken it upon themselves to place their home in the hotbed of Federal activity – the colony in the Pisces sector where the Intelligence office was housed. There was strategy in their placement – their employment had been planned specifically to put them in the position to glean the largest amount of information. They both worked in highly populated careers, where regular gossip flowed easily from loose lips. They earned their paychecks from a large bar and grill – Jason was a flirtatious bartender, and Claire was high-velocity wait staff. It was a chancy gig, the establishment purveyed itself heavily to Federal employees and their families. Their faces were still somewhat recognizable by the Black Guard, but something about spending the past three years not ferrying refugees, not running constantly for her life, having an actual job and paying actual bills and coming home to an actual warm body was…
She didn't want to name it. Putting a word to it would only fuel the delusion, make it seem more permanent. It would all eventually leave her.
She let the adjective remain a blank and continued to enjoy what she had while she had it. Carpe diem and all that.
It was late, two hours after closing time and there was a lot of cleaning left to do. It was the end of the work week on a payday, the dinner rush had clobbered her like a wild stampede. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was smeared, her feet were killing her, but her purse was full and her clandestine notebook even more so. There was a rebel safehouse in the Cancer sector that was under suspicion – they could now, thanks to her, successfully head off what was sure to be a disaster otherwise.
"Jennifer!" her manager called to her from somewhere in the back.
"Yeah?!?"
"Wheel back that cart of glasses from the bar when you get a minute, will ya? Need to get 'em into the wash!"
"You got it!"
She had three more tables to wipe down then she'd be on it. She'd already managed to get the whole floor vacuumed on top of a laundry list of other duties. Soon she'd be able to succumb to her cozy bed's siren song.
Knowing she was alone on out on the floor, she allowed herself a moment of unladylike behavior in favor of letting her job take longer, requiring that she walk around to the other side of the table – she leaned all the way across, wiping with her arm in a long, sweeping arc, ignoring the way her skirt rode high up the back of her thighs. Until they were met by a blast of cold air. Someone had opened the front door.
Without taking her eyes from the table, mindful that she hadn't missed a spot, taking her job very seriously, she straightened and tugged her skirt back where it was supposed to be before continuing to push the soapy cloth in vigorous circles.
"We're closed," she tossed over her shoulder.
Then the realization that she'd locked the front door hit her like a bucket of ice water.
She dropped her arms limply to her sides, her wet rag splattered to the floor. She couldn't see for the tears that had flooded her eyes, she couldn't breathe for the excruciating knot that gripped her throat.
She could smell him all around her, the same smell that had invaded her dreams centuries ago, twisting them into blood-curdling nightmares. The same smell she'd chased for years while she'd really learned how to use a gun. The same smell that had covered her on her wedding day – her first wedding day. Something like leather and cinnamon, and maybe something a touch earthy or metallic. The scent she thought she'd never smell again.
She turned slowly, terrified he'd be a figment of her imagination, that what she'd see would be empty air – that he was nothing more than a ghost. Her hand shot up to clamp itself over her gaping mouth when she clearly saw the outline of his black silhouette in stark contrast to the fluorescent glare of the streetlights outside. Another wintry gust whipped the long coat her wore around his legs. He stepped inside – no locked door could ever restrain him, he was as wild as the wind – and left the elements behind. He stepped into the soft, yellow glow of the restaurant's ambient lighting. She locked her eyes onto his and refused to let them go – dark, fathomless, and real.
The grief she'd been suppressing since she'd told him goodbye finally rose to claim her. Consumed by the encompassing wave of blistering emotion, she bent at the middle and choked on a sob, with her hand still firmly placed over her wide open lips. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, letting hot, furious tears skip her cheeks to fall directly to the floor. Then suddenly she straightened, found her strength, and inhaled a lusty shuddering breath.
"…Gabe?" she asked, her hands pressed over her heaving belly.
He smiled a smile so sweet it was stabbing and painful, and reached a tentative arm out to her.
"Don't cry, Claire... not for me…"
A/N #2: I dunno... she seemed awful happy to see him, didn't she... what's up with that?