A.N: I know this isn't Saturday, but please forgive me. RL was crappy to me this week, but I've got an update for you now :) Thanks again go to alaricnomad for betaing! :D
Spoilers/Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes. Also, this chapter has spoilers for Season 3, however slight, so you've been warned.
Enjoy!
--
Mohinder Suresh looked again at the list of detainees from Camp Zero, his eyes scanning the file with interest. He took a sharp intake of breath as he registered one particular name on the document and made an immediate bee-line for the President's office.
"You should know better than to burst in unexpected, Suresh," came the President's voice from his desk in the far corner of the room, as Mohinder unceremoniously flung open the doors, "I could have visitors."
"Well, I don't see any," the Professor retorted, his brows furrowing with annoyance.
He waved around the list in his hand, "You've signed these papers, Sir, and yet I don't think you've realised – or you've only glanced at this – who exactly Homeland Security say they have."
Nathan Petrelli sighed and placed his pen on the wood of the desk, his hands curling together as he rested them underneath his chin. A bored expression graced his features, and he raised an eyebrow in feigned curiosity, "Who?"
"It's right here, Sandra McBride," Mohinder slid the document under the President's nose, pointing adamantly at a name about half-way down, "Otherwise known to Homeland Security – and to you yourself, Sir – as Claire Bennet."
Nathan glanced up at the Indian professor, before letting his eyes scan downwards, resting on the name itself, "You're quite right, Professor." He then crumpled the paper up and tossed it aside brusquely, leaving Mohinder to stare after him in shock.
"But, Sir–"
The President turned back to his ally with a calculating expression on his face, leaning forward in his chair, eyes never leaving the other man's, "Now, listen here, Mohinder. If you value your job, and the little agreement we made concerning your beloved adopted daughter being exempt from experimentation, you will never speak of this again. That name is simply one on a list of hundreds of others, and holds no importance whatsoever – do I make myself clear?"
His posture remained defiant, but at the mention of Molly, Mohinder immediately backed down, knowing no amount of talking would do any good, "Of course, Sir."
Nathan grinned, the expression causing his features to sharpen as he relaxed back into his chair, "Good! Then I shall see you later, Professor."
Taking that as his cue to leave, the Indian man turned away, stopping just before the double doors to look back at the President, who had spun his chair around and now faced the window.
"The bond of fatherhood," Mohinder began, deciding to make one last outspoken comment on the matter, "Is such that we feel the overwhelming need to protect our young from all that crosses them, no matter what the cost. I cannot imagine, Sir, that you hold no such emotion for your children; I have seen you with your sons."
Nathan began to turn in his chair, cold eyes boring into him, daring him to continue his thought, "Professor?" He asked, warningly.
"Camp Zero is specially designed to test the limits of humans attributed with powers, test them to the point of annihilation. If you let this slip through, Nathan, they will push her to her limits, to points where she will not be able to recover. In short; they will destroy her. Are you willing to have the blood of your daughter on your hands?"
His words had hit a sore point as, half-way through his speech, the President had stood, fuming, "I had asked you amicably to dismiss this issue, Suresh, and now I ask you again. If you ever speak on this subject again, I will personally see to it that it is your daughter facing the experimentation camps, do you understand?"
A grim smile found its way to Mohinder's face as he was forced to admit defeat, shaking his head in frustration before walking out the door, "Perfectly, Sir. Good afternoon."
The President of the United States glanced again at the screwed up piece of paper now resting on the red carpet. Sighing, he removed himself from his chair and picked it up. He studied it once more with a pensive look on his face, before tearing it up and throwing it in the bin.
The name Sandra McBride remained intact, staring up at him mockingly. Frowning, Nathan reached into his liquor cabinet and poured himself a small glass of scotch, downing it in one go. He walked around the outside of his desk, glass in hand, and positioned himself so that the grounds of the White House were clearly visible from the French windows.
"Sandra McBride is no daughter of mine."
--
The doors of the cell swung open, revealing dazzling lights that burned through Claire's retinas, the white walls of her chamber becoming almost unbearable to look at.
Barely having time to register what was happening, she felt the strong grip of two pairs of hands enclose around her. Before she had time to struggle, the sharp point of a needle slipped into the middle of her back, and the world was dark once more.
--
She woke up on a metal table, more bright lights making her wince as she tried to move her head. Buckles were strapped across her waist and legs, making it difficult to move. Claire tried anyway, lifting her head as high as she could to take in her surroundings and attempting to release herself from her bonds.
But as soon as she did so, white hot bolts of lightning coursed through her body, and she let out an agonising scream as the volts shot through her – every nerve of her body on fire as the pain finally diminished, leaving her out of breath as her body repaired itself.
"I wouldn't be trying that again if I were you, Miss Bennet," Came a disembodied voice, and Claire was careful not to move her head too much as she tried to identify the source, her eyes coming to rest on a speaker in the corner of the room.
"You see," The voice continued, "If you struggle, it will only get worse. Bad for you, but interesting for us."
"Interesting?" The girl spat, anger seething inside of her. She tried her best to struggle against the ties holding her down, desperate to escape and find the person behind the voice, only to suffer again under the electric shock, which seemed to be more painful this time.
Claire closed her eyes as the pain finally stopped, whole body tingling. The sound of laughter filled her ears, and the once-blonde could have sworn she'd heard that voice somewhere before.
"Yes, interesting. You see, Claire, your ability is rare, very rare, and we want to take the time to study it. See what you can do, so to speak. It's very important for our research."
Research? Claire could hardly believe her ears; she'd known from her father that this was happening, that the Company were still going strong, but something like this?
"You're sick," she muttered, her dark locks matted around her face, but she stayed still on the table.
On the other side of the glass, Mr Linderman smiled, talking more to himself than to the poor, frightened girl inside the room, "The world is sick…I am merely healing it."
He turned to two blank faced men in lab coats, and a particular wiry blonde who was grinning from ear to ear, "You have one hour, then she's back in holding. We don't want her too worn out on her first day now, do we?"
The girl, Elle, smirked, sparks jumping from one hand to the other in glee, "Of course not, Mr Linderman."
--
After what seemed like an eternity, Claire was unceremoniously thrown back into her cell, hair and clothes matted with a mixture of blood and her own tears. As she was lying on the floor, a heap of material – a white, baggy shirt and trousers – was tossed in next to her, and then the door was bolted shut, leaving the girl sobbing in a heap on the white flooring.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut as more tears flowed down, trying to shut out the memories of what they had just done to her in that room. Like some sort of lab rat, she'd been poked and prodded, stabbed, sliced at and mutilated in all sorts of ways; except this lab rat could put herself back together again every single time.
It was then, during her tears, that she heard a soft knock come from the right side of her cell, and she lifted her head to hear it again. When she did, Claire shuffled over to that side of the room and pressed her head against the wall, raising a hand and, after a few, tentative moments, knocking back.
Her heart leapt when she felt another knock against the wall, and was even more overjoyed when she could hear a voice, muffled, but a voice nonetheless.
"There's a small grate near to you, you can hear better through that."
Puzzled, intrigued, and a bit wary, Claire glanced around her surroundings to find the grate the voice was talking about. The past couple of years, these few days especially, she'd found it hard to place her trust in anything but, at this point, she was willing to take a leap of faith.
"Who…who are you?" She asked, feeling rather breathless.
"A prisoner, the same as you," A distinctly male voice answered, "In fact, we're more alike than you realise, Claire."
The girl's eyes widened, fear etching through her veins once more, "How'd you know my name?"
A soft laugh came from the other side of the wall, and Claire found it oddly comforting, "I've heard a lot about you since they bought you in – I never thought I'd meet another person that could heal as I can."
"You can…heal?" Claire was amazed; not since she'd met Peter had she ever thought of the possibility of another like her…and just the brief thought of her hero was enough to bring her elated mood down once more.
"I thought you'd sound a little more surprised than that!"
"No, it's just…it makes me think…of someone else. When I met him he could do what I could do, but now he's… he's gone."
She thought she could hear the man shift inside his own cell, "This day will be the hardest, believe me, and it won't get any easier. The only way you'll survive in here, Claire, is to block it out. Make them think you've succumbed to their regime. It's the only way."
The girl nodded morosely, toying with her matted locks and trying to forget another time when she'd been covered in blood, wanting to be saved, "What's your name?" She asked into thin air.
Claire could almost feel him smile as he answered, "Adam. Adam Monroe."
The pair talked long into the night. Adam, it seemed, had been in Company captivity for over thirty years, though he never mentioned the reason why. He'd broken out briefly, only to be caught again and immediately taken to this place once the Presidential election had been won a year ago.
Claire felt her stomach churn at the mention of the election, at the mention of her father. Through Adam, she'd discovered that he had been the one to pass these laws on her kind in the first place, had had a hand in deciding who would be the first to enter the experimentation camps...had known she was going to be put under unimaginable torture, and had allowed it.
As she fell asleep that night, curled up in one corner of her monotone cell, a new sense of hatred burned through her body at what she was enduring, and who was responsible for it all.
And on the other side of the wall, Adam Monroe smiled in his sleep. Things were finally starting to look up around here.
--
Across the country, one man slept fitfully, images blurring in and out of his mind. Some were of the prison break, others were more faded, both melding together into one.
He was standing in a long corridor, long and white, with no idea how he'd got there. He knew he had to get to someone…someone important, but every time he took a step, the end of the corridor didn't seem any closer.
Suddenly, there was a rush of noise, and the passageway filled with people, all scrambling past him to escape. He heard gunshots, felt the terror surrounding those running away, and realised this was why he was there. He watched as the gun-bearer rounded the corner, taking in their clothes and facial expression.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I always loved you."
Claire.
With a jolt, the man awoke, gunshots still ringing in his ears. He shook his head and turned over; trying to reassure himself that it was just a dream. But a small voice in the back of his head wouldn't let him rest, and he stayed awake for the rest of the night. He stared at the ceiling and thought back to times gone, when all he needed to feel alive was the golden curl of her hair or the sparkle of laughter in her green eyes.
--
The next day, Daniel Linderman decided to take a stroll to another part of the facility. Things were progressing well, just as things had been foreseen. Though it had taken a lot of time and pressure to make the President of the United States see things his way, it had been done, and everything was going exactly how Mr. Linderman liked it.
Smiling to himself, he rapped lightly on a door, painted white like the rest of the building. A dark haired woman opened it with a similar smile.
"How's my little genius this morning?" Daniel questioned, moving inside the room to take in the appearance of a young boy, who smiled back in a much more reserved manner.
This room was more spacious than other rooms in the building; an apartment rather than a cell. The boy sat at a table, a bowl of cereal in front of him.
"How's Mom?" The boy asked, "Is she alright, have they hurt her?"
Linderman laughed, seating himself on a chair opposite the boy, "She's just fine, Micah, but I need you to do something for me today. We can worry about your mother at another time."
Micah frowned, putting down his spoon, "You said I didn't have to do anything else…that the last time was enough."
The man licked his lips, looking down at the floor for a moment, "Now, Micah, you know your mother sent you here to make sure you were looked after…the terms she agreed to were that you would work for us."
"But you said I could see her," the boy retorted, "You said I could see her ages ago."
Daniel exchanged a look with the brunette on the other side of the room, "Soon, Micah, soon. You just do as you're told and everything will work out just fine for your mother. There's a good boy."
He stood up, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately before moving to leave.
"Aren't you going to tell him?" Candace asked as they were nearer to the door.
"That there's a nationwide man-hunt out for his mother? Nonsense," Linderman replied, blue eyes stone cold, "He wouldn't do anything we said then. Keep him occupied, fool him if needs be. The boy is essential to maintaining control – I can't trust the President to make polls go in his favour on his own."
"Sure, Mr. Linderman," the woman smiled, "I'll do whatever I can."