Hey, Jdragonfire29! :D Yeah, I'm talking to you, seeing as you're the only one who alerted ;) Thanks, mate C: And to you, Teamtiva and namelessip, for reviewing!
I forgot to disclaim. Again. Anyway, I own nothing of Heroes except Peter. He's in my closet.
Ha! got your attention! x}
~2~ The Watchmaker's Son
Claire dried her hands on towels that, in her opinion, were simply too fluffy. Stepping out of the bathroom, she scooped up The Dark Knight from a small table in the hall and headed for the stairs.
"I was right," she said, descending them. "It was in Lyle's room, peeking out from beneath three layers of...clothes...Peter?"
The room was empty.
She walked past the kitchen and into the living room, making for the sliding back door. "Chasing more raccoons?" Glancing out, she saw that Peter in fact wasn't chasing more raccoons. She noticed how filthy the back porch was because of the first encounter, but she ignored the mess and pulled her head back inside.
Perhaps he used the downstairs bathroom, she thought, moving to glance down the hall and expecting to see a thin light beneath the door of said facility. She frowned as she saw that that wasn't the case either.
Swallowing, Claire took a deep, reassuring breath. Peter wasn't kidnapped by Agents or a serial killer. There would have been a lot of noise if that happened...Unless he was shot with taser darts. That thought sent Claire's head whipping around to view the dark corners of the house.
"Peter?" She checked the couch in case he had lain down and fallen asleep, an odd but possible occurrence. She was disappointed to find it barren of the nurse.
She realized her heart was pounding again. Perhaps it was because she had just noticed that the lights in her father's office were off, when she was sure that she had turned them on.
A clink of what sounded like tapping plates sounded from the kitchen. She whirled around, suspiciously scanning over the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Was Peter just...hiding?
"Peter, stop fooling around!" she said good-naturedly, slipping around the counter, but there wasn't anyone there. Her smile faded. "This isn't funny!" she called out to the house in general.
A familiar guitar began to strum, the homey sound of her mother's favourite band, The Beatles.
Claire spun to face the stereo in the living room. The glass case protecting it was closed and the remote was on the low table before the couch. But the stereo was indubitably the source of "Yesterday." She rushed to the remote and pounded on about five different buttons before finding the power. The Beatles stopped abruptly, filling the house with silence once more. She realized how naked she felt, how defenceless, and made for the foyer closet, where she knew a baseball bat was hiding. With its familiar weight in her hands, she felt a little better.
She wandered the house, bat held up like she was ready to swing at a ball that could fly at her at any moment. Her eyes never stopped moving, flashing from shadow to shadow, reflection to reflection to make sure no one was following her.
Hm. No one. How about no thing?
Sylar, monster that he was, had been after her powers of rapid tissue regeneration for almost two years, but there had been no word of him for over a month, now. It was still foolish of her to think that they had chased him off for good.
The sound of clinking porcelain stopped her, abreast with the bathroom. Bat up, she slowly reached for the handle.
On three, she told herself. One—
She didn't even bother waiting the extra two seconds, picturing herself losing her nerve at the last moment. She threw the bathroom door back and saw someone staring back at her, preparing to swing something.
She screamed, swung clumsily at the air and ducked. When nothing happened, her brain caught up with her eyes and the uncomfortable feelings of foolishness mixed with relief filled her, taunting her rushes of adrenaline. It had only been a mirror, a reflection of herself upholding the baseball bat. The bathroom was empty.
She pulled the door closed and continued down the hall, casting furtive glances over her shoulder.
"Peter?" she whispered faintly into the dark den at the end, desperate for his comforting presence. She always felt safe when he was around—
The floor creaked behind her. She swung the bat, hard, as she spun, aiming at head level.
"Whoa, Claire!" Peter ducked beneath the bat and dodged away, eyes wide. "What are you doing?"
"Peter!" She rushed to hug him, squeezing him nearly in two. He grunted in surprise.
"I wasn't gone that long!" he laughed as she released him.
"Well, where did you go?" Claire demanded, letting the bat fall onto the den chesterfield.
Peter grimaced. "Thought I saw something outside." He flicked his head redundantly. "Just getting jumpy, I suppose."
Claire grew suspicious. "So you didn't turn on the stereo, then?"
"The stereo?" Peter frowned. "I thought that was you."
The cheerleader merely blinked, growing stiff again. "I...think there's someone in the house."
It was Peter's turn to go on the alert. "Are you sure?" He glanced down the hall unnecessarily, turning away from Claire to do so. It was then that she noticed the dark stain on his back.
"Peter, you're bleeding!"
"What?" The nurse faced her, confused.
"On your back, you're bleeding! Let me see." Claire froze when Peter backed away uncertainly.
"I'm sure I'm fine," he said, smiling, and then Claire blanched. That was not Peter's smile. It was too...cold, devilish, straight. He must have seen the realization in her features, for he was fast enough to pick up the baseball bat before she did, using telekinesis with contemptuous ease. There was a dark gleam in his eyes.
"It's a little late to be playing ball, isn't it?"
Claire made a dash for the door, which meant a straight charge at the Peter who wasn't Peter. Strangely, Sylar let her pass, shedding his shape-shift disguise as he stood aside. He unclenched his hand, and the bat fell with a clatter.
Claire's bare feet slid on the sleek floor as she rounded the corner from the hall, into the living room. Her hands sought her father's office door nob, but as she finally clasped it, it only turned half an inch in either direction. It had been locked from the inside.
"Peter!" she screamed, banging hard on the door with both fists. "Peter!"
He had to be in there. He had to. Why else would the door be locked, the blinds down and the lights off?
She felt the presence of Sylar slither up behind her like the snake he was. She hadn't even seen him exit the hallway. Without turning around, she fled for the front door. Of course, it, too, was locked and barred by an invisible force.
A moment later, the dozen escape plans that had whirled through her head like paper in a tempest burned and crumpled to ashes. The unseen serial killer had simultaneously shut every window and slammed the shutters over them. The sliding glass door was also locked and covered. Claire wouldn't be surprised if the vents were closed as well.
The lights flickered.
Don't go out don't go out don't go out—
Again they flickered, and held.
Then they went out.
Like a bird in a cave, Claire stood stock still, eyes roaming as they adjusted to the meagre light. Her heart thudded louder than a gong in her chest, her palms sweating and her muscles taut like bowstrings. She heard a rustle, someone brushing past a table. She thought she saw a silhouette, cast by the thin streams of light that bled through the sliding door's blinds.
The blinds! They weren't shutters. She could throw a chair at them, tear through them and shatter the glass.
As though reading her thoughts, the silhouette moved between her and the back door, and Claire was instantly reminded of all those thrillers and horrors Lyle used to beg her to watch with him. The vampires, zombies, and psychopathic killers that rose from the shadows to kill and eat their hapless victims now filled Claire's inner eye.
She mused how Sylar had attributes of all three of those classic movie monsters.
Without thinking, Claire turned and fled for the stairs. She didn't make it far. She had almost reached the foot of them when an invisible hand, Sylar's favourite weapon, shoved her against the foyer closet, pinning her a few inches above the floor. She writhed angrily as the murderer came to stand before her.
"What have you done to Peter?" she snapped. Even she was surprised of the anger that stepped before the fear.
Sylar's signature, wolfish smile split across his dashing features. In the limited light, it was truly a foreboding sight to behold.
Claire remembered the blood on the shirt Sylar was wearing. It was Peter's shirt.
"What—did—you—do?" she screamed, struggling to pull her arms away from the wall and strangle him.
"He is..." The serial killer paused, looking off into the distance for a moment. "Indisposed." He stretched and yawned impudently, glancing about. "Ooh. Popcorn."
Leaving Claire on the wall, he wandered over to the couch and sat down, taking up the bowl and daintily tasting a few pieces. The lights flashed back on, but only in the living room.
"Been a while since I've had comfort food," he said, eating more popcorn with relish. Then he seemed to remember that Claire was still suspended. "Oh, how rude of me. Come, sit here and have some."
Claire gasped as Sylar released her, letting her fall to her knees on the floor. Immediately, she started for the back door, but with a derisive wave of his hand over his shoulder, Sylar trapped her with a wall of telekinesis. She was stuck fast. Then her treacherous feet began to force her further into the living room, towards the murderer with agonizing slowness and surety. She realized that she was crying and furiously wiped the tears away awkwardly with her shoulder. They kept coming, however, no matter how hard she tried to swallow them.
"Bring that movie with you, if you would be so kind," said Sylar, not looking over his shoulder. "I do like a good Batman film."
Claire's feet detoured back toward the counter that divided the living room from the kitchen. There, she had left The Dark Knight—and the Exacto knife that had cut her earlier in the stuck drawer.
Her arms were released, and she willingly picked up the DVD, snatching the Exacto knife as she did so and slipping it into her sweatshirt pocket. Sylar never suspected at thing.
Or so she hoped.
She was forced to start the movie and then sit down right next to him. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. He smelled better than she'd imagined, but he might as well have been a mound of compost to her. More tears streamed down her cheeks; she'd never felt so violated in all her life.
Sylar laughed at one point in the movie, and Claire flinched. She hadn't been paying it the slightest bit of attention, so focused she was on figuring out what she was going to do. Her captor had thankfully loosened his hold on her a little, letting her shift around, but then, his arm would hug her tighter if she tried to move away. She could feel his heart through her shoulder. His beat once for every three of Claire's.
He must be entirely convinced that no one can do anything now, she thought in despair. Peter...where are you?
She was itching to reach for the Exacto knife in her pocket, but she knew that if she moved too slow – or too fast for that matter – the one and only opportunity to save herself would be lost. However, if she took too long, it would be lost anyway. Sylar would get her ability, and he would be unstoppable.
For a while, she watched the film, unwittingly drawn by a chase scene. Sylar must have lowered his guard as well, for he paid her no heed when she casually put her hand in her sweatshirt pocket. She felt the reassuring blade there and unlocked it with a soft click. Forcing herself to keep her breathing steady, she pushed the blade out and tightened her grip, making sure not to make her pocket move.
"I hope they let this guy live," said Sylar suddenly as he tossed popcorn jauntily into his mouth, watching the Joker laugh shrilly and demoniacally. "Villains don't get much better than that." He smirked, and Claire smirked with him. She knew that it was time. Lyle wouldn't be home for a few more hours, and her father had no chance of helping her. It was now, to do or die. And she's died several times.
The Exacto knife flashed out of her pocket and sliced across Sylar's belly. He howled as he jumped to his feet, and Claire, bloodied blade raised, tried to slash at his throat. Too slow, she lost her balance as Sylar ducked away, and he lunged forward to grapple her wrists. Raw terror compelled Claire to kick and squirm violently, desperate to get away from the monster.
"Bad decision," Sylar hissed, shoving her back.