| What became of Elle? [Narrative] |
[Apr. 8th, 2008|09:00 pm] |
[More or less covering the immediate events following Elle's extraction from the Petrelli home.]
Elle hadn't spoken in over a month; not since she'd woke up in the passanger seat of Noah Bennet's car with a voice that sounded like Eden's ringing in her ears. She'd done plenty of talking then, demanding to know how she'd gotten there, how much time had passed, what had happened to Andre and the Petrellis and her father. After that, Elle hadn't said a thing. She'd screamed and cried and made all manner of noises, ( but none of them were words. ) |
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| email to molly walker |
[Apr. 5th, 2008|01:52 am] |
TO: M. Walker
FROM: M. Sanders
SUBJECT: Miss Me?
I'm really sorry I haven't kept up. But my Nana Dawson doesn't have an internet connection. I tried to wrangle the Wi-fi from some of the neighbors into behaving, but it's a lot more stubborn than some of the others signals are.
I'm back in the city now. My Mom's being taken care of by that Company. I don't know how long we'll be staying here as soon as she's better, but I do know we'll be here for a little while, at least.
Do you think you might be able to find some time to get away?
- Micah |
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| Spring Cleaning, Part One. [Narrative] |
[Mar. 29th, 2008|07:43 pm] |
Once Arthur had received the call that Bennet and his stand-in partner had departed for Costa Verde, he had leaned back in his seat for exactly three minutes before reaching for the phone again, and confirmed that all of those on his list had been taken down to the holding cells.
Elle met him at the elevator, looking just as solemn and sunken as she had when Bennet brought her in. Together they descended to the basement floors, neither one looking or speaking to the other. Outside the cells, they were met by another agents, a mind reader, and there were no introductions. Those Arthur had listed had been seperated into three groups, and then distrubted amoungst the holding cells. Those whose powers would be cause for concern in the proceedings had been receiving a blocker mixed in with their meals; just enough to dull them down without inducing too much paranoia or panic. Now, they would be taken one by one and interveiwed individually.
( Some of them confessed readily. Other's didn't. ) |
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| From the Sidelines. [Narrative] |
[Mar. 28th, 2008|11:56 pm] |
Heidi stayed with Nathan until they'd reached the doors to the OR hallway, holding his hand as they wheeled him along on the stretcher. When they finally parted, and the double doors swung shut, she took off running towards the hallway the nurses had mapped out for her ahead of time, dodging wheelchairs that the sight of made her flinch, and barrelling up the stairs that lead to the observation room from which they were allowed to observe the procedure. They'd arrived already, but hadn't finished prepping the anesthetia.
She'd swiped one of the large envelopes used to store x-rays on her way up, and taking a sharpie pen from her purse, stashed there for this purpose, quickly scrawled a message on the blank back in large, bold letters, and held it up to the window. It was one of those irreverent, silly inside jokes that they'd accumulated over the years, and she gave the window a good, sound rap to get Nathan's attention. She couldn't hear the laugh, but she could certainly see it, and from the way Peter had ducked his mouth behind his hand to muffle a snicker, it was probably sounded something suspiciously like a giggle.
Before they knew it, the doctors were threading a tube through Nathan's mouth, and Heidi's hand was pressed so hard against the glass it had gone white. Peter took it down when they started the incision, worried that she might put her hand through it.
Angela was there, but Heidi barely registered her existance. She did her best to keep her own worry under control, not wanting the emotion to bleed over and compound Peter's, even going so far as to joke that Nathan would be dissapointed to know he wasn't as handsome on the inside as out. Then she lapsed into silence, afraid that opening her mouth would lead to her screaming or vomiting, or worse. She held onto Peter's hand the entire time, squeezing it every now and then, because she knew he needed it every bit as much as she did; and possibly more.
When, for a minute, Nathan's heartbeat had struggled to remain even, the fear had been palpable. She felt a tiny swell of static from Peter's hand, though she was gripping it so hard she couldn't feel anything else, and worried that one of them might break the other's hand before the surgeon turned his head up towards them and gestured that his heart had taken care of itself. They both nearly collapsed against the back of their chairs, and Heidi silently cheered Nathan on in her head.
She didn't stop until well after the last stitch was in place. |
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| The Morning After [Heidi, Nathan, Post-Op] |
[Mar. 29th, 2008|02:53 am] |
( After an evening of mutual tension and comfort... )
It was four hours later that Peter roused. He was pleasantly surprised to have enjoyed that much. Despite his impatience to check in on the hospital, a shower was first on the to-do list, followed by a set of fresh clothing and a pot of coffee. He still teleported back, though he stopped first at his favorite cafe to pick up not one, but two still-warm cinnamon buns, a tall mug of Earl Grey, and a basket of fresh bagels. The last was dropped off, as usual, at the nursing station, and Peter made his way to Nathan's room, knocking lightly at the door before entering and presenting Heidi with her breakfast. |
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| Coffee Shop Crash [OT: Peter] |
[Mar. 25th, 2008|11:00 pm] |
Moira had a steady job, a place to stay, and everything was looking up. Except for the fact that her shadow was taunting her. It was annoying when it decided to take on a life of its own, and she cast a glare toward the wall, clamping down hard to keep it from shifting out of alignment with her body. God, she hated not being able to let her mind drift without feeling like she was going to end up doing something unconsciously that was going to draw attention to herself.
Picking up her coffee as it was slid across the counter toward her, Moira turned and sat herself down at one of the two person tables along the wall, turning her eyes toward the window and letting them linger on the street and people outside. |
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| This...Isn't Right [Narrative] |
[Mar. 25th, 2008|02:56 pm] |
She had once been a woman of a very open mind, more open than was normal or respectable for a lady of her standing back thirty or forty years ago. She had had to be of an open mind not long after that, when the Company had been established, and they had all been working on learning about and harnessing their powers. Her open mind had been stretched to its limitations with each new individual they found and each experiment that had been insisted on and added to the Company's methods. She had endured, understood, and learned to cope with quite a bit in her nearly sixty years on this earth.
But this...
Standing on the doorstep of what had once been her husband's office...
This was almost too much. And that was merely for one simple reason:
Angela had been a mother for most of her life.
And if there was anything a mother knew, it was that rooms did not clean themselves. |
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| How Exactly Does One Deal With This? [Log: Peter] |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|02:25 pm] |
Merton only occasionally received case information on trauma victims. Usually, they were recommended to sources outside of the hospital, people with far more experience in dealing with these types of situations. But there was a notation of resistance to the idea in the file along with a few other worrying statements. It didn't help, either, that the name on the file was achingly familiar. Sighing softly to himself, Merton carefully crossed out the areas that noted 'paranoia' and 'delusions of grandeur' before closing the file, tucking it under his arm and his pen behind his ear as he gathered up the books that he'd been reading (a couple language texts and a book on slight of hand) to take with him just in case Peter was still about as open to the idea of talking to him as he had been before.
Pausing at the door to his office, Merton turned back inside, moving over to the closet, sorting through the junk that had been stored in there before tugging out his spare winter coat and draping it over his arm. Better safe than sorry.
Peter was in the living room when the doorbell rang. He stood, and put a force field around himself before going to open the door. ( Maybe he was a little paranoid, but was it really considered paranoia when there really were people after you? ) |
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| I'm Not Really Here As A Doctor [OT: Nathan] |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|01:36 pm] |
Merton Swann had always had difficulty when it came to being clinically detached like so many of his colleagues insisted was necessary to be truly effective. This inability often lead him to step outside of what would be a professional context. He'd had drinks with a few of his cases, attempted to relate to them in their own environment not because of anything to do with their case but because he had a genuine affection for them.
This was a little more complicated than that, and it was certainly a bit more than drinks. But Merton was still doing it for the same reasons.
Peaking his head into the room that they had set Nathan up in, Merton offered him a slight smile, "How you feeling?" |
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| Return, and Old Faces [Narrative / open for Niki] |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|02:41 am] |
Molly watched Matt drive off, waving. She turned and went back inside, flanked by Cates and Cather. She liked Cather. He was thin and funny and not as intimidating as Cates. They would be her watchers? Or was that just for today? She wasn't sure, but once she went inside the Kirby Office Building, they slipped in behind her, followed her through the security gate - she had her own card now! - and up into the elevator.
( Forty-second floor, once again. ) |
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| Discussions [Arthur] |
[Mar. 24th, 2008|01:34 pm] |
Niki had been drifting. There'd been pain, dulled by medication, and sedatives, and brief, scattered explanations that her mind needed time to heal, she needed to rest, someone would explain everything when she was in a better state of mind to understand it.
There'd been a blood transfusion as well, although she'd thought that it was fire and burns that were the problem, and at some point she'd been moved from one hospital room to a helicopter to another hospital room, but most of the past however long it had been was one big blur, punctuated by brief moments of lucidity.
Climbing up out of the fog was easier this time, though. Niki opened her eyes, blinking slowly; she was in the same hospital room, albeit one that looked a good deal more personal than an actual hospital room. Photos on the table by the bed -- Micah and DL -- and two of her favourite books. A painting on the wall, a landscape of the mountains. And it was done in pale blues and greys, not the usual start white of a hospital.
There was an IV in her arm; the bag seemed to consist mostly of plain saline. No restraints, and the door was a simple, normal door, no huge padlocks or electronic locks.
She seemed to be perfectly fine, physically. A little thinner than she had been, and tired, but not burned, not scarred.
Hopefully someone would come by to explain, as the doctor had promised. |
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| Attack [Colette, Sylar, Peter] |
[Mar. 23rd, 2008|12:58 am] |
Colette had been at work since seven that morning, when the little café in the hospital opened. It had been one of her better days, and she made it through the morning and the few hours of the afternoon that she was rostered on without anything particularly dramatic happening, besides Madeleine dropping a tray of coffee when the paramedic she had a crush on walked by.
She finished up at two in the afternoon, hanging her apron on a hook in the breakroom and heading out. Eden wasn't going to be home until five, and Colette didn't really like sitting around at home when it was such a nice day outside, so she decided to walk home, instead of getting the subway. It would take a while, but she could stop for a mid-afternoon snack and get some fresh air and exercise.
( here was a man in the park when she sat down to have a sandwich and a rest, watching her. ) |
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| Try, Try Again [OT Claude] |
[Mar. 22nd, 2008|06:06 pm] |
Getting away from the police had been easy enough. He'd just had to wait until they'd removed the handcuffs and put him in a cell, and then lift the keys with telekinesis. They'd been talking about getting someone to come talk to him, but he'd talked to people and it hadn't helped, he had to find his brother, had to get his brother back. Everything would be all right if he had Marek back, Marek could tell him what to do. Marek always knew what to do.
He didn't go back to his flat. Nothing worth going back for; he had the photo, and that was all he ever kept with him. A photograph of himself, Marek, little Adélé, their parents. Johan and Caroline and the children weren't in it, hadn't been born yet. He missed them, missed the twins and little Lukas, but he had to get Marek back. When he got Marek back, the twins would have their father back, Caroline would have her husband. And he could stop feeling empty.
Picking pockets was easy, when you didn't even have to touch people. He pilfered enough to get lunch and sat down in Central Park, watching people go by. Waiting.
Someone would come, someone with the right ability. He'd be able to get Marek back then. Once he found the right ability. |
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| Familiar Faces, First Meetings. [OT- Max] |
[Mar. 21st, 2008|08:39 pm] |
Arthur wasn't the least bit surprised that his key still worked, despite the obvious change of locks.
He had his own apartment within the Kirby Plaza facility, redecorated to his tastes twenty minutes before he had arrived. While not a man for knick-knacks, Arthur had found them a tad Spartan, even for his tastes, and if Angela hadn't done away with them--Which he suspected she hadn't--there were several personal effects he intended to retrieve. Not much had been done to the place, and what little had, he considered reversing for several moments as he strode through the hall, across the two downstairs living rooms, up the staircase, and into his office.
It was an unholy mess, left in the wake of Hurricane Angela. He'd been expecting her to throw a fit over her lack of authourity, and even break into his files to snoop for clues, but he had thought she would have made a guess and settled on it before she ripped the drawers out of his desk and, from the way their contents were scattered about the room, decided to take up shot-put. He picked his way through the debris to open one of the windows and right his chair. Then, he sat, and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for a short time, focusing, listening to the wind rustle through the trees outside and over the sea of scattered and mangled papers. When one of the two noises was gone, he opened his eyes, and surveyed the office anew. It was tidy, save for the paperweight at his elbow, which he tucked back in a recently restored drawer.
Existing the office, he picked his breifcase up from where he had placed it outside the door, and headed down the hallway towards the bedroom. A noise caught his ear, and he turned mid-step, changing his course back towards the library. He'd been intending to deal with that later, but there was a chance he might be heard, and under some circumstances, it was rude to expect a guest to come looking for his host. |
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| Questions & Curiosities [OT: Adam] |
[Mar. 20th, 2008|02:41 pm] |
Monty wasn't quite sure what his brother was working through, but he had been silent and supportive through all of the sessions, listening intently to the things that Adam was telling Simon, trying his best not to fidget too much when he got bored, and hugging Simon and telling him things were going to be just fine whenever whatever it was got too hard or too intense for him to deal with on his own. One of these sessions had just finished, and Monty had sat obediently on the sofa in the sitting room, swinging his legs off the edge, a thoughtful little frown plastered on his face as a million thoughts rushed through his head before all settling into one large determined one as he pushed himself off onto the floor and headed upstairs.
Adam always put Simon to bed after the sessions. His older brother was always exhausted for some reason that Monty didn't quite understand and that he was determined that he wasn't going to not understand for much longer.
( Adam was just coming out of the bedroom when Monty reached the top of the stairs. ) |
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| Late Night, or Early Morning? [log] |
[Mar. 17th, 2008|12:39 am] |
[takes place after this log with Peter and Pekna]
"A Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair / and one could tell by bow he walked he'd drunk more than his share / He stumbled 'round until he could no longer keep his feet / then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street. / Ring-ring, diddy-little aye-dee-oh, ring-di-dilly-aye-oh / he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street."
Peter had heard the ballad once before, somewhere. He couldn't quite remember where, but the words had come back to him in a haze of alcohol. Once the door had clicked shut behind Penka, the tune had resurfaced in his head. Despite his level of inebriation, he had the presence of mind to sing softly. He had no desire to wake the boys, or worse, Heidi. She certainly wouldn't want to see him in this state.
"About that time, three young and lovely ladies happened by / and one said to the others with a twinkle in her eye / 'See yon sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built / I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their kilts!' / Ring-ring, diddy-little aye-dee-oh, ring-di-dilly-aye-oh / 'I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their kilts."
The dress suit that he'd worn for the ballet was rumpled and in disarray. There was a dark red smear of lipstick on the side of his throat, a slightly different shade at the corner of his lips. His tie was missing, and one sleeve stretched, though not torn. Peter headed directly for the kitchen, pausing in his singing long enough to drink an entire bottle of water from the fridge. One down, he picked up another, continuing the next verse as he started examining the cabinets.
"They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman, quiet as can be / and lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see / And there, behold, for them to view beneath that Scottish skirt / 'twas nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth! / Ring-ring, diddy-little aye-dee-oh, ring-di-dilly-aye-oh / 'Twas nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth."
( ''I believe the next verse includes the ladies tying a blue ribbon to his sword,'' ) |
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| Jitters [OT Peter, Heidi, the boys] |
[Mar. 20th, 2008|10:49 am] |
The surgery was scheduled for that afternoon. Nathan had been calm enough while he'd packed a bag with enough clothing and books for a week, just in case the doctors wanted to keep him in that long, and calm enough during the drive to the hospital and the admission.
Now, though, sitting on the bed in the private room, it was getting harder to keep back the nerves. It was a routine surgery, as far as the doctors were concerned, but it was still open heart surgery. There were still risks.
He looked down at his chest, tracing the scars that Adam's blood hadn't quite been able to get rid of, as they'd already been forming when he'd been given the transfusion. Bullet scars, there and there; long, straight scars from surgeries to try to repair the damage that two bits of lead tearing through him caused. Surgeries that had caused this problem, caused too much scar tissue.
This would be another scar, down the centre of his chest. Another reason not to look at himself without a shirt on, because every time he saw the scars, he heard the gunshots again. He'd thought nothing could top the war, when it came to nightmares and flashbacks; he'd been wrong. War had been nothing personal, for all it had been horrible. Being trapped in his downed plane had been awful, but it had been cold, impersonal happenstance. The assassination attempt had been personal.
He shouldn't think about it, not before the operation. But the operation required him to be naked to the waist, so the surgeons didn't have to fight with fabric or paper gowns, and he could see the scars, and hear the gunshots. |
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| Movie Night [OT- Nathan] |
[Mar. 18th, 2008|11:53 pm] |
Heidi waved as Peter teleported off with the boys, feeling a little foolish for it, but calmed by the gesture all the same. Peter had been a sight to see, piled high with camping equipment but not showing so much as a slight bend beneath the weight. Try as she might to point out he might be toting a bit much, he just didn't seem to notice.
Nathan had said his goodbyes and delivered a speech on camping safetly upstairs(Complete with extra emphasis on Poison Ivy to Monty, who had a penchant for unwittingly finding patches of it whenever they went camping.), and mentioned something about a quick shower. She took the popcorn out of the microwave and poured it into the massive bowl bought specifically for movie nights. If more substantial fare was needed for later, Heidi had a surprise or two chilling in the fridge that could be popped into the oven after the first film.
It was almost entirely undistinguishable from their old at-home tradition. The popcorn wasn't as salty, with consideration to Nathan's upcoming surgery, and the wine had been replaced with grape juice and natural sodas provided by Peter that the both of them had conceeded as being surprisingly adequate, enjoyable, substitutes.
Flopping down on the sofa, she set the bowl on the coffee table, and snagged the DVD remote from between the cushions. They'd start with Singin' in the Rain, and see where the night took them. |
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| I Care, All Right? That's Not Such A Big Deal, Really. It's Not! Shut Up! [OT: Petrelli House] |
[Mar. 18th, 2008|12:14 am] |
It had been over a week. Sure, it wasn't unusual for Claude not to see Petrelli the younger for a week or more sometimes, but this was not one of those usual situations. With an older brother in the midst of what had looked like a full out mental breakdown to him, and the females in the family both being strong minded women who would have probably torn each other apart over even the smallest disagreement, Claude was worried when the lack of contact dragged on this long. Not just for Peter but for that whole bloody family.
The boy was making him soft.
Slipping onto the doorstep of the former New York Congressman, Claude shuffled a bit before raising his hand to knock, waiting for the door to be answered. Whoever answered (unless it was Peter) would probably think it was a trick by the neighborhood kids since they wouldn't see him standing on the step, but Claude had been doing this for so long that he saw absolutely no need to ask to be let in. When confused, people usually held the door open long enough and wide enough for him to get inside without much of a hassle. |
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| Alcohol; Alternative To Feeling Like Yourself. [OT- Peter] |
[Mar. 16th, 2008|10:18 pm] |
Penkala Burton believed in alcohol.
In fact, after a particularly long day of running from one end of the city to the other, getting smacked by metal objects who's original purpose were not self-propelled projectiles, pulling hyperactive children off of banisters, and peddling panties to a slew of women who didn't appear to actually have breasts, Penkala Burton not only believed in alcohol; she praised it's existance to the heavens. Maybe God hadn't gotten her genes right, but he'd certainly done a fantastic job with the vodka.
The bar wasn't particularly classy or singularly grungy, and since having whipped up a glittery g-string for the bartender's slutty girlfriend, the number of free drinks she received was directly related to the frequency of it's use. She'd racked up a total of thirty-two, over a period of six months. At first she'd felt a bit cheap(Though not so much as the slut girlfriend.), but after the third visit, she'd come to recognize it as a wise investment and testament to her talent as a designer.
Accepting another shot from the tender, Penka had been about to knock it back when a group of college students, clad in university shirts splashed with beer, stumbled from their stools to the till to toss their trust-fund at the thin, scantily-clad barmaid manning it. Down the bar was a familiar face, attempting to keep another, not-so familiar female face from attaching itself to his. Judging by the lipstick smear on his neck and mouth, the angry glares coming from one of the back booths, he wasn't doing so well.
Sure, it wasn't any of her business, but she'd already saved him from boys. Might as well rescue him from the other gender before both became involved.
Penka gestured down the bar, for her next drink, and abandoned her stool to sidle over to the sucky-faced blonde and the person she had obviously mistaken for a straw. She gave him another thirty seconds to successfully run her off on his own, but when he failed to do so, gave a sharp, high whistle; the kind used to summon spaniels and small children.
When the woman jumped and turned indignantly for the source of the noise, Penka pushed the shot into her hand, and said, "My name is Darleen. I'm a lesbian and I'd like to dance with you."
The blonde couldn't leave fast enough. When the scuffling of her heals and distressed squealing had retreated far enough away, Penka settled onto the stool next to the abandoned prey just in time to push away one of the impressive number of glasses to make room for her replacement beverage. |
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