I am but mad north-northwest

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 22:59:23 GMT

МАЯ АНТАРЕС

Maya Antares

Maya Antares is a sorceress-major (a warkaster) in the Red Fleet, of the former United Republics of the Red Star. She is a slender, athletic, good-looking woman in her early thirties, of average height, with blue eyes, pale skin, and a long blonde braid. She has seen years of war, was there when the back of the Red Fleet was broken at Kar Dathra's Gate, and was there--but not close enough, not with him--when her husband died there. She is a strong woman, grieving these nine years since Kar Dathra's Gate. She is not the young innocent she once was. Not by a long shot. But she is a good woman, and kind; thoughtful, intelligent, and not giving in to despair. Not now.

Maya is an excellent soldier and an even better sorceress, her natural ability drawn on by the Protokols that she can Kast. She does not have psychic abilities, but she can throw up mental shields, cast offensive and defensive Protokols, and also do things like call up a flame with her bare hand, and write a letter without ever touching the pencil.

Her accent sounds Russian.

If players (particularly those with characters who may be able to sense Maya's powers) have questions, contact the mun!

Maya Antares is from The Red Star, and is the property of Christian Gossett and Archangel Studios. She appears here solely for the purpose of role-playing in milliways_bar, from which no profit whatsoever is being made.

Sorry, like I said, I was bored. Obviously as it is the whole table isn't filled - that could be fixed by spacing out the text more, or adding more text, or using a different font, or reducing the size of the image so the table overall would be smaller. That red for the background was just what I ended up liking the most. The Cyrillic thing at the top was... I don't know, I thought it would look cool. I just found an online converter - there's also a weird space between her name in Cyrillic and the Latin alphabet version, which I don't think would be there if you put this html code into edit profile, I think it's just an lj-style override that happens in lj posts. The milliways_bar link also won't be underlined in the profile page.

Anyway, if you like it, I can send you the code as a .txt file and you can copy and paste it into the edit profile page :D

May 2007, Let's Go

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 01:50:38 GMT

It's still early morning when Elle steps through to her world, pushing aside what turns out to be the thick glass door of a convenience store, the kind half-attached to a gas station off the main highway, and into the cool night. She'd slept in the bar to prepare for this; her duffel bag is slung over her shoulder, and she'd chosen something softer – a pair of jeans, simple sandals, the Bar's white peasant top and a light blue hooded shirt to go over it – for her return. The sleeves of her hooded shirt are long enough to cover her watch, and even unzipped, the shirt conceals the holstered gun affixed at her shoulder. That's not something that she plans to use if she can help it. The right electric shock is usually much less conspicuous than a bullet wound.

Elle takes for granted that one or the other will become necessary.

There's no one in sight as she walks through the empty parking lot adjoining the store, and heads toward the road beyond it. Light she has plenty of, even without her ability. High lamps provide an orange glow that shines off the pavement and continues on to the road ahead, and the moon is nearly full, though it's getting late enough that even the night sky is starting to pale. If anything is bothering her, it's the silence. Too little noise is something that has always got to her, and it's enough to make her jittery now, but she makes her steps as loud as possible as she walks from concrete to gravel and grass, stepping off the road that leads out of the parking lot, pausing occasionally to try to read the signs in the light that glints off the painted steel. It doesn't take her long to decide on a direction.

It's the walk that's long. Two hours following the road, though she only stops to switch her bag between her shoulders, and check the posted signs to makes sure the mile count seems to be decreasing in the right way. Cars begin to appear and gradually become more numerous as the sky turns lighter. A few slow down, but she ignores them, managing not to tense or reach toward her holster as she does. Neither stops, in any case.

By the time she passes the 'Welcome' sign of her destination, the sun has started to hedge along the eastern sky.

There were two doors hung with 'Open' signs across the road from the White Plains station; one in a Starbucks, the other a tiny grocery store. Elle had arrived in time to not have to wait outside the station, but after finding the ticket counter, she was told the bus she wanted wouldn't leave for another hour. With the hood on her shirt pulled up, she'd decided on the grocery store, though she didn't buy anything more than an apple and a cup of their coffee.

Back in the station, she'd spread over a plastic bench in the small, but open and uncrowded waiting area, and spent a few seconds deciding she liked the coffee she could get from the Bar better. She'd still finished it in half an hour, and then with fifteen minutes left, entered one of the stalls in the station's bathroom. There, Elle hung her duffel bag from the hook on the door, and sorted through it, pulling out her small water bottle to wash down the cheap coffee, then taking off her hoodie and peasant top and replacing them with a white t-shirt, the image of a short, square stone tower on green hill imprinted on its front. Elle has little idea of what makes Glastonbury a tourist destination, but it's just as well for her. The change meant her holster was no longer concealed, and so Elle slipped it and her gun into the bag, leaving the gun just beyond the end of the zipper. Finally, she took out a hair tie and pulled her hair back, and stopped in front of one of the spotted mirrors to make sure her bangs still lay smoothly over her scar.

Since then, she'd boarded the bus, putting her bag in the seat next to her. There were few enough people riding with her that seats were left open in every row; she took one near the back, and dissuaded a potential neighbor by ignoring him when he asked if the seat next to her was taken. The large windows made this easy, Elle didn't stop looking through her own until after they'd left the first stop.

Now, she carefully unzips the top of her bag, just enough to fit her hand in, and feels her way to the small plastic bag she'd packed inside. It's what she'd brought for now, half a box of Thin Mints. Elle zips the duffel closed again, and pulls open the top of the plastic bag, picking out one of the thin cookies as her eyes turn back to the window. It's not that there's much to see – mostly trees, road signs, the cars that slip by in the passing lane and the occasional rush of chain restaurants and gas stations that indicate they're passing by a town. Maybe she shouldn't even be looking out the window, in case they go by the wrong car or camera lens.

But –

Maybe I do.

- she'll have to get used to it.

Three and a half hours later, Elle is on the E train heading north. She'll have to switch to the F, but there will be plenty of chances to do that – the train hasn't even left Manhattan yet. Elle is settled in beige plastic seat with her duffle bag in her lap, though the car itself isn't all that crowded, either. Too late for the morning rush, but too early for the lunch break, not that Elle is familiar with either. Those in her car are a couple reading from the same book as they lean against a pole, a man in a long black coat fiddling with the buttons on his phone (though she's sure there can't be service here), and in the seats across from her, a girl maybe ten years old, with her mother. The girl has short dark hair that's been tightly bound into twin pigtails; her mother is distracted by a newspaper.

Elle pretends to be distracted as well, though all she has to occupy herself is the end of the duffel bag's zipper, which she twiddles back and forth as the train stops and continues on. The girl is twisting around one of the hand rails, waving a plastic toy in the shape of a wand with a star placed at the end. It's yellow with sparkles inlaid, and occasionally, the girl presses on the toy's side, though this does nothing at all.

Each time, however, the girl calls to her mother. Elle doesn't need to listen to know what the problem is, though the girl's mother ignores her.

After four shouts and three stops, Elle looks up from twiddling the zipper. Her eyes seem to meet the girl's as though on cue; without saying anything, Elle holds her hand out, palm open. The girl's eyes don't leave hers, not even when she reaches toward her, and puts the toy in Elle's hand.

The process is simple enough. Elle looks down, turning the plastic wand over in her hand, the sparkles inlaid in the yellow plastic glittering in the fluorescent lights that line the top of the car. She digs her nail into a groove in the back, and pops open the cap over the hollowed out portion of the toy that contains its batteries. The plastic cap is set in the seat next to her, and she taps the wand against her left palm, sliding the two AA batteries into her hand.

She sets the wand aside now, too, and picks up both batteries one at a time, holding them for a few seconds between her thumb and index fingers. There's no visible sign of what she's doing, and just as quickly, she's replacing the batteries into the wand, and clicking the cap back on.

It's not until she's handing it back to the girl that a voice snaps –

"Sarah."

The girl's mother had finally looked up, her eyes blinking between the two of them as the girl takes the toy back. "You don't give your things to strangers."

It's nearly startling that the girl doesn't look back to her mother. She doesn't even answer, only presses the button on the toy once again. The star at the end of the wand lights up, illuminating the yellow plastic, and a noise like the sound of bells emits from it.

"She said she was going to fix it."

Elle blinks to the woman.

"Yes, well –"

The mother stuffs her paper into her purse and reaches out to grab the girl's shoulder, pulling her back to the other side of the car, and into a seat.

Directed to Elle, without really looking at her – "Thank you."

Elle doesn't answer, but it doesn't matter. Though there's no connection to the F, Elle pulls herself up, and gets off at the next stop.

She had thought t was about knowing where to look. That she'd become so used to it because rather than being the exception, most of the people she'd known in her life were like her. Now, as she waits on the platform for the next train to come, Elle realizes that it wasn't that they were the exception. It wasn't about knowing where to look. It was about knowing how to look.

They're everywhere.

There was no point in spending more money than she had to. Elle could understand that. She isn't sure what anyone would expect of her if they were looking, and she doubts it would be this. It wasn't too close to where she was really heading, but that would work out for the best - the motel is a four story walk-up about five blocks from the station she'd exited at 169th street. It had a small lobby lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs and walls painted a shade of taupe that reminded of her of the halls of the Hartsdale facility (though the dim scent of cigarette smoke and the plastic over the sofa in it did not), and the man at the desk gave her a key and a subway map.

The room itself has barely enough room for the single bed and a dresser with a small television on top. A closed door immediately to the left of the entrance leads to bathroom. There's a window that looks into the alley between her building and the next, with not much in it aside from a dumpster and the tattered posters that on the brick walls. After setting her duffel on the bed, she sets the 'Do Not Disturb' sign around the doorknob, and draws the cloth curtain over the window.

Elle sits on the bed, her eyes falling to her duffel bag and then to the television – they've left the remote control on top of it. It's not too late in the day to start some recon, but instead, she picks up the remote, and clicks on the television. After going through the channels twice, she settles on one that looks like news, or at least involves anchors and illustrative graphics.

After ten minutes of it, she hits the mute button the remote, and pulls her bag over to start going through her things. Suddenly, work seems like the better idea, after all.

She's unpacked as much as she's comfortable with unpacking (clothes, cookies, another New York City subway map) about an hour later, and decides to finally look into the bathroom. This door, however, leads something else entirely.

"Better than a bathroom," Elle mutters, before heading back to the bed to grab her bag.

May 2007, Remains

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:27:01 GMT

It's night by the time they reach the park Elle remembers. A sparsely-wooded area, beyond the suburban cul-de-sacs and driveways, it's only about a twenty-mile drive from Hartsdale, but Elle had used every maneuver she and X knew between them in order to make sure they weren't being followed. The late hour means the area is empty; Elle manages to quietly drive off the road and straight into the grass, heading toward the trees and continuing through wide gaps between them, until she slows near the edge of a narrow slope.

They both step out from the front of the white van. Elle moves to open the back while X examines the space, making sure that they're really alone. A small, soft light comes from the van's interior when Elle opens the doors and climbs inside.

After a few minutes, X joins her, and together they lift the body bag out of the back, X in front, directing the way toward the narrow slope, which will function well enough as a shallow ditch. Her movements are slower and more precise than Elle's; the other woman quickly releases the body and returns to the van to get the plastic box left inside.

Elle's movements are much milder as she returns, setting the box aside and stepping into the slope with her father. She gently unzips the bag, spreading the plastic cover to blanket the ground on either side of her father's body. X steps away, hesitating at the edge of the slope for only a moment before returning to the back of the van. Once her father's body is exposed, Elle opens the plastic box and lifts out from it the top of her father's skull, placing it on the plastic next to his right shoulder.

She stands again as she replaces the lid of the box, and moves to join X.

May 2007, And The Rest You Can Keep

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:24:57 GMT

The shouting of the escaped prisoners is still echoing in the stairwell when Elle steps through. She's wearing the clothes she'd left in – her blue blouse, still stained in the back with Sylar's blood, black slacks, no shoes. But her hair is tied back with a black band, and what should be open wounds are now scars across her forehead and hands. It's the best she can do, and the plan is to not be seen, in any case. Elle moves onto the landing, glancing up and down the stairwell, eyes not lingering on the body that has now been tossed from its contorted position on the stairs to crumpled in the corner, before she signals for X to follow.

They go up only one level before Elle heads into the hall. It's dark enough that she lifts her palm and holds out an electric blue sphere in front of her, like a lantern. Through two smaller corridors, she locates Stairway B, which is much less likely to be occupied.

It gets them to the fourth floor. Elle's room is in the main hall, and for the first time, they do encounter someone – an agent she recognizes is holding a flashlight, and standing outside her door. X complies when Elle motions for her to stay behind the corner while she steps into the hall.

The agent is taken down easily enough with one bright white arc. While Elle forces her way into the room as the lock is set and the keypad has gone dark, X fashions the agent's clothing as restraints, finishing by wrapping his tie around his eyes like a blindfold. Just in case.

It doesn't take Elle too much time to weaken the door's latch enough for her to kick it open. It's more noise than she would like, but it doesn't look like the agent was set what would be thought a particularly challenging job. X still drags the limp man into the room as well, dumping him in the tub in the bathroom and locking the door from the outside.

The room itself is moderately spacious, though there are no windows, Elle is still their only source of light, even if X doesn't really need it. The floor is hardwood (less flammable than carpet), and the walls painted a deep shade of blue, which matches the color of her bedspread. Other furniture is somewhat sparse: there's a wood dresser and mirror across from the bed, a night stand on which rests a small lamp, a tiny television and VCR set plugged into the wall, next to which were a stack of video tapes either related to her files, or things from her early childhood she hadn't watched in years.

It's the closet to the right of the bed that Elle heads to first, from which she pulls out a small blue suitcase. She really can only afford to take what's necessary – the first things are from her top drawer, where underneath nightgowns and socks she stores fake driver's licenses and passports, bank cards and cash. All of these go in the case first, along with four changes of clothes (Elle likes her clothes, but she doesn't have time to pick favorites – and if things go according to plan, getting more shouldn't be a problem), a shoulder holster for a handgun, a few items from her bathroom, some hastily chosen pieces of jewelry, and two pairs of shoes, one of them black flats that she pulls on her own feet. A small piece of paper is taken from the top drawer, but she folds it against her waistband rather than adding it to the pile in the suitcase.

And then, Elle climbs up onto her bed, and picks off the collection of plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars that's affixed to her ceiling. It's the only true personal affect Elle choose to take from her room. It's only small pieces of tape that keeps them there – she sticks them together, and adds them to what she's packed.

They wait for a while after this. Elle occasionally checks into the bathroom to make sure the agent is still unconscious, while X sits by the door, making herself aware of every movement in the hallway beyond to be sure no one is heading toward the room. Even with the chaos outside, changes in Company leadership are frequent enough that Elle knows it won't take them too long to make the office ready for its next occupant – in this case, getting her father's body to the morgue before it's even cold. After that, it probably wouldn't be touched for some time – it wasn't like he needed an autopsy.

Maybe a closed-casket funeral, if they were that kind of people.

Finally, after consulting with X to make sure the hall is clear, Elle steps back out, hand held in front with a bright sphere of blue sparks above it. X follows, carrying the suitcase easily in one hand. It works best, for now. Elle leads back to the side stairwell, still empty, that takes them up to the next floor.

That there's no one outside her father's office, but the door is left ajar. It tells her that they've waited long enough. As they head down the hall, Elle sees her heeled shoes, still where she'd left them next to the wall. She doesn't stop for them.

It's the first time they've entered a room with windows. The light isn't as bright as it was earlier, now tinged with orange, suggesting that it's nearing sunset, but there's still enough that Elle can lower her hand. Her father's chair had turned to face the door, now empty of its occupant. X stations herself as a lookout at the door, while Elle walks through the office. Other than the body having been removed, the office hasn't been cleaned up in any other way – the files are still strewn across the floor, her father's belongings cluttered in the shelves. Two leather books had fallen from the top of the book case.

Elle moves to the desk, the small piece of paper she'd removed from her dresser crunched against her palm. When she reaches the computer, she never sits in the chair – but as she had before, Elle gets down on her knees and finds the computer's cord under the desk, and uses the tie from her hair to affix it to her arm. The computer is powered immediately, no access to the server. She opens her hand and spreads the scrap of paper open against the surface of the desk; since she was fourteen, Elle had watched her father closely enough to record his various passwords. This had never been one of her reasons for doing it.

Her father also wasn't nearly as clever as he liked to think he was, but Elle doesn't know that.

Once she's through three sets of passwords, it's the identity records that she deletes first. Aliases, fake social security and driver's license numbers. She erases her father as she erases herself. The financial records, however, include information she needs – Elle reaches in to the left side top drawer and doesn't have to rifle through it for long before she finds his black flip phone. This time, she can read the screen as it illuminates. The Bishop accounts were in two banks – the full extent of his wealth included gold stores within the facility that hadn't yet been liquidated, but there was no way of accessing that.

On the other hand, she was named in both of his accounts, and had her own. If Bob knew how to show his love for his daughter in one way, it was, and would be, in making sure she knew how to keep their money.

The first call goes to the Swiss account. The second is to Bank of Chiba. Her father was right about her accent – the woman who takes her call has enough difficulty understanding as Elle reads off every code, account number, and routing number from her father's files.

And then asks about the contents of the account's safety deposit box.

There's no mention of it in the records. The woman has to repeat her question before Elle tells her not to close the account until she picks up the contents herself. However the hell that will happen.

After, Elle closes the phone, and by the time it's fallen from to the floor from her open hand, it's nothing more than twisted burnt metal and plastic. Elle moves back to the computer to permanently erase the remaining files, before tugging off the cord affixed to her arm, yanking the computer's hard drive out from under the desk, and shoving it down to the floor. She has to stomp a few times to break through the plastic covering, and then her foot lights up, igniting the interior in a large, and loud, spurt of sparks.

X could say that this is not efficient. But she doesn't. Regardless, it is effective – this isn't the first time Elle has destroyed such equipment.

As she had only hours earlier, Elle opens the center drawer of the desk and surveys its contents. The gun she'd picked out earlier isn't her own choice – this one is smaller, easier to maneuver and to conceal. She lifts it out and checks the lock before setting it on the desk and, unlike how she treated the hard drive, gently closes the drawer again.

When Elle moves to pick it up, as well as her list of passwords, she notices something else – the framed photograph her father had of himself. He wasn't wearing a suit, but the kind of clothes most would associate with fishing or hunting, and indeed was holding out a large fish for the camera. None of it is anything Elle really recognizes of her father. Blood is splattered across the frame, partially obscuring his face under the glass.

She picks up it, and smashes the glass against the edge of the desk. But without pausing, she flicks away shards, and extracts the photograph from beneath what's left of the glass. It's carefully folded, and tucked into her waistband, the top concealed by the hem of her blouse. The crumpled list is retrieved, as well as the gun, and she moves back around the desk, to where X is waiting for her.

Again, X doesn't comment on what would have been more efficient. She only remarks, "I did not know you spoke Japanese."

Elle doesn't know what to make of it, and answers, without thinking, "We all do."

Even if there's no we anymore.

The gun goes into her suitcase. She won't need it or the holster before they leave. X is checking that the hall is empty when Elle calls up to her, "I need to know if there's – any of my dad –"

Her attention is focused entirely on zipping up the suitcase as she speaks.

"- in here."

Elle hadn't looked too closely, when she was here earlier, but the top of her father's head had to be somewhere. X watches her for a moment, but lifts her head, and looks into the room.

"There is blood."

She says nothing else. Elle nods, hands the zipped-up suitcase to X, and leads the way back through the door.

The morgue is, conveniently, located on the ground level. Given the number of bodies that are probably in the facility today, Elle is prepared for more of the agents who are still alive to be cluttered in the halls that lead to it. They manage to sidestep Bridget Bailey all together as the she heads for the main stairwell; Elle knocks down another from building security who is passing the door to the morgue. X waits while Elle enters – as she expected, only the attendant is inside.

Unsurprisingly, it's a large room; high steel walls, spacious enough for closets as well as metal gurneys and autopsy tables. The air is still chilled. Metal desks with computers and office chairs are cluttered with open folders and photographs and crammed into the corners. The crematorium is the door on the far left. At first, it doesn't look like anyone's inside, though a couple flashlights have been left alight on the desks, but Elle walks through, passing three metal gurneys, two with black body bags that could contain her father, to the desk in the far right corner. A small, red-haired woman is curled under the desk, knees folded into her stomach and hands twisted over her head. She tilts her head to peek out from under it when Elle stops in front of her desk.

There's recognition, and she opens her mouth to speak, before Elle raises her hand. The woman knocks her head on the office chair, as she collapses against the floor, causing the chair to spin off to the side and nudge one of the gurneys.

Elle walks back across the room to bring X inside. From the blood in his office, X points out which bag contains her father without having to look through them. The bag is still on the gurney, and hasn't been opened. There's a small, opaque plastic box on the tray under the gurney itself. Elle picks it up, and carefully peels back the lid.

She closes it again quickly. They had, apparently, found the rest of her father in his office. Most of him, anyway. X slides her suitcase onto the tray as Elle replaces the box next to it, and together, they push the gurney out into the hall.

The location of the morgue is convenient because it means they can go straight to the garage on the same level. The halls they have to take are relatively clear, but as every inmate in the building was likely headed to this same location, it's unlikely to stay that way once they reach it. Pure luck means they don't run into anyone while slowed by the gurney – a left turn means Elle can take out another guard standing at the door out to the garage. But once they stop, X walks up to the door, and stay still for a long moment.

"There are five." Her eyes meet Elle's. "Two of them are closer."

Elle puts her hand on the door's handle. "Let me go first."

X does not protest, but the flickering moment of hesitation before she nods indicates that she is not best pleased with this arrangement.

But Elle steps ahead through the door, raising her arms as she walks into the large, cement garage. There are emergency lights here – dim fluorescent bulbs high in the ceiling. It's an advantage already – X was right about their positions, and the closer two don't see her come in, only the bright blue light in the corner of their eyes.

Once they're down, however, she's not as lucky – something fires, and Elle has to twist around to face it. When she hears footsteps behind her, the electric arc she sends in return becomes enough to kill any human.

Three more shots ring out – two from behind her, one from in front. Those Elle hadn't struck down herself become clear as they topple to the ground, the blood that begins to pool from their heads more visible as it reflects what dim light there is. Elle turns around, and sees that same reflection on X's stomach.

There's no thought to it when Elle reaches out to her, but she's barely touched X's skin near the wound before she withdraws her hand again.

"Sorry," she murmurs.

X only shrugs. "It did not go through."

It means they won't have to worry about leaving a bullet with X's flood somewhere on the garage floor.

They both slip out to bring the gurney in, before Elle uses a small ball of sparks to find a metal cabinet. The padlock has been destroyed, the door turned off its hinges, but several of the keys are still hanging off their places on the hooks. She recognizes an orange tag and snatches those keys immediately. This level contains the kind of model she'll need, and what she expects most of the others escaping had avoided – plain, nondescript white vans, the kind of thing they used on pickups or long-term surveillance. Several have been destroyed, most of which look like the work of the pyrokinetic, but the one she's chosen is not among them.

Elle unlocks the back. They both lift the body bag off the gurney, X working more carefully than Elle to make sure it's done with some delicacy – X also places the plastic box and suitcase inside with it, while Elle checks that the van already has the box that contains the standard kit for Company work: tranquilizer equipment, black clothing, some smaller cameras, a hacksaw.

A plastic container of gasoline. Bottles of water. A first aid kit.

X closes the back doors. Elle climbs over the seats to pull herself into the front, and reaches over to unlock the passenger door for X.

"I should stay down."

Elle nods, and sticks the key in the ignition. X crouches as much as she can in the passenger seat as the van's headlights come on, and Elle tugs on the gear shift, barely glancing back as she reverses, and then pulls out, slamming it back to drive as they make their way toward the exit.

The barriers and garage door had been destroyed. It's twilight by now, a dim blue light slipping into the garage through the broken door. Once certain X is out of sight, Elle doesn't bother trying to take out the last two guards at the entrance – they appear preoccupied with looking through the wreckage of the scene, in any case. She slams her foot down on the acceleration.

Her eyes don't leave the road, her hands gripping the wheel tightly, as X pulls herself up into the passenger seat. It stays this way in the minutes that follow, as she makes several sharp turns, and, finally, slows down slightly. Headlights appear in the rearview mirror as the van slides into a highway lane.

Finally, X asks, "It is okay?"

Again, Elle nods.

what a father would do for his daughter

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 07:32:09 GMT

Bob Bishop stumbles back from his daughter, hitting the emptied shelf, hands grasping at his nose with blood visible between his fingers. Elle follows in slow steps, her hands at her side now, expression not angry, not even satisfied, but flat. There was nothing close to satisfying about seeing him fall, his glasses askew, nearly panting –

But his voice is still so calm.

"Is that it, Elle?"

She raises her hand again, but with surprising strength, he jumps forward, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. Her skin doesn't spark, and he shoves her back over the desk. Elle's free arm is enough to let her brace the impact, push the desk's contents aside so that she doesn't hit her head on anything besides the desk's surface. A moment later, he's released her.

"You wait," he snaps. "You let them underestimate you. Who do you think taught you that?"

Elle answers by shoving her foot back against his right shin. Pushing up against the desk, she twists around again, this time landing a hit against his left shoulder as she stands again. He stumbles back once more, this time to the bookshelf, rocking it enough that a couple of the small leather-backs from the top hit the floor.

"You didn't teach me that."

"No," he agrees. He's winded, clearly enough, but somehow he doesn't look surprised, as though he can't even muster the feeling anymore. He seems to sense it when she's about to charge again and takes a step toward her, his hand outstretched, palm open. She doesn't move.

"We don't have much time." He continues toward her, hand still outstretched, at last stopping when he can grip her shoulder. When he pushes her back, it's not rough again, but not gentle either – Elle feels like she has as little choice as she ever did to step back with him, against the desk; when she has to, she bends her knees, and pushes herself up to sit on the edge. Her father releases her. "I was hoping we could have a conversation."

But then he's silent, and Elle understands – she'll be the one who has to ask the questions. Maybe it's what she's owed. That doesn't make it any easier.

"What happened to Mom –"

"Don't waste your time with what you don't care about." It's a sharp interruption; Elle's eyes had wandered for only a moment, and it startles her attention back to him. He's standing awfully close – someone else might want to push him away, as he watches her so intently that it reminds her of the man who killed him. Like he also wishes he could take her apart.

And he was right. She was no puzzle for him; even if his stories about her mother's indifference, or of her death in a car accident hadn't been true, there was not even a small part of her that really cared. Elle's eyes never leave her father's.

"I thought you helped me."

"Oh, Elle –" The look is gone. Her father doesn't embrace her, but takes her hands in his. It's not until then that she notices the blood he'd smeared on her wrist; his nose is pink, some blood still on his face, but it couldn't be relevant. His hands close over hers, pressing them together – unlike before, there's no warmth in his skin.

"That's exactly what I did."

It's hardly her own will when sparks start crackling between her hands. Her father pulls away immediately, and Elle's pushing herself from the desk when he raises his hand again.

"I'm not lying to you." His voice still isn't so much as a forced calm – he sounds hollow. " You were never going to live outside it, not after you manifested. What the people in this world could have done to you –"

Her father takes a step back toward her, though he doesn't reach for her again. When she doesn't move, something seems to spark in his eyes – the emotion, the earnestness she's never seen from him is real. "I made you tougher than that."

Sociopath with paranoid delusions.

It had never made any sense – the way her father had always wanted her to be part of his world, to be good at it, but at the same time, seemed to resent her for it. Her gaze has fallen to the carpet now. He leans in as he takes another step closer, trying to get her to meet his eyes, but it doesn't work, and he moves away again.

"What happened here should be hurting you, Elle."

the hardest thing for a parent is to see their child in pain

But it isn't. The room, the scattered folders, her father's dead skin – it's like the sound of an old radio, too low to hear it. Something so quiet can't do so much as make her stomach turn. Elle looks back to him.

"I'm so proud of you."

You're the one who hears so much.

Tell me.
That hurts.

Her eyes are wet. Elle turns away, not bringing her hands to her face but turning to look to the window behind desk, distracting herself until any shine on her eyes is gone. She hears footsteps approach the desk again, and doesn't look back to him.

"What are you thinking about?"

The answer comes, even if she has to choke it out. "The letter opener."

The pause that follows is enough for her to collect herself. His steps stop short once more.

"It's not very efficient –"

"It'll hurt more." She can turn back to face him now. "Gold's a good conductor."

The earnest manner is gone entirely. Her father merely watches her in silence. Yet again, she knows he'd look disappointed if he weren't dead.

Elle doesn't reach for her weapon. She returns his gaze for several moments before –

"Did I ask you to stop?"

He blinks, with no change in his expression."Whe –"

"Ever." She's not yelling. It's such a clear question, the clarification is calm and deliberate, even if it comes close to pleading. "Did I ever ask for it to stop?"

Her father's shoulders straighten. The light flashes off his glasses once, as he tilts his head back, and then down again. She can read nothing of her answer in him.

"Will it make you feel better?"

It's –

How could anyone -

Elle has hardly any voice for her answer.

"No."

She makes herself watch him as she says it. Elle's right foot comes to the floor, and the left, as she lifts herself off the desk. Now, she's the one stepping toward him, and he doesn't back away. Her full voice returns to explain, "But I don't know why you'd make me forget."

Coming to an even stop in front of him, close enough that she has to look up to see his eyes. "Maybe you would've had to trust me."

There's still no change in his expression. But her father leans into her, much less like a parent now.

"What I don't understand," he answers, slow emphasis on every word, "is how you could want it back."

'cause if your life sucks that bad

This answer is so easy.

Elle's voice shakes, very slightly, but her eyes stay on his without any hesitation. "It's mine."

In her life, and his, Elle's father had raised his voice to her fewer than ten times. He had never struck her – not himself, anyway. Any kind of normal affection between them had been rare; if there was one thing their abilities held in common, it was that physical contact could be a dangerous thing. It's enough that her mind freezes when his hands are suddenly on her shoulders. He shoves her back, hard, toward the desk – Elle manages to twist, hands landing on the desk's edge to brace herself for it. Her arms tremble from the impact, knees slammed so hard she wants to sink to the floor, but she holds herself up.

It must be the only way he can tell her, because he can't fucking look so disappointed anymore.

When I think about all the hard work I put into raising you.

After all that –

"I wasn't what you wanted," Elle murmurs, still facing away, too low for him to possibly hear her.

He still answers.

"No."

She can hear his footsteps on the carpet, and tenses, but doesn't move, not even when she feels his hand on her hair, that same innocuous motion that had meant so much to her when she was nine and only barely aware of what was happening.

"They've all taken what's yours."

His mocking tone is a stark contrast to the affectionate gesture. But it's nothing so new from him. He leans closer to her ear as he continues, "Your normal life. Your father."

Her dead father. Sylar took her dead father.

did that make it better
sometimes

In one motion, she steps away from her father, and turns; her left arm shoves away his outstretched hand while her right once again curls into a fist, and this time slams against his jaw. When he staggers this time, she opens her hand and holds out her palm – a bright white electric arc fires out. He drops to the floor.

Now she knows what his screams must have sounded like.

She steps over his legs to move around the desk once more. It's been knocked aside; Elle has to lift the keyboard up to find it. A small blade, so dull it couldn't slice through paper without quite a bit of pressure, heavier than most knives because it was made from pure gold. There were plenty of other objects in her father's office that could be used as weapons, starting with the handguns in the center desk drawer. The one that's been in her mind for their entire conversation is the one that, even without her ability, will cause the most pain.

Elle lifts the letter opener, and moves away from the desk, back to where her father is sprawled across the carpet in front of it. His eyes are open. There's a small burn in his shirt where she'd hit him. It's nothing serious, unless he had a heart condition, but her father was in very good health up until his brain was torn out. He doesn't move as his eyes flicker between her chosen weapon, and her face.

"You can't change." Her father sounds finally resigned to it.

But Elle shakes her head, and smiles once again.

"Not for you."

To her father, it makes no difference. He closes his eyes.

"Let's go, Elle."

The letter opener hits the carpet next to him with nothing more than a soft patter. Her hand stays open, faint, thin line across her palm, until he opens his eyes again.

"Bye, Daddy."

Elle steps away, first back, and then turns. Walks over the carpet, over the spilled filed folders, the emptied one labeled Bishop, Elle, without noticing. Her eyes are on the door; she won't let them wander to anything else in this place.

"Elle –"

She stops just short of the door, and reaches for the handle, without so much as a pause in her motion. It opens out, not onto the hall that lies beyond in the Company's Hartsdale facility, but to nothing. Empty space. Nowhere to go.

"Elle, get –"

But it doesn't matter. Elle steps through, anyway. She doesn't need to see what's ahead to close that door behind her.

one more assignment

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 00:09:55 GMT

And now, she's twenty-four. The office is as it was the last time she saw it – the sofa with the right pillows, gramophone and cello in their places, sunlight spilling in through the windows, file folders strewn over the carpet. But instead of her father's body, she's the one seated in his high leather chair, facing the door. Elle looks down at herself – blue blouse, black slacks, high heels. No blood.

"What are you going to do?"

Elle swivels to her right to see her father. Horn-rimmed glasses, silk red tie, black suit, his skull still intact. Her eyes fall to the floor and she takes her time to answer, despite sensing his impatient gaze on her.

When she looks up: "I want your money."

His expression doesn't change. The room itself seems unnaturally still, as though they're standing in a photograph.

"You won't be able to get what hasn't been liquidated." It's not quite forced, but he sounds distant, and has all the inflection of an answering machine. Elle watches him in silence for another long moment.

"Are you here to help me?"

He sighs, but with none of his usual disappointment, like it was incised, stopped before she could see.

"I never wanted you dead, Elle," her father tells her.

It will work for now.

Elle turns away, back to the desk. The computer monitor is blank – she tries tapping on the keyboard, then fiddling with the monitor, then reaching to the hard drive –

"No power," he reminds her. For the first time, his voice isn't even – the tone picks up, close to teasing, challenging. "What are you going to do?"

But this is easy. Elle slips to the floor, locating the computer's plug in an outlet built into the indent of the desk. She yanks it out, and pulls herself back into the chair, pausing for a moment before reaching to her hair, which she only now realizes has been pulled back. It falls over shoulders and the black tie is twisted around her fingers, before she uses it to affix the plug to her left arm. The computer powers on.

"That won't get you on the server."

"That's not where our files are, Daddy," Elle mutters. "Not since Matt Neuenberg." When her father doesn't answer, she glances away from the monitor, and sees him smiling.

He'd always kept their own aliases, identity codes, and financial records off the main server in case it was breached, again. Since the Company's tracking satellite had been taken out, it meant that he was the only one who could track Elle's movements. And now, she could erase all of it.

The smile unnerves her, and she looks back to the monitor. A password requests pops up, which she bypasses without thinking.

"I didn't know you could do that." A dim observation. She doesn't look up, or answer. It happens twice more as she clicks through the screens, finally reaching their own private files. Then, she looks back up to him.

"I'll need it in my account."

Her father nods, though he's no longer smiling. "You were named in mine. But you'll have to call to make a transfer."

She blinks down to the left side top drawer and reaches over to tug it open. Inside, in addition to a number of objects including what are actually pens, white-out, as well as small vials of tranquilizer, is a thin, black flip phone, which she lifts out, and switches on.

"You trusted me?" Elle asks, offhand, as the keys light up, and the screen illuminates. It's not blurry, but – somehow she is seeing it, but knows she can't, not really. Not here. Her father sighs.

"I didn't have to."

It's the closest he's come to sounding disappointed during this conversation. Elle snaps the phone shut, and slams it on the desk, before step out of the chair and turning to face him. He doesn't look away as she steps toward him, or make any attempt to step back. Her father was not a very tall or imposing man (something he often used to his advantage in his work), but Elle still has to tilt her head to meet his eyes once she's only a few inches away from him. The computer's cord, still affixed to her arm, is tugged along with her. It's long enough that she doesn't have to stop short.

"What are you doing, Elle?" he asks

She doesn't look away. "You kept our files in two places."

Without saying anything else, she reaches forward, slipping the thumb of her right hand under the side of his suit jacket. She doesn't look down until she's pulled it aside, to see the small pocket sewn into the black silk lining. With her left hand, she reaches to it, and pulls out a small, gold-plated jump drive from inside.

Her father never stops her, but once she holds it up for him to see, his eyes darken, just slightly.

"Destroy it."

Elle nods, and moves away again, back toward the desk.

"It's a shame you never improved your accent," he remarks, following her as she takes the seat again, tosses the flash drive aside. She ignores him, tapping on the keyboard again – the screen appears to erase itself every time she does so, until her father steps between them, forcing Elle to move the chair back away from the desk.

"What are you going to do?" he asks her. She glances away, annoyed, but still rattles it off all the same –

"Get the IDs, call and transfer your funds, wipe and destroy the computer, destroy the phone, get the drive off your body and get rid of it –"

"It'll buy you a few months, if they're busy." Elle doesn't look up to him again, not even when he puts a hand on her arm, leaning in to add, "And you lay low."

Her father tugs the cord from her arm as he says it. When she still doesn't look up, his hand moves from her arm to under her chin, and pushes lightly. "Look at me."

Now she does, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He releases her chin, his fingers moving to push the hair out of her face.

"I was starting to forget," he murmurs, as his thumb moves across the right side of her forehead.

The pain is enough to make her want to scream. She shuts her eyes to hold it back.

"You're going to be okay." Elle's eyes open to her father again. His hand moves away as she nods, silent.

And in one swift movement, her palm slams up, and crushes his nose.

seldom seen kid

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 20:07:00 GMT

Etude in Ab Major P. 25 No. 1. Frederic Chopin.

Unlike her father's book shelves, which she had frequently raided and could even recall on occasion, Elle never touched his music, or cassettes, or the large records still meant for his antique gramophone. She might break them (as her father had told her) and she couldn't understand them (as her father never taught her). There is no way she could know that this piece, set as a cello solo, is tightly sewn into the memories she has of her father.

The mind tends to fill in blanks without any prompting. Details and circumstances can be imagined even if they are not really remembered. Even after learning of what had been taken from her, Elle hadn't understood the true extent, because her mind had filled in what blanks it could, when it could.

Elle is small. Smaller. Her hair is cut short. She's lying on the sofa in her father's office, head resting on a throw pillow.

There is nothing filled in for her here. She doesn't know how old she is – maybe eight or nine or ten, if she's this small and her hair is short. She tries to look down at what she's wearing, but can't make her eyes move or her head tilt enough to see it. If she doesn't remember it, it's just not there.

Most of the room is in detail – the desk, though those objects were different – there's a golden Rubik's cube, an older computer, an open set of file folders. The lamps are lit, giving the room a pale amber glow that Elle didn't see too often. The pillows on the sofa are different; she'd burnt one of them, and the other had been stained when someone else lost control. It was a lot of clean up.

Her father isn't working. She remembers everything about him – he had more of his mousy brown hair, though it was very thin at the top. His glasses were round, he was wearing a gray pinstriped suit and a dark blue tie. Gold cufflinks at his wrists. But most importantly, he wasn't working. He'd set a wood chair in the center of the office, tilted his cello against his knee, and played. Etude in Ab Major P. 25 No.1. Frederic Chopin.

Now, it's as dim as any record he'd put on the old gramophone. Elle better remembers the rain – there was no lightning, but the clouds were dark enough that it could have been night, rather than mid-afternoon. The rain pattered against the large, mullioned windows behind his desk. It's louder than anything. But the music wasn't so important. He played his cello – one part of a world to which Elle had only sparse access. He'd thought she was well enough to share this one piece of it with her.

He's playing it for her.

On her ninth birthday, he'd entered her cell. She remembers the glass walls, the simple cot, her plain white pajamas.

(She'd had ones with pink hearts on them when she was – before –
- it was stupid, anyway.)

She couldn't move. Elle also remembers the IV in her arm.

He'd put his hand on her head, and moved it over her hair. They didn't normally do things like that.

He gave her two hours before leaving, and locking the door once more.

Elle turns over on the sofa. The sound of the cello grows louder for a moment. She remembers that she'd thought about copying his movements with her hands.

She doesn't.

When she was six years and two months old, Elle lost her first baby tooth. She can't remember how she'd imagined the tooth fairy her mother had described, but the promised coin was under her pillow the next morning, making the blood and confusion worth it, more for the imagined visit than the quarter.

Seven months later, Elle's mother was dead, and her father told her that people who could do what they could didn't need things like tooth fairies or Santa Claus. When her teeth came out, Elle did the sensible thing, and threw them away.

It's near the end of the piece now. What she didn't do at the time was feel the apprehension of its conclusion. Or she doesn't remember feeling it.

But now she does; she doesn't want it to stop, wishes he could keep playing.

It's harder when you know how it ends.

They had to go to Cincinnati.

There was a man there. He was supposed to answer.

maybe there's more to you than the whole sadistic lightning thing

But he didn't.

sociopath with paranoid delusions

And he was screaming.

because I threatened to kill them

Until he stopped.

do you really think it would've been the first time

And there was the electrical closet. And the two scorched corpses in the hall.

caused a blackout in four counties in Ohio

And that's all there is. Nothing but blanks that her mind can't fill in.

You were a normal girl.

they never made me kill–

Her father has stopped playing.

The little girl sits up, as abruptly as though she had startled awake from a dream. She looks at the simple white ceiling, and then to her father. He watches her silently behind his old, round glasses, waiting for her to speak.

"You're hurting me," Elle tells him.

He nods, once.

"I know."

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 06:49:12 GMT

Dreamless sleep, or at least not remembering the dreams after, is one unknown benefit of losing too many memories.

It hadn't taken her that long to actually lie across the bed, rest the left side of her head into the pillow, and close her eyes. X being there had helped, but there was little more her body could do, and she could at least be moderately certain she wouldn't set the unmoved bed sheets on fire.

It's several hours, and maybe a couple of IV changes before Elle, having been entirely still her sleep, shifts slightly – she rolls onto her back, and then back to her left side.

After another moment, her eyes open.

May 2007, Disappointment

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 06:31:51 GMT

"And he's evidently regained telekinesis."

The windows behind her father's desk don't allow for any sort of view into the outside; only the dimmest tints of blue and green are visible through the panes. Still, they let in enough light that the lamps in the office are often left off. Elle hadn't noticed this before. Right now, she's fixated on them, the shadows of the frames falling over her face, eyes focused on one bright piece of glass –

"Elle."

Her head turns. It's all she has to do to meet his eyes. He looks down the moment she does, back to the computer on his desk, and sighs.

"I'd hope you'd be a little more interested in what you've caused."

She folds her arms, and her father doesn't move, as though expecting some string of excuses from her. But this doesn't come. As tightly as she holds herself, she only watches him as the silence between them seems to twist like smoke in the air.

Elle still breaks first.

"But the cheerleader's not dead."

"No." Her father takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. Elle, her arms still folded, steps around the back of his chair in order to see the monitor. As he's straightening his glasses again, "That's not my first concern right now."

There are two photographs on the screen. Elle's gaze falls to her shoes.

"They won't stop Sylar."

"They're the best we have in the area." He swivels in the chair, turning to face her. "And this isn't your assignment, Elle."

He doesn't look away as he adds, "I don't think either of us need another disappointment."

And she still doesn't want to do so much as scream at him. That his words don't make her feel as sick as they might have once is more than made up from the fact that she knows, somehow, that she should feel angry and she just can't.

Hurts you.
Shut up.

When Elle doesn't answer, he stands from the desk. Thinking he's heading toward the door, Elle turns away, and startles when his hand reaches her shoulder and pulls her back to look at him. Rather than meet his eyes again, Elle focuses her attention his red silk tie, and then the glint of a gold cuff-link from the hand still on her shoulder.

"I'm afraid you may not have progressed as much as we'd hoped."

Even if her father's words could no longer make her feel the kind of sickened shame of a child who had so disappointed a parent - well, he could still make her feel fear.

She blinks up to meet his eyes at once.

"Daddy –"

But this time, he doesn't wait to hear her excuses. He lifts his hand from her shoulder, and rather than heading toward the door, moves back to his seat behind the desk.

Nothing more is said, but it's clear that she's the one who is going to leave.

May 2007, Tough Little Girls

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 06:24:44 GMT

"Shit, come on, we've gotta get out of here –"

"Come on, I want to see –"

"Elle - Elle it's me –"

"Jesse, I want a turn –"

When she was twelve, Elle set her record for the most electricity she would ever produce on command at one time. The wattage recorded would power a more populous Manhattan block for approximately six hours.

It took 2000 volts to restart her heart after it. Elle doesn't remember this.

She does remember the last time her body was under enough duress to produce far more than that. After the incident in Ohio, the Company had understood that inducing that reaction was unlikely to lead to anything useful. Though its production value was incredible, it was impossible to harness.

And for Elle's body, it was like she had run a marathon. Several times.

There was an alarm then, like there is now, a low, steady hum that reverberates off the walls. There's a slight pressure on her left arm, and then, with a yelp, it's gone.

"Fuck, she's still live –"

Her eyes flutter open. The pyrokinetic is standing over her, still shaking his hand. It takes her a moment to realize her face feels damp – her nose must be bleeding, and fuck, her head –

"Crazy bitch -"

A burst of blue flame blossoms in the air above her, but it goes out as that man – Murphy, the one who had been yelling at her – pushes him away. They don't have time to talk before another voice calls – "Come on! We need to get out, now!"

The pyrokinetic is being pulled away. He doesn't fight it this time, and though Murphy looks back at her (it's too dark to see his face), he follows, too. Elle's eyes begin to adjust as they leave – the fluorescent lights have gone out; what's left comes from a stream of white sparks from one of the cells, an emergency light in the stairwell at the end of the hall, and a flickering blue glow that she only then realizes is coming from spurts of electricity still snapping over her skin.

"I wanted to have some fun –"

Not thinking, Elle presses her hands down on the floor – pain cuts through her palms and into her arms, and she gasps, but rolls on her side, into the wall. This time,careful not to use her hands, she shoves her body up against the wall, still breathing heavily, suddenly aware that she's trembling, her legs feel like cardboard, her throat is completely dry.

There are two figures left in the hall. She can only make out their silhouettes, but one is on the ground, unmoving. His shape incomplete, like large pieces of him have been ripped away, but Elle doesn't smile. She doesn't have the strength to be satisfied that she kept her word. The other is standing, and she can make out the edges of his horn-rimmed glasses. It means that she knows that he doesn't once look over to her, as he takes a fistful of what's left of Sylar's coat and drags the broken man aside, toward his emptied cell.

Her shaking grows worse, but Elle shoves herself again against the wall, using it to balance as her legs won't stay straight. It's enough to allow her to stand, and then, slowly, take one step. And then force her other leg forward.

It doesn't take that long to reach the end of the hall, and the door to the stairwell. She's not even entirely sure what she'll do when she gets there, but the movement, the feeling that she should have collapsed by now, the cold cement under her bare feet and bloodied footprints, the ache in her forehead and cool air slicing into her hands, the alarm and the flickering light – by her third step, she's lost track of where this is, when, into a blurred, dreamlike understanding that this is what she has to do. No one is going to help her.

You'd be surprised what a daughter would do for her father.

With what little force she has, Elle presses her right shoulder into the stairwell door, and shoves it open.

May 2007, Takes One To Know One

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 03:21:05 GMT

Stupid, spiked-hair guy is affixed to the stairwell wall with a ripped metal railing. Elle ducks under the piece still sticking out of his chest, and doesn't slip on his blood.

The second body is several flights farther down; the stairwell itself seems to deteriorate as she continues, the walls going from a bland but clean taupe into chipped plaster and then, as she finally reaches Level Five, concrete. This one, another from building security, is sprawled across the stairs, body contorted from having been slammed into the jagged surface. Elle looks down, and steps over him, continuing on to the cell block floor.

There isn't much light on this floor, most of it coming from the fluorescent tubes that line the cells, making their occupants clearly visible through the glass panels inlaid into the cement walls. The steel doors are closed, keypads still lit; despite what was above and the greeting at the entrance, Level Five appears untouched. The cells only line the left side of the hall, and Elle can name every prisoner on sight. She's visited or spoken to most of them.

And a very long time ago, Elle was one of them.

A few look up when she enters. One, already pounding against the glass, starts yelling as she heads down the hall. The other end is entirely shadowed, and her eyes attempt to refocus in the dark when...

tick

... a burst of blue flame distracts her attention. The burly pyrokinetic on the other side of the glass leers at her.

"Hey baby, you comin' to visit me or what?"

She's never visited him. The reason is apparent enough – he may be harmless now, but nothing could stop him from showing off within his cell. Not without a lot of work, anyway. But her eyes already on him, and nerves frayed, Elle shouts, "Fuck you," before continuing on to the very last cell at the end of the hall.

Noah Bennet is settled on the edge of his cot, still holding that stupid rubber ball. He's not throwing it against the glass, and doesn't even look up when she approaches his cell, but she doesn't waste time watching him. Elle inputs the code, and pushes open the door, and this does get his attention.

"Sylar's in the building."

It's only because Elle is what she is, who she's been for the last eighteen years, that she sees even the dimmest shadow of fear cross Bennet's face. His focus on her sharpens; the ball falls out of his hands, and Elle takes the moment to toss the gun across the room. He's the one who needs it, and he knows – Bennet catches the weapon with one hand, closes his fingers around it as it falls perfectly against his palm.

"Let's go."

But Bennet doesn't move, and his expression slips into something more wry.

"Daddy doesn't want me to leave my cell."

And though the comment makes her nerves spike, like he somehow knows, she doesn't snap at him, doesn't wince, doesn't rise to any bait he's really offering about her father, about how she should hate him, about how she came to Noah Bennet before –

"My Dad's dead." It's the first time she's said it. Elle's voice becomes louder, but doesn't waver, and the sneer is gone from Bennet's face. She's quiet again, her tone steady when she continues, "Sylar killed him."

Without saying anything else, Elle steps out the cell door and back into the hall. The soft scrape of Bennet's white slippers against the cement floor followers her, she doesn't need to look back to know –

But she's not standing anymore. It's all she can tell before whatever has lifted her off the floor slams her hard into the glass. It's not enough to shatter the panel (almost nothing would be), but she cries out when her head seems to crack against it, and tumbles down to the concrete floor.

The screaming from the cell farther down grows louder. Elle spreads her palms onto the cool concrete, as she can hear Bennet's steps enter the hall behind her.

"Hello, Noah."

Bennet doesn't reply. Ignoring the pounding pain in her head, Elle tries to put a little weight on her hands, though not enough to lift herself off the floor. Her eyes open.

"Miss me?"

This time, Bennet does answer. Elle hears the gun fire, over and over, five discharges without any pause. It's a fucking stupid thing to do, just the thing that got Matt Parkman a few holes in his chest, and she immediately pushes herself to curl up against the wall, ready to move when she sees the bullets hanging in the air.

It's not what happens – every bullet hits its mark. Sylar is slammed against the far wall, seemingly pinned by the force of it before his body goes limp, knees buckling, and he slips to the floor. Blood streaks down the wall behind him, and his head lolls slightly into his left shoulder, his eyes the kind of blank that anyone in this hall could recognize.

Show-off.

Elle lifts one hand to the concrete edge against the cell's glass panel, fingers curling around it so she can lift herself up again. It's not until Bennet passes her, heading toward Sylar's crumpled body with his gun lowered that she remembers –

"Bennet, he –"

Something metal hits the floor, the clatter echoing through the hall. Blood is trickling from the corner of Sylar's mouth, but it happens again, and again. Bennet doesn't even raise his weapon – Elle can't see his face, but his back has gone rigid. When the fifth finally bullet slips from Sylar's chest and rattles across the floor, the fallen man's eyes, having regained their full color, snap up to Bennet as a smirk knifes across his face.

"I got that from your Claire."

You'd be surprised what a father would do for his daughter.

In the moment it takes Bennet to lift the gun, Sylar is on his feet again. There's only time to snarl, "You son of a bitc-" and the man raises his hand, one slicing motion, and Bennet is thrown aside, down the adjacent hall, slamming first against the ceiling before he also falls to the floor, the useless handgun skittering away, far beyond anyone's reach.

I was there.

And he doesn't get up.

When they brought you in.

Her father is ten stories above, a hollowed-out corpse, and Noah Bennet is a crumpled heap on the concrete.

The brain isn't built to take that much electricity.

What a father would do. Here they are – just as much here as they were when she was six years old. Just as much help to her. Bennet doesn't get up, her Dad is dead, and Elle knows what has been true since she was that little, normal girl who walked into a Company facility for the first time with unicorns, rainbows, and sparking fingers. They will do nothing to help her.

She is completely alone.

YOU POOR GIRL.

Elle isn't feeling the pounding in her head anymore. When she raises her arms, adrenaline flooding her veins so hard that her hands shake, it isn't fueled by fear, or anguish, or despair. It's not even anger at the man who murdered her father. It's only, entirely rage.

Her arms light up, and bright electrical arcs that would be enough to kill any human fire through the hall. Sylar isn't ready for it, can't brush it aside with another wave of his hand – he's slammed back against the bloody wall, only managing to swipe blindly at her. The telekinetic blow throws her against the concrete wall, but it doesn't hold – Elle twists, and fires another arc, forcing Sylar to dodge down the hall while his body is still healing.

"You can't kill me," he shouts to her.

Maybe even hours ago, the breathless satisfaction in his voice would have rankled her. Elle smiles, her tone low and even when she answers, "I don't want to."

She uncurls her hand and throws a ball of sparks toward the hall, aiming at nothing and only leaving a scorch on the concrete. He's still out of view, and she steps forward, a moment too late for her distraction to help – something lifts her and slams her against the blood-soaked wall, this time pinning her there. Unable to move her head, she doesn't try to look to him when he approaches; she doesn't struggle at all, but stays still and quelled like a well-behaved child.

"You don't want to kill me, Elle?" he taunts in a low sing-song, every note taut with disbelief. Maybe even disappointment. Even when he steps in front of her, she can't raise her head to meet his eyes, the light from the nearby cell only shadows him. He doesn't raise his hand in another attack.

"Why is that?"

Though she can't look to him, Elle does move – she smiles, with no small hint of pride.

Mimicking his sing-song tone, "I can do more."

She sees his hand move again, a flicking motion with two fingers and her chin is yanked up, her head tilted back against the wall so that she can meet his eyes. It doesn't make any difference, she still can't see any of his face in the dark, but with the light glinting in the corner of her eye, she knows he can see hers.

"You can."

It's distant, like something is distracting him. As much as it aggravates her that she can't see, doesn't know what he's looking at that could make him agree, Elle keeps her smile intact.

"I'm not scared of you."

It works. Though she can't see his expression change, the way his stance straightens is enough to tell her that whatever it was, he's been jolted out of it. The invisible pressure doesn't increase, but he leans closer to her, blocking what light there is.

"You should be," he hisses, though even under his anger, she can tell that it's not a threat. It's the same taunt.

Why would they send you after me when they could have sent someone whole?

He raises his hand again, but the pressure on her head relaxes, allowing her to look away again. One of his fingers brushes her throat, hooking over her necklace and pulling the chain up into her line of sight.

"I'm a psychopathic killer."

And the little light there is does allow her to watch as, at his touch, the pale silver chain flushes into a bright gold.

Elle inhales, once, and looks up to give him the same answer.

"Takes one to know one."

Her skin sparks up, igniting the chain in a sudden flash. The force binding her is gone as he yells and snaps his hand away, and she fires another burst of electricity toward him, the force of it throwing him down the row of cells. She's whipped back briefly, but launches another arc and darts down the side hall, just out of sight.

"Then he was your father."

She stays still behind the wall.

"It must be hard for you, Elle. Knowing his death was entirely your fault."

There are footsteps, and she slips over just far enough to fire another bolt of electricity down the hall. He doesn't yell, but does sound breathless when he calls out, "How does it feel?"

Still pressed against the wall, Elle blinks over to Bennet. He hasn't stirred, hasn't moved at all.

"You're the one who hears so much," she calls back. "You tell me."

When this doesn't get an answer, she shouts it, loud enough to echo through the concrete hall.

"Tell me."

Something – a piece of pipe ripped from the wall at the other end of the hall – slams against the corner, close to where she's standing, but it only pounds into the opposing wall from there, and she still doesn't move. It was something out of anger, frustration, but Sylar's voice is almost musing when he speaks again.

"How could he have expected anything else from something so broken?"

she is like
such a good girl
thinks she can
at peace with your
did you have a

(this is a)

stop it

How long was I there? All of that, everything he can hear, and he's still as blind as she was.

Elle steps out, into the hallway, sparks crackling over her skin from her shoulders down to her hands. Not lifting her hands to fire again, she only snarls, "Look at me."

And he does – it's only a few seconds, but she can see the sharp focus in his eyes, that short space of time in which he's consumed by it. That's when she raises her hands, and sends two bright white arcs toward him. It's again enough to kill, and this time, when he's thrown back down the hall and lands heavily on the floor, he doesn't get up. She can smell the burnt cloth and flesh now, and her arms fall to her side, hands still open, but silent, and steps down the hall to where he's fallen. Elle doesn't need (want) him to be dead, but if he just doesn't get up for another moment, it would give her enough time.

He hasn't moved when she reaches his body, and in the dim light, she can see that his eyes are closed. There are burnt away patches in his stupid black coat and shirt, with the skin underneath mending itself over, but she knows that doesn't have to mean anything. She should still do something, fire again, whatever, but for a moment, her hands stay at her side.

Elle mutters, not to him, or to anyone, "I won't let you hurt me."

"Elle -"

She's about to lift her hand when the voice pulls her out of it. It's the large, tattooed man in the closest cell – Jesse Murphy, vocal ability. His dark eyes are on her with a kind of desperation she hasn't seen from him before, and it's only now that it clicks that he's the one who's been pounding against the glass since she came down, since before that –

"Elle, please, I'm not –"

She doesn't hear what that is, because before he can finish, her right hand slices open across her palm. Elle screams and stumbles back as the same happens to her left, and she's shoved down the hall, finally falling on her side in front of Bennet's empty cell, the sliver of light from the open door still visible. A few sparks crackle over her fingers, and she cries out again when they hit the deep gashes in her hands.

But she can't get herself to stop. Her heart is pounding too hard, sparks are lighting up on her shoulders, in her hair, and it only gets worse as her heart races faster, humming like an engine hit with abrupt acceleration. Just barely above the overwhelming surge of it, she can feel his footsteps on the concrete, getting closer to her.

"I felt you coming."

"Oh. That is useful."

"Did that hurt, Elle?"

She's pushed over, onto her back. Even without the telekinesis, Elle wouldn't be able to pull herself up now. Sylar stands over her, and doesn't seem to see it – that he's entirely lit up, the whole hall is lit up. It's all so obvious –

Caused a blackout in four counties in Ohio when I was eight.

- she's already given this place her life. And she won't do it again. Elle giggles. It's weak, but for once, there's nothing false about it.

"Not like I'm gonna hurt you."

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't speak again. Sylar lifts his right hand, curling all but his index finger into his palm as he points down toward her.

Every single cell in the human body is capable of generating electricity. In every human body is the sinoatrial node, a group cells which constantly and consistently, for every day of its life, produces an electric current, sending out an charge at least once every second; though at this moment, for Elle, it's much, much more frequent than that. The current runs through millions of cells in an instant, completing what for most people is a basic, vital process. Since she was six, the circuits of Elle's body had always carried more than blood and nerve pulses.

Her ability may be controlled in her brain, but it begins in her heart.

For one moment, she can feel the agonizing pain as her forehead is slowly split open.

And then her heart beats.

The explosion shatters through the hall, bright blue-white electrical arcs more massive than that of any lightning storm striking through every space, flooding into the walls and bursting through every wire and piece of circuitry laid in them, and it's all more light than she can stand to see anymore. Elle's eyes slip closed.

Every room in the Company's Hartsdale Facility goes dark.

May 2007, Grounds for Divorce

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 09:31:16 GMT

The door to Elle's room is identical to every other on the third floor of the Hartsdale Facility; a plain shade of gray with a steel handle that won't turn unless a code is entered into the keypad on the wall next to it. Her code was never difficult to guess, but no one had ever been stupid enough to break into her room, even if they knew which door was hers.

When Elle steps out of this door, every fluorescent light inlaid in the ceiling is working entirely, and the movement at the end of the hall is only a tall man in a suit whom she can identify on sight by his stupid, spiked blond hair. Nothing looks off, and it bothers her more than it would have if one of those bulbs would just flicker already. Her heels crack more than click against the white tile floor as she heads quickly for the stairs, and her father's office one floor up.

This is the first indication of something wrong – the lights on the keypad are dark, and the wood door is very slightly ajar. Elle doesn't hesitate. She slips off her black heels, leaving them against the wall so that she can approach silently. But as she curls one hand around the side of the door, holding it to herself like a shield as she pulls it back just enough to look into the room, Elle can't stop herself from calling out –

"Daddy –"

She shuts up the moment the room comes into view. With one sharp look back over her shoulder, Elle steps into the office and slams the door.

That feeling – the stomach is twisting apart, lungs painfully tight, it's not true yet but it will be, but it will be – Elle only discerns it as though someone were whispering what it should be like in her ear; only a ghost of what she should be feeling. Sunlight pours in through the unshattered mullioned windows on the other side of the room. The books are in the case, in the same neat order. The two pillows on the sofa haven't been moved, the gramophone, cello, and old symphony records are untouched in their place in the corner.

A couple of objects on her father's desk are overturned. The file folders from the far shelf are strewn onto the carpet: photographs, dossiers, maps, newspaper articles, mission reports. Her toes brush one of the folders as she steps forward: Bishop, Elle. Still empty.

The leather chair behind her father's desk is turned away, its high back facing her. She doesn't call out to him again. The ghostly feeling nears being sick, but she only curls her fingers against her palm, and continues forward steadily, in no rush as she rounds the desk and makes her way to the windows, to face the chair.

My girl's tougher than that.

Elle Bishop doesn't scream.

Peter Petrelli said, You didn't have to kill Ricky.

Even the phantom of any feeling is gone when it becomes true, but Peter's words fill her mind like a tune you can't get rid of as she stares at her father's body – it's the kind of dead you can't come back from, when the head has been cracked open and emptied out like a soft-boiled egg. His eyes are closed, and thin trickles of still-drying blood creep down from where she can see the thin, jagged line of his skull. The lips are slightly apart – unlike so many others, Elle doesn't know what his screams must have sounded like. She can tell that the wound is too quick and precise and blooded to have been done with the struggle of any sort of weapon. He would have been easy, restrained, his ability completely useless. His fucking glasses aren't even broken. That's the end.

When I think about all the hard work I put into raising you.

He's only left her alone. Again. You didn't have to kill Ricky.

And all Elle can think is, No. I really didn't.

Not for that.

Elle isn't looking at the body anymore. Her eyes have lowered to the desk, to the long, slender drawer just beneath its polished wood surface, the kind of drawer that would normally hold pencils and pens and bottles of white-out. It's been left untouched, the chair and her father pushed up against it. She looks up – the door to the office is still closed.

There were a few other agents, none of whom she thought much of; they'd probably just get in her way. There was the building's security, which Elle's mind quickly relegated as completely useless. The upper level cells were almost entirely empty. And there was Level Five.

Whether she liked it or not, there was only one person in the Facility whom Elle could stand to think of going to right now. Maybe the only person who, if she couldn't trust him, she could at least trust that he would take Sylar as their common enemy. That is, of course, if he was still alive.

With no more hesitation, Elle slips off her suit jacket, and drops it on the floor. It's a sleeveless blue shirt underneath, and, just for a moment, she twiddles the silver chain around her neck as she stares at the obstructed desk drawer. It only takes another glance at her father for Elle to stop dawdling. She puts her hand one of the arms of his chair, and pushes him to the side, toward the shelf now emptied of its file folders.

A couple of her fingers brush his hand. His skin is still warm.

Elle returns to the desk, and yanks open the drawer. There are no pens, pencils, or white-out inside. The weapon of choice for normal Company agents is the gun she decides on, and lifts out of the drawer.

One of us -

She looks over it once, checks the clip, and pulls back the safety.

- and one of them.

The drawer is slammed shut again, and Elle doesn't give her father's body another glance as she walks back around the desk, and heads for the door.

April 2007, Disagreement

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:15:19 GMT

It seems like she's deliberately trying to make as much noise as possible, as Elle slams down the lid of the trunk of her car and walks around to the driver's side door, heels snapping on the cement. The professor is waiting for her there – Maya Herrera and the Walker girl are still huddled in the doorway that opens out into the alley.

"We need to go." If she weren't expecting an argument, Elle would push Suresh out of the way and climb into the car. But she knows she can't expect the others to follow, and sure enough, the professor quickly protests –

"You have to listen to me, they don't have to go back there –"

"We let you keep Molly Walker if you'd keep her safe," Elle snaps, though her voice lowers. "You didn't."

"I can get her out of here." He doesn't say where, but she would have yelled at him if he had – they can't assume anything now, least of all that they're not being overheard, in a place as open and exposed as this. The professor continues, matching her tone, "I can get her some place safe, farther away than the Company."

"And she goes with her?"

Suresh stops speaking immediately, taking a long few moments of consideration before deciding on this response.

"She can go back to my –"

"Your apartment?" Elle has to work to keep her voice down now, as she nearly snarls it, folding her arms and leaning against the car. "Right, because Sylar has no idea where that –"

"Maya can control it." Even Elle can tell that it took nothing less than considerable daring from Suresh to interrupt her. His eyes don't meet hers, instead glancing around the alley, briefly back to the building. "I've seen it. She can use it for herself."

And Elle looks over her shoulder too, back at the open door, arms still folded and expression still set.

"I don't think so."

But she doesn't have much reason to doubt the professor now. There was no way he could have encountered the woman before this, and nothing indicated he had accessed the information the Company had collected about her before now. He could still be lying, just to –

It didn't line up with the Company's information, and whatever it was, she knew it was something she didn't want Sylar to have.

"Elle." It brings her attention back that he's speaking so directly to her, even leaning slightly toward her, though he only lasts a moment before stepping back again. "She doesn't have to go there."

She's about to answer, to refuse – what kind of answer is that, anyway?

"You didn't have to stay."

Her arms are uncrossing before she seems to realize it. Elle looks up to Suresh again, then over to the building, or maybe, really neither, before she turns away from both, and yanks her car door open.

"Wait," Suresh calls, not looking at all relieved at this. "What about Niki–?"

Elle doesn't answer.

April 2007, Powerless

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 03:00:05 GMT

As she had expected, the alley was empty when she walks out to it. Dented trash cans and graffiti over the brick and concrete walls, with the bright yellow flicker of cabs visible from the street beyond. She looks down one way, and then the other, and up the side of the building, toward the roof (not something most people would do, but for Elle it's close to instinct) before she turns back into the building, taking the stairs rather than the elevator.

The sling is on the floor of the hall outside the loft, right where she had left it. Elle nearly pulls it over the wrong arm at first, which doesn't improve her mood any as she heads back to the Mendez loft.

By the time she reaches it, the woman the three had been gathered around has sat up. And Elle finally recognizes her – the homicidio posters, the newspaper clippings from Venezuela to Texas –

Well, isn't that just perfect.

She steps through the shattered door, empty handed once again.

"Sylar's gone." Elle slams the door frame – hard – with her left hand, drawing out her breathing as though she had been running this whole time. "My Dad's going to kill me."

And that would be it. She would take them back to the Facility, walk into her father's office with, as usual (maybe as always – even when a job went right) nothing to offer, greeted with the same questions (how could she do this to him, again?), before she was set aside. (locked away)

"I doubt that very much."

It's such a strange thing to say. She's thought she's misheard Suresh at first, isn't at all expecting the looks that he, the woman, and the Walker girl are giving her. Elle doesn't know how to read them, only having ever seen them in brief flashes, nothing that had ever been explained to her.

"If you hadn't arrived, Sylar would have slaughtered us all."

(He explains, because he has to. Few people have to be around Elle for very long to know whatever they're saying to her, she's not going to understand.)

"We owe you our lives."

The list of people who could say this to Elle isn't short. Most of them wouldn't know it, or what was done to accomplish it. Those who did were, for the most part, maybe not the most worthy – her partners, her targets who couldn't be killed (but like her, were likely to do that on their own if not controlled) – it might rival the list of those she'd killed: because it was her job, because it worked for her job, because she screwed up or wasn't so good at working with her partners. It never made much difference to her, those she'd kept alive and those she hadn't.

After all, no one had ever said anything like this to her before.

"Really?"

Suresh raises his eyebrows, and – very slightly – shrugs. Elle glances away, up toward the long panes of glass looking out onto the Manhattan skyline.

"Cool," she murmurs.

Her smile may not be particularly sweet, but it certainly isn't blank.

[ooc: Dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x11, "Powerless."]

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 16:39:54 GMT

At some point, Elle had wandered outside to practice.

She's pretty much forgotten when that was. Maybe it was because there was little else to do that wouldn't mean leaving again, or more likely, because X had suggested it, but she'd lost track of the hours she'd spent either shooting up sparks toward the sky or the lake, or practicing movements X had taught her.

Until she fell down, and didn't get back up.

Elle totally meant to do that.

Lying in the grass isn't too bad, really. And she can practice sensing for any footsteps coming toward her.

April 2007, "Powerless"

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 08:40:35 GMT

Ten minutes after she had come back to her room, her father left the Facility.

She doesn't actually discover this for another three hours, when she finally wanders into the security office. No one bothers her; she often came in to watch the camera feeds - she had been doing that since she was twelve years old - and everyone had known it was better to ignore her since well before that.

The security logs tell her that her father was gone. Wherever he had went was undisclosed, so he could be back at any time. It's why she doesn't think on it much when they also indicate that Suresh had accessed his lab in the Mendez loft, despite that he was supposed to be in New Orleans. She isn't interested, and heads to her father's office.

There is one stop to double check the key code, but she finds and enters it, and the office is empty. Sunlight gleams in through the windows behind his desk (it's the only room in the Facility in which she sees sunlight – she's never noticed this until now), and she moves to a tall, dark wood shelf that sits to the side of the windows. It's lined with large white filing folders, all imprinted with names: Parkman – Petrelli –

Bishop
Robert

Bishop
Elle

She reaches to pull it out, thinking it will be more difficult with her right arm in this sling, but it quickly doesn't matter. The file is oddly light, too light – her fingers curl around the top, and the folder falls open.

It's empty.

Elle shoves it back on the shelf, and after glaring around the office for a moment, moves over to her father's computer instead. It's not likely that he would keep anything on there if her files are hidden, she knows this, and it's why the first thing she does is to click to his access to the security surveillance system. If he's coming back, she'd rather know that now, before looking for anything else.

But the first images that come up are not from the Facility – they're from the Mendez loft.

"Does Suresh know you have him on video surveillance?" she murmurs to herself. Suresh is there, like he's not suppose to be, doing something in one of the lab tables while... some guy watches.

Too much isn't right about it. Suresh would have left. She can't tell who the man is, he's turned away from the camera, but she does know him, something triggers in her mind –

He turns.

"Sylar."

She clicks the program closed. What she's supposed to do is call her father, find someone else, any agents who are actually on the job right now.

Elle looks to the only photograph her father keeps on his desk – one of himself, on some fishing trip. Nothing he'd ever done with her.

"Daddy, you're going to be so proud of me."

-

In the car, Elle puts her sling back on. She doesn't like it; even if Sylar doesn't have his abilities back (even if he doesn't, who knows what Suresh did in the time it took her to get here), nothing is going to change that she's better with her right than her left. Or really, that she just really hates the sling. But she can't risk Suresh seeing her without it, she can't risk the camera in the Mendez lab filming her without it, so she pulls it on hastily over her shoulder and slams her car door louder than necessary.

The Mendez loft is an elevator ride up to a hall lined with windows on both sides. Those to the right look into the apartment. The blinds are open, she can see them immediately: Suresh, Sylar, and that girl, Molly Walker. They're collected around what looks like someone lying on a cot – Elle can't see enough to recognize who it is, and she doesn't care. She moves quickly to the door, and enters the code on the keypad next to it, making little noise as she opens the door and steps into the apartment.

None of them look up. She takes a step forward on the landing, toward the glass walls that cut between it and the area of the loft where they've gathered.

[OOC] Values Meme

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 21:23:31 GMT

What's the worst thing someone could do?
I... don't care.

What's the worst thing someone could do to you?
You tell me.

What's the worst thing that could happen to you?
I don't know.

What's the worst thing someone could say about a person?
Still not caring.

What's the best thing someone could say about a person?
... they could notice. When you don't screw up. Or tried not to, anyway.

Are men and women basically different?
... sure?

Which is better, to be a woman or to be a man?
I like what I am.

What can men do that women can't do?
I guess I wouldn't know.

What can women do that men can't do?
This is stupid.

Is it possible to change genders?
I still don't really care.

How old is old enough to have sex?
When you want to.

Is it wrong to have sex if you're unmarried?
... what?

Is it wrong to have sex with someone other than your spouse if you're married?
I guess that's not supposed to be the idea?

Is it wrong to have sex with a person of the same gender?
Uh.

Is it wrong to have sex with a person of a different race (in a canon that has a concept of race)?
This is stupid.

Is it wrong to have sex with a person of a different intelligent non-human species (in a canon where this is possible)?
Can I go back to flirting with that alien-whatever-guy now?

Is it wrong to have more than one sexual partner at the same time?
Why does it matter?

Is it wrong to have sex with someone you don't love?
Really. I don't care.

What are the responsibilities of a mother toward a child?
How should I know?

What are the responsibilities of a father toward a child?
I hate you.

What are the responsibilities of a child toward a parent?
It's not like that.

Which should be more important to you, your parent or your child?
I'm not having a child, so what difference does it make?

Which should be more important to you, your parent or your spouse?
I don't care.

Which should be more important to you, your child or your spouse?
See above.

Is it wrong to have a child if you're unmarried?
Again, why should I care?

Is abortion wrong?
... no?

Is contraception wrong?
More no?

Is there one true religion?
Oh, yeesh.

Does a deity or deities exist?
Because Milliways says so, sure.

How important is it to believe in a deity or deities?
I guess I don't need to.

How important is it to actively practice your religion?
Again. Not needing to.

Does magic exist?
Apparently, but not where I'm from.

Is practicing magic wrong?
... what the hell?

Is killing always wrong?
Only if you're not any good at it. Then you're just going to hurt yourself.

Is war always wrong?
I don't know much about them, but this seems like a dumb question.

How old is old enough to fight in a war?
... what does that even mean?

Is rape always wrong?
It...

I don't understand. Why it is something. Why anyone would do it or why I know I wouldn't. But sometimes I think – what it is about it, it's the reason we do everything else, and I don't really know why.

Is torture always wrong?
.... this would be kind of cute if it weren't so annoying.

Is theft always wrong?
Again, what difference does it make?

Is slavery wrong?
I don't get it. How you'd rely on other people like that.

Is lying wrong?
How else do you talk?

Is swearing wrong?
... okay. Seriously. I'm done.

March 2007, Not Most Parents

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 02:50:59 GMT

"When I think about all the hard work I put into raising you."

It's not the first time Elle's father has spoken to her like this. But it is the first time that under the way her stomach turns at his disappointed voice and her breath catches, making her voice weaker than it could be before anyone else, another emotion creeps in. She doesn't know how to recognize it, but it's a weight in her chest like she can't breathe, and a more familiar headache, like something pounding in her head but she doesn't know –

"Hurts you."
"Shut up."

It's wrong, and Elle doesn't know what to do with it. Out here, there is only one person she knows who would be at all willing to say anything about it, and for now, he's just as trapped in this place as she is.

And so after her father dismisses her, Elle doesn't go to her room to sulk or wander through the building to find a door out. She heads straight downstairs, heels tapping loudly down the steps and in the corridors as she walks past the cells. Her eyes don't wander to any of the other occupants; she knows their names and their faces and how special they are and none of them are any longer of any interest to her.

Except, as usual, the newest one.

Noah Bennet doesn't look up when the door to his cell unlocked, nor when Elle walked into the room, not bothering to keep her steps quiet. He'd somehow managed to acquire some kind of red rubber ball, and he's throwing it against the wall, catching it every time in a smooth, uninterrupted rhythm. It's so distracting that she doesn't even speak at first, even though she knows he heard her come in, and her eyes simply follow the toy's progression from his hand to the wall and back again.

"You said you knew all about my ability." She says it all at once, breaking the cycle abruptly. Bennet catches the ball and turns to her, almost a startled movement, less at because she's finally spoken and more because of what she'd said. They certainly usually wouldn't bring up something like that again. "Tell me what my dad did to me."

Without hesitation, Bennet turns away from her demand, with a small smile like that of a father when about to deny something to a pushy, spoiled daughter. He knows better, after all.

"I'm stuck in this hellhole, my family thinks I'm dead." He starts tossing the ball again. "There's not a lot of incentive to share."

(Her home is a hellhole. Elle knows this. Her room is larger than a six-by-six cell and she doesn't have to wear those cotton white pajamas he's got on, but he's still letting her know - this place isn't my home. It's yours.)

Elle walks into the cell, leaving the door open behind her and raising her left hand. Sparks snap up from her palm and her curved fingers, crackling into a blue sphere over her hand, and she smiles, but it's more defensive than threatening.

Still, nothing shakes in her voice. "I could make you tell me."

"You could try."

Really, she would like nothing better.

But it's not what she came here for, and possibly leaving Bennet injured or dead (again) would not get her what she really wanted, and would probably just result in her father being even angrier with her. After a moment, the sparks die out, and her hand drops to her side. Her smile fades again, her expression closing up as she tries to make herself say it –

"Please."

Again, he looks surprised. She pushes it further, straining her voice as she continues – "I don't have anyone else to talk to."

(Once, it would have been true. Technically here, it is true.

But it's really a lie, now. A lie it would be impossible for even Bennet to know.)

And it works. Bennet's expression softens, somewhat, though he still remains mostly unreadable. He leans toward her slightly, voice quieter, like he'd spoken to her before.

"They wanted to see how much wattage you could discharge. Enough to power a flashlight, a street lamp –"

There's a short pause, and then –

"– an entire city block."

Her left hand curls into a fist at her side.

"During testing you'd pass out from the strain. We'd all want to call it a day but Daddy said no."

And I thought my little girl was -

"My girl's tougher than that."

Against her will, her first thought is: Why wasn't I? Her eyes are stinging, suddenly, and blinks them shut to try to push the feeling away, but Bennet pushes on, his tone close to impassive.

"You were seven. You know, the hardest thing for a parent is to see their child in pain."

Before, she'd seen when his eyes flickered away. But now she couldn't meet his eyes, and didn't see it, this time almost like a signal for her –

"Most parents."

"Elle." Her father's voice startles her, but it works instantly – the stinging in her eyes stops, the pressure is gone, and she doesn't really realize it until she's met her father's gaze without a thought, without hesitation.

He's become her job. Another act.

"What are you doing here?"

She looks between him and Bennet, as though confused. But letting her eyes linger on the latter, she answers.

"Leaving."

Her hand is loose at her side again, and she walks past her father toward the door, allowing herself one last glance at Bennet before she leaves. His eyes are on her rather than her father, but she doesn't return to his gaze, and doesn't look back once she's out the door.

[ooc: Dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x11, "Powerless."]

March 2007, "Truth and Consequenes"

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 05:52:42 GMT

This is another person you probably wouldn't need to know for most jobs – that guy who can fill an urn with someone's ashes. Her father returns with it while she's clipping her sling back into place, and hands it off to her before telling her to get in the car. Elle doesn't show it, but she's too glad to be doing something to be annoyed that it only seems to be grunt work.

Her father drives now, and he doesn't need to say where they're going. She leans against the window again, tapping idly at the urn until he tells her to stop. But she can't scratch at her arm (maybe that's why he gave it to her), so her fingers still fumble and twist over the urn before her father pulls up in front of the Bennet house.

"You're staying here," he tells her, taking the urn out of her hand. She nearly protests, but instead slumps into the car seat and mumbles something about not wanting to go, anyway.

They both know it's not true.

She doesn't watch as he enters the house, instead occupying herself by poking at the bandages on her arm, or when trying not to do that, fiddling with the radio. There's nothing she leaves on for more than a few seconds, unless it comes in as static; then she alternates the volume until she gets bored.

She snaps the radio off as soon as her father reappears, which doesn't take too long. Apparently, the Bennets didn't want to talk much, but the urn is gone, and that's all that matters. Elle straightens up in her seat as he pulls the driver's side door open and climbs in again.

"The next twenty-four hours are critical," he tells her, after slamming the door. "I want you to keep an eye on Claire."

Elle nods, not looking over to him, but instead turning her gaze to her sling."It'd be easier without this thing on my arm," she grumbles, reaching over toward it again. "It itches like a motherfu-"

"And I thought my little girl was tough."

His nearly sarcastic tone is what catches her, and it's why she suddenly looks to him. Her hand falls to her side, and it takes her a moment to speak, to even think of a response -

"I am, Dad," she snaps. "But I was shot. And my body doesn't heal itself."

This time her father's voice is more patient, but just as excruciating. "I'm sorry you're in pain, but none of this would've happened if you hadn't lowered your guard."

It's the first time they've talked about it; he hadn't said a word to her the previous night or that morning. She can feel something like nausea rising in her stomach, but she doesn't look away from him.

"How was I supposed to know that Bennet teamed up with West the Flying Boy?"

"Excuses don't change outcome, Elle." She doesn't flinch away, though she knows this tone. It's the closest her father ever gets to really yelling. "You need to accept responsibility for what's happened. Can you do that?"

But that's not enough.

"Can you regain my trust?"

My father would never let that happen.

That's not really the question. Her father doesn't know it.

That it's not just that she can't remember, it's that there are spaces in her mind, one thing goes to another and she didn't think about how they don't match up until now, until he'd said it. Everything made sense with the fluidity of a dream, but now it's as though she woke up and realized it couldn't happen that way, it doesn't make sense, the connections are missing, like someone –

The question is really – can she regain his trust when he no longer has hers?

your father was leading the

"Sure, Daddy. I'll watch the cheerleader."

[OOC: Most dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x10, "Truth and Consequences."]

March 2007, Company girl

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 07:49:13 GMT

There's nothing that can be done about the jacket; the hole rips right through its sleeve, and there's no real point in trying to salvage it. It's easy enough to burn. The blue sleeveless blouse, however, is fine except for the large blood stains around the right side. That's something Elle knows how to take care of, and as they're still in the field, she's the one who does it.

It was dark when they returned to the hotel, Elle's arm bandaged and set in a blue sling by the doctor who repeatedly dissuaded her from touching or rubbing the wound. Her father didn't speak to her much, and the one time he'd reached out to her, trying to check on her arm as she drove them to drop off Suresh, she'd pulled away. Before today, Elle would have done anything to see her father look at her like that, reach out to her, show concern if not approval.

And today she pulled away.

By the time she gets around to it, her father's asleep in a room across the hall. She turns on a light in the bathroom and twists the faucet to start a rush of cold water. The materials for field work include plenty of rounds and at least two extra handguns, a taser, a small knife, and the right combinations of soap, detergent, hydrogen peroxide, and other chemicals that remove those stains beyond any tracing. She uses a hotel washcloth, as she can burn that as well, after she's done.

She takes her time padding the stain, her blouse laid out across the side of the sink as she gently rubbed the soap into blood. During this part, it looks as though she's only getting the washcloth bloody as well. But she isn't in a hurry to move on, to dip her hands in the pool of cool water that's waiting. Elle comes up with every excuse, if only for herself – it's taking longer with her left hand; her arm still ached and occasionally itched; she's tired. But she's not tired.

It hits her as she just finished dabbing at the stain. She knows she's not tired. And her mind floods with the image of Bennet watching her, face unreadable, you poor -

Elle snatches the blouse and plunges it into the cold water. Blood floats up in tiny spirals, spreading onto the water now as well. The spray from the faucet begins to lessen the color in the blouse, forging it into a delicate purple at first.

She turns the fabric over, glancing away, idly to the door she's left ajar, and thinks for a moment about closing and opening it and seeing if it would let her get the hell out of here. But she's not sure what's worse: her father's eyes her arm or so many others. And she'd fucked up. She doesn't want to explain it.

For some, she doesn't want them to even see it.

The purple bleeds out into blue.

(She turned up three days ago. Well, what was left of her, anyway.)
She's not dead.
(She went out of contact, so we looked into it.)

She can give that to X.

Elle pulls the blouse out of the water and tosses it over the side of the bar holding up the shower curtain, drying her left hand before turning off the faucet. The bloodied wash cloth she balls in her hand and throws a few feet in the air, sending a small but strong surge after it, enough that it flames up and floats toward the sink in ashes. She wants to scratch at her arm, but in this moment, tries to restrain herself.

It won't last long.

But she washes the ashes down the sink, careful to make sure there's no other sign of blood in it or on the floor. This is what she's supposed to do – clean things up. Erase messes, smooth out ruptures like they never happened –

(like someone took them away)

Elle clicks off the light.

Company agents know how to get out blood.

March 2007, Mistake

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 04:41:16 GMT

The window is the first thing she feels; sunlight on her eyes and that plastic-glass feeling rubbed up against her forehead. Her shoulders slip forward with a swerving motion, and she tugs just slightly at her hands again. This time, something binds them together, and she notices adhesive prickling her skin.

It's his first mistake. And it means it won't be his last.

Elle doesn't open her eyes yet, knows there's no point in it, and it's better to appear as though she's still unconscious. But it's only a moment before the car breaks abruptly, and she nearly falls forward, until something catches her shoulder to hold her back.

She opens her eyes to Bennet, to the gun he's holding in his right hand, and she doesn't say anything.

The front door slams shut, the door she'd been slumped against opens, and Bennet nudges her to get out. Elle doesn't fight it, it's not time yet, there's no reason to let him know what he's done. They walk around the car (she notices for the first time that her shoes have returned) and stand in front. Her father isn't here yet, but Elle glances at Bennet, and he doesn't look impatient.

"What kind of car do you drive?"

He's speaking to the boy, who looks perplexed by it. Even Elle glances sideways.

"Excuse me?"

"I know you can fly, but you're still a teenager, you do have a car, right?"

She returns to her train of thought, after briefly letting herself wonder how she was captured by these two, which mainly involves what it has all along:

How to do the fucking job.

They're barely done speaking when the black van rolls in. She can see her father in the passenger seat, but doesn't want to look at him for too long; her gaze drops to the cement, to the waves nearby –

"Once we get Claire, you fly her out immediately, no matter what else happens."

The doors of the van are slamming. It's his second mistake.

"You understand me?"

The boy nods, "Yes sir."

Elle is thinking the same thing.

Her father moves to the back of the van, sliding the door open and reaching in to pull out a girl. Elle knows who she is the moment she sees her, that her father managed to do his part. The cheerleading uniform is bright blue now, her blonde hair all straight and she looks between them, seeming as confused as she is angry. Her hands are also pulled behind her, but Elle's father lifts a small pair of shears.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Noah," he calls, and cuts Claire Bennet's binds, letting her walk toward them with her arms free.

Bennet doesn't do the same for Elle, just pushes her forward. She can understand it – Claire can heal herself.

She's hardly dangerous. And in a few moments, it won't matter.

But as she's walking toward the other side, measuring her steps again, Elle's gaze still avoids her father. She eyes Claire as they pass, the closest she's ever been to her, whose ability she's already seen in two others.

The truth is, she doesn't see how this girl could ever be anything like her.

And once they've passed, all she has to do is listen. To Claire's steps speed up, tennis shoes pounding on concrete and suddenly stop as she reaches him. Elle can't look at her father because she has to hear it, as Claire yells something to Bennet, and that rush of air –

It takes a few sparks for Elle to rip through the duct tape binding her wrists, and in one step she turns, electricity blazing through her arms and into her hands, collecting into a ball she tosses toward the sky with ease. A moment later, West Rosen and Claire Bennet drop out of the air.

"Claire!" She's already collecting more sparks in her hands, but Bennet doesn't have to worry, he knows what will happen to his daughter. It means he doesn't need to spare a second before lifting his gun, and firing.

She screams again as the bullet smashes through her arm, the sparks dying out instantly. She's not listening when her father calls out, slipping to the ground next to her, but she feels him pull her up against him, leaning to see her arm. He doesn't have long to look at her wound; Bennet's already advancing.

"No matter what I do, we'll always be running." His voice is almost shaking, but it's with anger. There's no uncertainty. "But if you die Bob, the Company dies with you."

That is Bennet's job. Elle knows why he won't stop.

"Please," Suresh's voice is weak. Elle can't see them anymore, she presses her hand against her arm and doesn't look up. "Don't do this."

The gun snaps, trigger ready, she always liked that sound.

I do not want you to die.

Really?

It's not Bennet. The gunfire comes from behind her, and there's nothing on her face – she would have blood and skin and bits of bone on her face if Bennet had fired. Elle knows this, knows that between her and her father, the only broken pieces are hers. Maybe she wouldn't be screaming.

Claire Bennet is screaming.

Elle looks up, hand still pressed against her arm. The sunlight catches the spray of blood from Bennet's face as he falls, red staining the shattered lens in his glasses. Tennis shoes are pounding against the concrete again, but the boy holds her back. He won't let her get any closer. After what must be less than a minute, he pulls her up, and they disappear, and Elle can't try to bring them down again. She's still looking at Bennet's fallen body, like she's never seen one before.

She doesn't understand why; she has and she's never been mesmerized by it, but now, in one moment, she knows she's not feeling anything. She realizes it.

And that's it. Her father pulls her up, taking out his cell phone at the same time to call for a crew to collect Bennet's body. Suresh takes more to move, but he helps her inside the back of the van, looking at her bullet wound although there's only so much he can do. Her father slams the door shut, blocking out the sunlight.

Suresh tears the tape off her wrists.

[ooc: Dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x09, "Cautionary Tales."]

March 2007, Cautionary tale

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 03:09:11 GMT

She's not standing anymore.

It's not usually cold like this; Elle never lingers for the water to sting as it slowly evaporates off her skin. There's water in her eyes as they blink open, her hair matted and blocking her view. She raises a hand to brush it aside –

- but she can't. She pulls stubbornly at her wrist again before she sees the thin chains binding it to the chair arm.

Finally, she looks up to Bennet standing over her with a sink sprayer. He sets it aside.

"I need to speak to your father."

She meets his eyes full on, sparks already glowing under her hands as she speaks – "What, do you think this is my first day?"

Elle's not thinking – not thinking about how she can't feel her feet, about how cold her hands are – she doesn't care about it, she can only hear the crackling and buzzing and all she can feel is the need to lash out. Her left hand turns up, and the blue sparks snap back into her skin, trapped by the water. But it doesn't hurt yet. Not until it's crackled down to the bucket of water in which Bennet's bound her feet. And with nowhere else to go, it crackles back over her, all at once.

(parents sin)

A standard electric chair emits 2000 volts into the condemned's body over a period of fifteen seconds, meant to render him or her unconscious and stop the heart, followed by a lower voltage surge that severely burns the internal organs, with the body temperature reaching as high as a 128°F.
It often doesn't work, and has to be done over, and over, and over, putting the condemned through excruciating pain before he or she finally dies. Flesh inevitably burns onto the electrodes attached to the condemned's body and needs to be cleaned off later.

Fortunately for Elle, Noah Bennet knows just how many times her strained, overworked body can go through such extreme exposure to electric shock. Even if her brain is perfectly damaged so as not to remember it.

She can take it.

(children suffer)

It's ten seconds.

She doesn't know she's breathing, but she must be – her head's thrown back and she's screaming but suddenly she's not because she can't breathe and the Bennet's ceiling fades into a –

(glass room with an -)

– gray mesh like spider web covering her eyes, she closes them and her head falls and there are still sparks everywhere and she struggles to open her mouth and do something besides scream.

(She's been this before – she knows it, screaming until the acute asphyxiation kicks in and she can't scream or breathe but she's not supposed to get out of it but this isn't a memory, there's no image, no knowledge, just something familiar in the ache in her throat and every frayed nerve -)

Her eyes open when she can breathe again. They're not even damp.

(that's what they'd do)

"Stings like a bitch, huh?"

She doesn't answer him. Her breathing slows, her eyes aren't wet; Elle looks back at Bennet with as much defiance as before.

"I know all about your ability, Elle."

"You don't know anything about me," she snaps, though it comes out more like a gasp. He moves closer to her.

"I was there," he continues, his voice much quieter. "When they brought you in. You were a normal girl –"

Elle almost scoffs at this, but she doesn't have the breath for it.

"- unicorns and rainbows. And then the testing began. The brain isn't built to take that much electricity."

And her thoughts stop, she can't remember what – her eyes return to him.

"You poor girl."

It's almost immediate – "My father would never let that happen."

Bennet leans still closer. "Your father was leading the charge."

"I don't remember any of that," she returns.

"No memories, huh?" he asks, not sounding surprised. "Kind of like someone took them away?"

She can't think about it now. He's a liar, they're all –

"Why do you think I worked so hard to keep the Company away from Claire?"

what they will do, not even you can recover from the life your abilities would bring you, you deserve better they'd cut you, they'd test you, they'd push you so far past your capacity for pain that you'd wish you could die

She'd never cared.

"I didn't want her to become –"

whorebratbitchslut

"-you."

They're all liars.

(Is that supposed to be about me?
You tell me.)

Bennet's speaking again – "... make a trade, you for Claire."

Clark had asked if no one had ever done anything nice for her because they wanted to, not because they had to.

It's too bad he won't hear her answer.

She looks up at Bennet, and her eyes are growing damp for the first time.

"What if he doesn't want to make a deal?"

Bennet's voice nearly brushes reassuring now. "You'd be surprised what a father would do for his daughter."

Bennet's eyes flicker to his wife as he says it – it's the first time Elle notices her in the room, trained eyes snapping to the marks on her wrist before rising to see the flying boy. And what does he mean to say to her? Elle doesn't understand it. What will a father do for his daughter? Hadn't he just claimed her father let – hadn't they all – hadn't Bennet – done the same to countless others? What was it a father would do for his daughter?

Let one daughter take it so his wouldn't have to?

Elle gives him the number anyway, and he finally steps away from her, pulling her phone out of his pocket as he turns.

She can't hear her father's voice. It's just as well.

"You touch my daughter and I'll kill yours. And then I'll kill you." She's used to threats as a way of greeting. Elle stops paying attention to the conversation, but unwilling to let her mind wander, all she can do is focus on how far she can move her hands.

Bennet closes the phone, turns back to her, and sprays her with the sink again.

"West." He says something quietly to the boy before leaving the room with his wife, and Elle looks away. She can't let her skin spark up again, and she doesn't let her gaze leave her hand, and every small, continued effort to pull them back, she doesn't let herself think about anything else because this is all she can do. This job.

His job.

And so she doesn't wonder, when Bennet returns to strike her across the head with just enough force to knock her out (and not enough to kill her), if there's really much more damage such concussive force can do.

[ooc: Most dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x09, "Cautionary Tales."]

March 2007, Two-way ambush

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 01:42:07 GMT

He's taking forever. Elle knows she shouldn't be surprised by this, but she hates standing on the sidelines while the others are already out. She's leaned up against the back of the black van, tapping her heels on the pavement and listening for anything. She doesn't know she should be watching more than listening, but even if she did, there's not much to see yet.

If they'd done it the way they were supposed to, Bennet would be dead and her job would be done. And instead the professor is taking forever.

Elle always hated waiting.

She's playing with the golden loop on her necklace when that sound of a car pulling up finally comes. Her hands drop, but she doesn't move out from behind the van, not even stepping to the side for a peek at who's there. She can hear the doors open and slam shut again, and his voice –

"Who's your partner?"

"Excuse me?" Suresh sounds nervous, but it won't matter soon.

"Company policy," Bennet explains, smoothly (more so than Elle would like, were she paying enough attention). "One of them, one of us. Who's yours?"

And as if to answer, Elle steps out from behind the van, glancing once behind her before turning her full attention to Bennet. Her gaze is wary at first, but softens as she takes a few step closer.

"Elle, huh?" he's speaking to Suresh, but his eyes don't leave her.

"You know her?" Suresh asks, and not for the first time, Elle regrets that he's her partner. But Bennet's reply makes her smile –

"Oh yeah."

She stops, briefly, looking over him once (his empty hands, eyes straight on her rather than the gun Suresh is pointing toward his head). "Hey you," she calls.

When she steps forward again, her hand folds at her side, and a small, sparkling blue electric sphere forms in her palm, visible to no one. Or no one she knows about.

Her eyes stay on Bennet's as she walks forward, moving to close the distance enough so she knows she won't kill him when she raises her hand. Bennet's eyes stay on her.

We do it the doctor's way. That's her job.

Bennet's eyes stay on her.

It's only a few steps farther, and she dims the sparks in her hand just slightly. Because she doesn't want to, because it could be over by now, because it's her job.

Bennet's eyes move. Above her, to the right.

Elle stops, and turns.

There's a blur -

- she can't aim in time -

she's not standing anymore.

(A location of a boy.

West Rosen. Tagged outside St. Louis, Missouri.

Capacity for human flight.)

It's too late.

[ooc: Dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x09, "Cautionary Tales."]

March 2007, Another change of plan

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 22:42:48 GMT

Suresh steps out to take a call, and Bob places a case in front of his daughter, turning back to his computer without a word. Elle snaps the case open, revealing a bright, silver steel handgun, clip and rounds set aside, the holster slipped in the corner. She removes the clip first, taking her time in pressing the rounds inside.

"Do you think he's up to it?" she asks, looking up from her work but not stopping. He doesn't glance back.

"Are you?"

Elle doesn't say anything else as she finishes loading the clip and sets it aside, picking up the holster and guessing as she plays with the straps before Suresh returns.

"That was Bennet," he tells her father. Elle hands him the holster without replying, and he takes it without question.

"Does he know we're here?" Bob asks.

"No, he just wanted some information. A location of a boy."

She picks up the handgun, slamming in the clip to make that satisfying snapping sound.

"Maybe we can use this to our advantage," Suresh says hastily, and Elle puts the gun down, moving toward him as he clumsily pulls the straps of his holster over his shoulders.

"How so?" her father asks.

"We feed him a false location," he's speaking to Bob, but his eyes glance warily down at her as she reaches to tug the straps, moving her hands over his shoulder. "We isolate him. We get him away from Claire. We don't have to kill him."

"Do you know what happens when you change your plans midstream?" she snaps up suddenly, slowly fixing one strap and letting her fingers slip over his chest as she does it

"No..." It's more like a question than an answer.

"Neither do I," she continues, taking one of his arms and twirling under it, like they're dancing, before pulling herself up in front of his chest. "Because we don't do it."

His eyes stay on her for a moment, but – "Let me put it this way. We do it my way, or I blow the whistle right now. Tell Bennet everything."

Bob doesn't even turn to face them. "Bennet is dangerous," he calls. "You saw what he did to his mentor in Ukraine."

"Don't you think if push came to shove," Elle simpers, as she finishes with the last strap, "he'd do the same to you?"

There's a brief hesitation, but Suresh answers more certainly this time. "No, I don't."

Elle nearly laughs (how can anyone think like this?). "He's adorable!" She takes Suresh's face in her hands, lingering at his bewildered look. With what sounds like all the honesty of a child asking for a stray puppy: "Can I keep him?"

But she releases him, turning back to the table, and her father finally looks over at them.

"Ok. We do it the doctor's way."

She doesn't stop smiling as she picks up the gun, and hands it to the professor.

[ooc: Most dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x09, "Cautionary Tales."]

March 2007, Costa Verde

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 06:29:23 GMT

Elle's never been swimming, but that doesn't mean she's not prepared. Maybe some part of her hoped she could use it, or she thought it looked pretty, but she walks out onto the deck of the hotel pool in a black-and-white swirled bikini, large sunglasses, and a wide-brim straw hat.

Well, the hat she'd bought at the gift shop.

There's no towel (she won't need one) and she steers clear of the pool itself, not even stepping on wet footprints in the concrete and careful not to run into any scampering, soaking children as she finds a chair on a separate deck, facing away from the pool. She orders something fruit-sounding from the waiter, but doesn't touch it once he brings it, even if she's tempted to peck off that little pink umbrella.

And she listens for her father's voice. It's boring, waiting around without being able to do much besides feel the sun baking into her skin and watching the completely cloudless sky, and as closely as she listens to the splashing water, her stomach shifted with aversion that overran anything like curiosity.

Her father wouldn't be happy if she accidentally electrocuted a bunch of little kids, either.

Fortunately, she doesn't have to wait too long – the ice in her untouched drink has barely begun to melt when it picks up –

"- and curing Niki."

"That's what I like about you, Dr. Suresh, your moral compass always faces true north. Which is why you're going to get a new partner. One who can execute, whose compass faces north-northwest..."

"I hope you're using sunscreen."

(She's not.)

"Overprotective much?" she grumbles, pushing her hat lower on her head as her father and the professor circle her chair.

"Dr. Suresh, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Elle," her father holds out a hand toward her, but the professor blinks between them, looking confused.

"Your daughter?" he whispers to the professor, clearly trying to keep his voice low enough for her not to hear, and not succeeding. "She's the executioner?"

Her father nods, slightly, and Elle grins, lowering her glasses. The white bandage over his nose is the first thing she notices as her eyes slip over him once, and she asks, "What's your superpower? Punching bag?"

"Have you been working on your sharpshooting?" her father interjects. "I don't want you getting too close to Bennet."

"Hey, Fight Club," she calls to Suresh, rather than her father. "Check this out."

And she levels her pointer finger at the drink, flicking up her thumb like a small trigger. The glass shatters, flames crawling over what's left of the orange-colored cocktail. The little umbrella flops off, engulfed in a flame that tears it apart before it reaches the ground.

Elle grins again.

[ooc: Dialogue lifted from Heroes 2x09, "Cautionary Tales."]