Chapter One

“Saving Miss Bonnie Lass”

FOUR DAYS LATER

CLAIRE BENNET

NEW YORK CITY

Sun streamed through the blinds in Claire’s hotel room. Out of human instinct, she blinked her eyes open, and then turned over to get the light out of her face. The alarm clock read 10:00 in the morning, and she wasn’t a bit surprised. After arriving at the Newark airport at nearly midnight, she’d taken a taxi and desperately tried to find a cheap hotel with space open. Luckily, there was one on Foxtrot Avenue called the Liberty Inn that graciously took her in. A cute kitchen boy around her age even snuck her some room service when his boss wasn’t looking.

Claire threw off her comforter and turned on the TV. Every other ad was a campaign commercial and Claire was reminded of how much she hated election season. In the next election, she’d be old enough to vote, a prospect that both amused and scared her.

Lewis Rushton, the girl remembered, staring out the window at the New York morning. My real father is out there, somewhere.

The day after she visited Meredith Gordon, Claire had gone back, demanding information about her father. Meredith had slowly obliged, explaining that Claire’s real dad was a bit of an older man named Lewis Rushton. He’d disappeared one day, not long after Claire was born, leaving a letter saying that he had to go to New York, and wasn’t coming back. Meredith hadn’t heard from him since, but Claire figured that New York was as good a place as any to begin searching. He had probably gone somewhere else…it had been over fifteen years since he’d left. But perhaps someone knew something about him.

Plus, fate had had its way of leading Claire in the right direction lately.

Before she had crashed on her hotel bed the previous night, Claire made sure to grab a phone book from the lobby. Said book sat on her end table by the clock, and Claire pulled it into her lap.

She flipped to the “R” section, and tried to find a Rushton. There were a couple, but none that went by the first name “Lewis” or even with an “L” in their first initial. Claire crawled out of the bed, grabbed her Sidekick from the other side of the room, and plopped back down against her pillow. Calling all the names had worked to find her mom. Maybe this trick would work to find her father too.

Alas, no luck. Claire even called everyone with various spellings of Rushton, including Rushtan and Rushten, but no one knew who Claire’s dad was. The last person said they knew a Lewis, and Claire’s hopes skyrocketed, but the woman explained that Lewis was her three year old grandnephew. Claire apologized and hung up her phone.

She’d gone all this way for nothing. Not only was her father not there, but not even any of his family was. The only people that remained were friends and possibly co-workers, but how was she supposed to find them? Meredith said that Lewis used to work at Primatech Paper, ironically enough. Claire knew that Primatech’s main headquarters in Queens, prompting all of her adoptive father’s visits there. Still, after all the lies that Bennet had said to her, was there anyway for Claire to know if even Primatech was real at all?

Another campaign commercial came on, with catchy, inspiring music in the background.

“Who is Nathan Petrelli? A soldier …”

Claire looked up at her TV screen, her ears perking up at the word “Petrelli.” She didn’t know anything about Italian last names, or how common they were. As she kept her eyes on the screen, she absently flipped the phone book pages back to the “P” section.

“Nathan Petrelli is strong hand built on family values...”

The man that Claire had guessed to be Nathan himself was grinning, rather fakely Claire thought, and was surrounded by four other people. Two were boys, beaming up at him from his feet. The woman on Nathan’s left was a small older lady with big brown eyes and black hair. She was probably his mother, much too old to be the politician’s wife, though Claire noted the absence of one. After all, how could Nathan have children without a wife? Perhaps he was divorced?

But when Claire’s eyes fell on the last person in the picture, she failed to care about any of her previous observations. The young man on Nathan’s mother’s other side…he had his arm wrapped comfortingly around the older woman, implying that he was also her son, and thus, Nathan’s brother. Peter Petrelli smiled right at Claire, as if she was actually in front of him. If Claire’s heart wasn’t indestuctable, it would have stopped.

For weeks, Claire had yearned to talk to Peter, have a conversation that lasted for hours about their powers, his mission, everything. Claire admitted to herself that she may just be crushing a bit, but who wouldn’t? A handsome stranger with a heart of gold coming to rescue the homecoming queen was something similar to every little girl’s childhood fantasies.

Claire had been daydreaming so much, that she was slightly taken aback to see that the commerical had already ended. She looked down at the phone book between her hands, took a deep breath, and turned the pages back to her hero’s name…

PETER PETRELLI AND CLAUDE RAINES

NEW YORK CITY

Every day after Peter’s vision in the ally, he had come to a café on the corner of Foxtrot Avenue and Marigold Street, between 10:00am and noon. That much he had managed to cling to from his dream, and he’d angrily told Claude that he could have learned more if he hadn’t been punched in the face.

Claude found this whole idea bonkers. “I know you think your dreams can tell the future, but what’s so important about a bus and a café?”

“What’s so important about a bum stealing out of a wallet?” retaliated Peter, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t know what this means, okay? I just know that this is something I have to do.”

The bell tower across the street rang out for 11:00. Peter’s dream had shown many times, and 11:03 was one of them. Petrelli leaned forward in his wrought iron chair, looking around for any sign of a blonde, a bus, or danger.

“You couldn’t have gotten a particular day of when this was going to happen, eh mate?” grumbled Claude, breaking Peter’s concentration. “We’ve been coming here for the past three days looking for your blonde little Bonnie Lass. You want to be a hero, when you’ve got work to do. You still have no idea what you’re-.”

“Yes I do!” snapped Peter. “I figured everything out on my own. Now, I just need your help so that I can practice.”

“You still haven’t flown,” remarked Claude bluntly. “Why is it, do you think, that you can regenerate so easily, but your body finds it so hard to fly?”

Peter mulled this over a bit, coming to a conclusion rather quickly, but hesitating before speaking it aloud. If he had to remember feeling people to use their powers, then how’d he feel about Nathan?

“I can’t decide what to think about my brother,” confessed Peter. “He’s a jerk, I know, but I still love him…”

“Bingo!” applauded Claude. “But riddle me this: why do you love him?”

Peter stared. “He’s my brother. Why wouldn’t-,”

Claude interrupted him with a scoff. “That’s not a reason, that’s an excuse.”

Peter sighed. The younger man was becoming more and more irritated at Claude as the days went by. His mentor had solemnly sworn that he wouldn’t be throwing him off any more buildings, but Peter knew that Claude still had tricks up his baggy sleeves. The only thing keeping Peter away from standing up and leaving was that he had positively begged Claude for help. It would be idiotic for him to throw in the towel on his own requests.

“I-,” Peter began, but restarted. “Nathan fixes everything. It looks like he cares, but I’m not sure if he really does. He drops everything and makes it all better, before I even have a chance to try and repair things. Then, he gripes about what a jerk I was to make him fix everything, when it was all his will. He never gives me a chance…he doesn’t trust me. The only reason he looks after me is because the guilt would kill him if he didn’t. He’s got a good heart, I promise, but things keep getting in the way…”

Claude’s eye line no longer met Peter’s. Instead, his eyebrows were up in his bangs and he was pointedly looking at Peter’s rear end. Confused and slightly embarrassed, Peter looked down.

He was floating two inches above the seat of his chair.

CLAIRE

There were only two Petrellis listed in the phone book: Nathan, and Angela. Peter himself was oddly unlisted. Claire figured that Angela was probably Peter’s mother, and it would be more suitable to call her then Peter’s congressman brother. The blonde girl picked up her Sidekick again and called the number.

Nobody answered. A machine came on, but Claire hung up before she could leave a message. She bit her tounge. If Nathan Petrelli didn’t pick up, she was seriously set back more than just one knotch.

The phone rang four times before someone picked up.

“Petrelli residence, may I ask who is calling?”

“Uh…hello, this is Claire Bennet. May I speak to Nathan Petrelli, please?”

The lady on the other side of the line tutted. “No, miss. Nathan is at work right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No than-…well…wait a second. Is there anyone else in the house right now?”

“Just Mrs.Heidi, Nathan’s wife.”

“Can I speak to her, please?” Claire asked as innocently as she could. Surely, Peter’s sister-in-law knew who he was. However stunned Claire was that Nathan actually did have a wife, she was still thankful. Heidi might be able to tell her where Peter was.

“Hello?” asked a mature voice on Petrelli side of the line. Claire stammered back.

“Oh! Hello. This is Mrs.Heidi Petrelli?”

“Yes,” Heidi replied slowly. “Who is this?”

“My name is Claire Bennet. I’m a friend…well…I know Peter Petrelli, and I’m trying to find him, but he’s unlisted in the phone book. I thought that you might be able to help me.”

“Oh, I know Peter,” Heidi told the girl nonchalantly. Then, her tone got serious. “He was in a coma a few days ago. My husband, Nathan, kept visiting the hospital. Then, Peter dissapeered and Nathan’s been looking for him ever since.”

If Claire hadn’t already been sitting, she would have slumped in a nearby chair. All hope was now over. Peter’s own family didn’t know where he was.

“I’m sure Peter’s still in town though. Nathan made sure he didn’t leave on any planes,” Heidi continued. “I’ll give you the address of his apartment, if you’d like. You can go see if he’s there. It’s worth a shot, I guess.”

“Thank you so much,” Claire breathed in relief. “You don’t know how much that would help me.”

As Heidi was summoning another one of her servants to fetch Peter’s exact address, she continued her conversation with Claire.

“So how do you know Peter? Are you his high school sweetheart or something?”

Claire’s stomach tightened and she shook her head furiously, as if the older woman couild see her.

“No ma’mn. He saved me.”

Heidi frowned. “Now you’re not that girl from Texas, are you?”

“I’m from Texas, yes.”

“And Peter saved you? Are you the cheerleader?”

“Yes, ma’mn.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and for a moment, Claire was scared that her only source of information had hung up. But Heidi breathed into the phone, alerting Claire to her presence once more.

“This can’t be possible. Nathan stormed off to Texas two and a half weeks ago to go bail Peter out of jail. He said that Peter rushed to Odessa on some crazy vision that he had to save a cheerleader. I love Peter and all, but even I thought it was totally insane…and wait a minute. You’re not testing me are you? A reporter trying to get a scoop on Nathan?”

“No, ma’mn of course not. And it’s not insane,” confirmed Claire. “If it weren’t for Peter, I’d be dead.”

Heidi smiled warmly. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you again.”

Nathan’s wife gave Claire Peter’s address, and said that if Claire needed anything else, she was welcome to call back. After thanking Heidi a million and a half times, Claire said farewell and pressed “End Call.”

585 Freemans Street, Apartment 132, in Lower East Side, Manhatten. Claire read over this line several times on her Liberty Inn stationary. It was time to go pay Peter a visit.

PETER AND CLAUDE

Peter’s “Nathan emotion” was replaced with shock, and he lost a handle on the hovering. His bottom collided with the seat again, not hard enough to cause any real pain. He looked over at Claude, beaming.

Claude rubbed the back of his neck. “If you can mold that monologue of yours into an actual emotion, you may just be getting somewhere, lad.”

Peter was too elated to hear anything that had just come out of Claude’s snarky mouth. There was only one thing that would divert his attention, and that was the pretty blonde girl strolling timidly around the corner…

CLAIRE

Fourty-five minutes later, Claire had taken a shower, gotten dressed, and grabbed a muffin from downstairs. She quickly asked the hotel staff how to get to Peter’s apartment, and was delighted to find that it was only a few blocks away. With that, Claire waved goodbye and walked out of the revolving front doors.

What did they say again? mused Claire. Go up Foxtrot and turn at Murray?

Claire followed the instructions that they gave her for a good ten minutes, before she saw a church at the end of the street. The bells rang out on the hour and gave her a little fright. The whole walk, she’d been looking over her shoulders and holding her arms protectivly. She’d never been out alone in a big city before. Maybe it was too many Die Hards or specials on the Today Show, but Claire feared that any second, a murderer would pop out in broad daylight, take her, and find some way to kill her.

Then again, with all that the poor girl had been through, she had rather passable reason for caution. There are people that want what you have and will hurt you to get it, her lying father had said. Seeing as he, nor Sandra or Lyle knew that she were she was off to, Claire had left a breif, vauge note saying that she was safe and would be back sometime soon.

Whenever Union Wells would give lectures on drop out rates, Claire always had blown them off, knowing full well that she’d never drop out of high school. But the law said that seventeen was the legal drop out age, and Claire was at that mark. As she walked down that New York street, fifteen hundred miles from home, she realized how petty high school was compared to her current situation. And to think: just one month ago, she’d been an ordinary teenage girl, only caring about her senior project and teddy bears.

She approached an intersection and started to take a left on Murray, but realized that she was mistaken. Murray was up ahead; this was the intersection of Foxtrot and Marigold. Shrugging, she busied herself by pressing the fake “Press here to make the ‘Walk’ sign come on” button on the light pole. It was one hundred percent bogus, she knew, but it was at least a distraction from the long wait.

“Claire!” she heard a man cry. Claire surreptitiously looked around, finding no one trying to get her attention. Instead of searching some more, she passed it off as coincidence.

“Claire Bennet! Claire!”

Now Claire was getting spooked. Her mind immediately jumped to the murderer at Homecoming, or perhaps, her father. Praying to God that the damn sign would turn to “Walk” already, she took one last glance around. Nothing.

When the little white neon man appeared on the sign across the street, Claire sighed in relief. She power-walked across the crosswalk, hearing someone call her name once more. For a split second, she thought she saw a chair move on it’s own at the outdoor café to her right, but she was too bent on getting out of there.

“Claire!” yelled the voice again, desperatly. This time, it was much closer. Blowing off any embarressment or danger she might have been bringing to herself, Claire practically leaped to the next sidewalk and broke out into a sprint.

PETER AND CLAUDE

Peter bolted up in his chair. He gazed at the blonde girl on the corner and couldn’t believe his eyes. Is that…the cheerleader? Claire? What’s she doing in New York?

“What’s gotten into you?” asked Claude, scratching at his bushy beard.

“Claire!” Peter shouted, waving his arms around. Claire took a peek around her, then went back to pushing the button on the lamp post.

“She actually thinks that button works?” Claude scoffed. “Those blonde jokes must be true…”

Peter shot a dirty look in Claude’s direction, then continued calling for Claire as she crosssed the street. Other people were starting to look around as well, wondering who was calling for this girl.

“Of course,” Peter breathed, mentally smacking himself. “She can’t see me.”

“Go on, then. Make yourself visible. You know how,” shurgged Claude.

Peter shook his head, hastily blurting out, “That would take too long.” Claire was almost at the other side of the street, about to walk away from Peter’s radius.

The only way for Peter to become visible quick enough was for him to walk away from Claude. Thus, he did so, rushing over to Claire, still calling her name. But Claire was too freaked by now. By the time Peter had almost reached her, she began to run down the Foxtrot sidewalk.

“Wonderful,” muttered Peter, as he began charging after her. He had always been a terrible runner, and Claire was an athlete, so it was a rather unfair contest. Though, somewhere in the back of Peter’s mind, he remembered the bus from his dream. All the chips began falling into place and he realized what was going to happen. The epiphany keyed up his muscles, pushing him forward at full throttle.

“Claire! Watch out!” he shouted, as the cheerleader approached the next intersection. Claire whipped her head around in mid-dash, frowning. As she unconciously stumbled out into the middle of the street, she saw something that made her do a double-take. One second, there was nothing there, and the next, Peter was fizzling into visiblility. In mid-air.

He had roughly vaulted himself off of an innocent bystander’s left shoulder, lunging to the end of the sidewalk. On any other occasion, Claire would have gaped at how cool the vision was to see a man leap up invisible and come into the perceptible continuum before hitting the ground again. This time, however, everything happened so fast, it was hard to even remember to breathe.

Claire heard a loud horn blaring in her face, and saw a huge bus coming right at her. Before she could so much as scream, forceful hands grabbed her by the waist and yanked her out of the way of jeopardy. Her head cracked against the concrete and darkness crept into the sides of her eyes. The last thing she remembered before everything went black was a soft, handsome voice gasping her name.