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Chapter Three

“Exodus”

Somewhere throughout the course of the day, the men of the house and Claire formed an unspoken silent treatment with each other. Peter, Sylar, and Mohinder briefly heard a few doors opening upstairs, and a shower running, but made no move to talk to the young woman. In actuality, Peter was the only one angry with her; the two other, more passive men simply took the high ground and left Claire alone.

By sunset, everyone was feeling dinnertime hunger pains, including the fuming girl upstairs. Right before Sylar was about to start on dinner, Hiro managed to pull himself together to enter the living room.

The Japanese man’s arm had a lean-to of a sling supporting his arm, and the long jacket that Hiro favored was gone. Peter knew him well, but it was still odd to see his best friend in a loose hanging T-shirt, a large, bloody, frayed hole in the shoulder.

Peter instantly stood up and guided his friend to a chair. “Nasty hit you took, buddy.”

Hiro sat down appreciatively in Peter’s chair. “What doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger,” he shrugged, prompting Peter to smile a bit. Everything out of Hiro’s mouth these days was something from a fortune cookie.

“I have a more immediate problem, Peter,” Hiro further explicated, sitting a little straighter. Peter already prepared himself for this conversation.

“Your sword…yeah…”

“We must go back and retrieve it from the FBI.”

“Er,” Peter cringed slightly, pacing the floor and running his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. “I don’t know if that’s the greatest idea. FBI security is gonna be insane, and Claire will want to go back-,”

“Claire?” Hiro interrupted in marvel. “She was the girl, wasn’t she?”

Peter thought back to the hostage scenario in Washington hours before, realizing that Hiro had a perfect view of his damsel/victim. “Why didn’t you warn me about who I was about to shoot?”

“I’m sorry; I did not know,” Hiro replied solemnly, bowing his head. “I could not see her face well, and you’ve only shown me her in pictures.”

“Well, she’s alive enough to shun us, upstairs,” Peter rolled his eyes slumping in the chair opposite Hiro. His hand absently groped for more lemon PEZ on the table beside him, out of habit.

Hiro watched as Peter tossed half a packet into his mouth at once, eyes closed in a bit of relief as he chewed, swallowed, and started on the rest.

“Keep that up and your never gonna get that flavor out of your mouth,” Hiro weakly pointed out for the who-know-how-many-ith time.

“Girls say I taste like Pine-Sol,” Peter admitted. Then, his face turned dark and if he still had bangs, they would have fallen into his eyes. “But it’s this or the scotch.”

Hiro gladly changed the subject. “You said that Claire’s upstairs? Do you think she might know where in the building it would be?”

“Come on,” his friend groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Can’t you just get another sword?” The last thing he felt Claire would succumb to was helping them.

“That sword belonged to Kensei!” cried the Japanese man, standing up. “It’s a priceless, irreplaceable artifact!”

“Whoa, calm down,” Peter said, holding up his palms. “Alright, new sword: not an option. I get it.”

“Claire is our only lead,” Hiro continued desperatly. “Without her, my sword is lost.”

Peter’s face was deep in thought once again, eyes glazed over with a cloud of idea. Sylar’s ability to see how things work weaved itself into his contemplations, ruling out weak plans and supplying him with the best.    

“Molly,” he finally announced after chewing it over. “I’ll send Molly up to go talk to her.” The sixteen year old had the best shot of luring Claire out of Krystal’s cove; Claire had no previous grudge against her, and the agent was too kind-hearted to slam the door in a girl’s face.

Hiro seemed to agree with this option. “Very well. But you must make peace with Claire at some point.”

The pointed look that he directed at Peter had nothing to do with swords or superpowers.

The brother clapped Hiro on the shoulder and went back into the main hall. Molly Walker read an old Harry Potter book in the corner of the room.

“Molly?” Peter asked kindly. The girl brought out a soft side in him that didn’t show much. Perhaps it was because Molly was the same age as Claire when Peter first met the cheerleader. In a twisted way, the petite human tracking system reminded him of a sweet Claire and better times.

She looked up from her novel and smiled. “What’s up?”

“Can you go upstairs and ask Claire if she knows anything about Hiro’s sword?” He paused, remembered Hiro’s advice, and added, “And then can you tell her I want her to come down for dinner? I really don’t want her to starve or anything, and she’s so stubborn…” An exhausted expression washed over his face. “You’ll probably have the best luck with her.”

“You can’t do it yourself?” Molly cocked her head. Her response was not unkind, but still required Peter to grapple with a comeback.

“It’s complicated,” he lamely explained.

Molly sighed and placed a makeshift bookmark on page 625, leaving the Golden Trio to themselves for a little bit. “Where is she?”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a power to figure that out?” he asked half-seriously, in payback for her sarcasm. Molly tutted and playfully punched him in the arm as she stood up. Peter chuckled off her annoyance.

“Yeah, if I want a migraine,” she retorted, brushing past him and heading towards the staircase.

“Claire’s in Krystal’s room,” Peter replied honestly after a few seconds. “Third door to the left.”

Molly called thanks as she perkily jogged up the rotting steps, finding Krystal’s room within seconds.

“Claire?” she tentatively hollered, politely knocking on the wooden door. “It’s Molly. Are you hungry?”

No reply. There wasn’t even any barely audible MP3 music or floors creaking. Granted Claire could be napping, but Molly’s knocks reverberating through the hollow walls should have been enough to wake her up.

“Claire?” Molly called again. She frowned at the lack of response. “I’m coming in, okay?”

The doorknob hung on by a thread, and Molly wondered how the door even stayed shut. She pushed a gentle hand forward and it slowly swung open, revealing a dirty, empty room not fit for the beautiful woman that Claire bloomed into.

Maybe she’s in the bathroom? Molly mused, crossing to the other side of the hall. Alas, a wide open door with vacancy inside.

Against her better judgment, Molly took Peter’s advice and accessed her ability. Mohinder warned her only to use it in the case of an emergency, and she had a gut feeling that this might constitute as one.

Claire. Claire. Claire Bennet.

Images flashed before Molly’s eyes, until they all merged into a single vision. Claire entering a…Molly didn’t know what the place was…just saw a sign for it. But at this point, it didn’t matter where exactly the woman was; only that she had clearly escaped.

Molly opened her eyes and slumped to the floor, overwhelmed with fatigue. “Peter!” she cried at the top of her lungs, and the empath was at her side in moments. Loud shouts and footsteps could be heard downstairs as Mohinder, Sylar, and Hiro ran up the steps to follow him.

“What’s wrong?” he shot out. “Molly, c’mon, stand up.” Peter wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled her up by the waist. “You didn’t try to use your power did you? I wasn’t serious, I-,”

“Not your fault. Claire’s gone,” Molly gasped out, cutting off his words and clutching onto the thin cotton of his shirt. “Hot…Spur…”

They were the last words she spoke before her eyes rolled back and she feinted in his arms.

xxx

Claire mutely tipped the bus driver and climbed out onto the sidewalk. Luckily, she had a vague knowledge of where everything was in Boston; The Petrelli family (being Angela and Nathan, pretty much) dragged her, Simon, Monty, and Peter up there for winter vacation five years previously. Another ‘luckily’ was that their hotel rested right next to a Hot Spur, something Claire dug up from the bag of her instinct fueled subconscious. Survive. Escape. Run.

Dusk approached as Claire trotted a couple blocks up the road to the place she remembered. A couple of bystanders gave her funny looks; the girl with the wet hair, mismatched, too-small clothes that she managed to dig up from some wardrobe, and high heels that she couldn’t find matches for. Their look was not inconspicuous, for they were both plain white heels, but with one an inch shorter then the other, Claire ended up walking like Marylin Monroe.

Hot Spur, the car rental place, was just up ahead, and Claire thanked her lucky stars for her streak of practicality. Big handbags were a no-no at the FBI, so she usually tucked a small wallet in her back pocket. So, Claire still had access to her license, some money, and more. Of course, it was Mary Whetsill’s ID and such, but perhaps that was a good thing in her current situation…

The counter clerks gave her slightly disproving glances as she pushed her way through the ringing doors, but were forcefully nice at any rate. Claire hastily pulled out her ID.

“I just need a car. Doesn’t matter what kind. Whatever’s cheapest.”

The cool air conditioning combined with her sopping hair drew goose bumps out onto her skin as she silently prayed for the cashier to hurry it up already. Peter and Hiro were both time lords, and all four men were smart in addition to that. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that she’d thrown herself off the window ledge.

No…it wouldn’t take long at all.

xxx

“What has she done?” Mohinder frantically cried, taking Molly from Peter and brushing the hair off of his adopted daughter’s forehead. “I’ve told her a hundred times not to use her abilities!”

“She said Claire’s gone,” Peter stammered. “She’s at a car rental place.”

“But there are several of them around here,” Sylar gravely noted. “Which one is she at?”

Mohinder cradled Molly in his arms and carried her to one of the empty rooms, looking more on the verge of tears then when he saw his father’s own death.

Hiro, who rubbed his shoulder in pain, sat back while the brothers continued their discussion.

“Hot Spur. I’ll teleport to all of them,” Peter decided quickly. “But I’ll take Mohinder and Molly home first, on the way. She’s got her medicine there.”

Before Sylar could sigh back another flaw in the plan, he rushed after the teenager and Indian man, grabbed hold of them, and was gone.

xxx

“Thank you Miss Whetsill,” smiled the clerk in mock cheer. “Your Versa is across the street in the parking garage, level 2, space 54.”

He handed Claire some change and a receipt, and she briskly walked out the front door. Yet, the sense of dread in her gut was not quite dissolved. Sure she had the keys, but that didn’t mean Peter couldn’t teleport in front of her at any given second.

Claire managed to make it all the way across the street, up the stairs, and three feet away from her Nissan Versa before he appeared.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The next thing she saw was dark fabric smothering her face as Peter threw his arms around her and held her tightly to him. She didn’t even bother to push him off, knowing from enough bear hug fights that he was much stronger than she.

Peter abruptly pulled back when he realized what he’d just done, blinking a bit bewilderedly. The embrace was mostly out of habit and instinct, rather then affection. He’d almost forgotten about what being worried about someone he cared about felt like.

“Where have you been?!” he continued, pointing and accusing finger at her. “Just…getting up and running away like that! What are you, fifteen?!”

Claire glared daggers back at the insult he knew would hurt her. “I make my own decisions now,” she hissed. “And I decided that it was time to leave.”

She turned back to ignore him and open her car door, but Peter viciously whipped her around by the arm. The car keys slipped from Claire’s fingertips in shock at his fervor. She’d been on the victim side of several of Peter’s overprotective rants, but he never laid a hand on her. This time, his rage started to scare her.

“I’ve already told you!” he yelled. “You can’t leave with the information you’re carrying!”

“And I’ve told YOU that I’m not going to say anything!”

“There are ways of getting it out of you,” he lowered his voice. “Me and Hiro are pretty much on the ‘America’s Most Wanted Metahumans’ list. Sylar’s pretty safe, but you know he has a criminal record too. When Nathan finds out where you’ve been, and you know he will…they’ll send mind readers, lie detector tests, people who can force you to talk. It doesn’t matter what secrets you’re willing to keep.”

“They’re my family, Peter,” she cried desperatly. “They’re not saints, but they’re the only people I can…be around that don’t make me feel like a freak. Even with this ability, they make me feel human!”

“God, Claire!” Peter suddenly slammed the side of the Versa in frustration, and it amazed Claire that he didn’t leave a dent. “Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” she whispered, a little intrigue mixed with her fear.

He brought a hand forward and Claire impulsively ducked back, afraid that he was about to strike her. But Peter merely grabbed her arm and pulled up the sleeve, revealing pale, unblemished skin. He gently ran a thumb over the underside of her wrist, shaking his head wordlessly.

“You have…no idea…,” he snarled, barely audible as he roughly let her wrist drop, “what it’s like….to not feel human…”

As he gritted out each syllable, he pulled up his own sleeve and started taking off his watch. At the end of his seeth, Peter held out his wrist to her, showing a dull, green, barcode tattoo with the initials M. P.Petrelli underneath.

“I’m just a number in a database Claire. Their computers. You wonder why I’m so pissed at Nathan?” As he spoke, his voice cracked with passion, and the always emotional Claire felt tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. Peter finished his statement. “Nathan was the one that led them right to me, forced me into hiding.”

“This,” He shoved his wrist further even more to emphasize the barcode, and Claire closed her eyes, wincing. “This is the real loss of humanity. Not the abilities.”

Claire stood there frozen in shell-shocked silence, eyelids tightly closed and hands balled into fists. A couple teardrops leaked out from under her long lashes, mascara mixing with them to create black, wet trails down her cheeks.

As an agent for three years, she’d seen plenty of people bar-coded like Peter, and was never a huge fan of the practice. However, as long as she steered clear of the whole mess, Claire lived in blissful ignorance. Now, having the issue shoved in her face was too much to handle at once. Seeing strangers in the situation didn’t have nearly the same effect. Never had she thought about someone she loved having to undergo such animalistic treatment.

It was the Company and their tracking system all over again.  

“And don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Peter continued, finally having lowered his wrist and put on his watch. “You saw it every day, but didn’t give a care, right? You were safe, and that’s all that mattered.”

His heart panged on sight of her glistening grey-green eyes that greeted him. Claire was full of spunk and power; she always gave as well as she got in a brawl. But now, she just let him tear out at her in shame. Peter almost considered apologizing until she spoke.

“You need to let it go, Peter,” she told him slow and evenly. “It’s never gonna get any better.” The words felt like chalk in her mouth, dry and emotionless. They were routine; not from the heart.

Peter ran a palm across his forehead, scoffing in incredulity. “I don’t believe this,” he said bitterly. His hand dropped from his face, and he held his arms wide. “But you know what? J-just…go, okay? Go back to your buddies in D.C. Sell us all out. At least we’ll know who to blame.”

He angrily turned on his heel and walked away, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. Claire’s bloodshot eyes and confused forlorn tempted him to run back and comfort her, tell her he was too harsh, but no. She deserved what she got. If the bitch wanted to go “home” then he’d let her. He’d let her walk away. And the only mark he’d leave on her would be the guilt on her face.

Memories, love, trust…it died a long time ago, and Peter decided that his urge to protect her should go with it. Claire watched him teleport away, still having not the slightest idea what to do. She bent down to the ground and picked up the rental keys without moving her vision from that spot where he stood.

That barcode would be burned in her mind until her days end.

4561654.

M. P. Petrelli.

Peter had gone by his middle name since he was six years old. Claire remembered the day he told her, too. Something about applying for a credit card right after Claire moved in with Nathan. She asked him why all his bills and stuff had an ‘M’ before everything. He smirked kindly and commented that “Michael” was never a fitting name for him.

That seemed so long ago. How had things changed that much from Peter and Claire who loved each other unconditionally, to Peter and Claire that fought with hatred in every bone and word? This brave new world was tearing families, friends apart.

Claire got into the car with tearstreaks still on her face.

xxx

Peter returned home red-faced and scowling, with only Sylar to take out his frustrations on.

“Did you get Mohinder and Molly home alright?” Sylar asked foremost, wanting to stay away from the “C” subject for a bit. Obviously, Peter needed to calm down before delving into that chestnut, and Sylar harbored genuine concern for his best friend and ‘niece.’

“They’re fine,” Peter confirmed quickly. “But can you believe what she did?!”

“What now?” his brother replied boredly, taking a sip of chai (he had boxes of it, plus a very nice teaset, as a Dhwari gift from Mohinder).

Peter sat down irately into his recliner, brutally scrambling around the end table’s drawers for some PEZ.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he spat. “First, she runs away, and then, she says that Nathan and them make her feel normal. I mean, it’s insulting! I was the only one she could trust for over two years and now those traitors-just…God…”

Sylar snorted lightly. “Want some chai? It’ll calm you down, really,” he insisted, holding out his teacup. Peter sighed and took the offering, draining the teacup in one gulp. He handed the cup back to his brother, grimacing a little.

“It tastes like grass. How do you drink this stuff?”

“You get used to it,” Sylar shrugged.

Even though the hot drink had an aftertaste like weed mixed with peppermint and a football player’s armpit, Peter was considerably calmer after wolfing it down.

“To be fair,” Sylar claimed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You did leave her.”

“I know,” muttered Peter, looking at that dusty, ugly patterned carpet. “I didn’t want to do that to her. And I apologized; you heard me!”

Sylar bit back a retort. “Peter. Honestly. One apology doesn’t make up for four years of absence. And you know…maybe if you hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have ended up in the FBI. Maybe she resents you for that.”

Peter stared back for a long while. “I’ve really messed up, this time, haven’t I?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Sylar clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“Yes…you have.”

Groaning, Peter slumped back in chair, brushing a hand over his ebony hair. “It doesn’t matter anymore, though. She’s gone. I told her to get out and stay out and…now she’s all pissed at us, and is gonna rat us out as soon as she gets home.”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Sylar wisely noted. The use of that aphorism reminded Peter of something. Or, someone in particular that told him the same thing every time a Sheila or a Bridget came busting in to rip Peter a new one.

“Where’d Hiro go?” he frowned, looking around the brothel for his best friend. Sylar pointed to the basement door in reply.

“He’s sleeping down there for tonight. He’s too weak to teleport, and I don’t think he’s going anywhere without that sword.”

Peter nodded in acknowledgement, absorbing the information without realizing it. His mind replayed his last actions over like a broken record. Claire standing in turmoil, fighting back sobs as he tore her to shreds. It worse then shooting her. That was an accident. This time, he’d been in utter control of what he was doing, and almost felt ashamed afterward as he listened to the pouring rain outside.

“Fantastic,” grumbled Sylar, standing up and looking at the ceiling. “Half the upstairs rooms are gonna be flooded.”

He telekinetically sent a bunch of buckets flying up the stairs, and off to rest under the several leaks in the roof. Worn down whorehouses came with a few nuisances every now and then.

“This is going to sound crazy,” Peter said hoarsely, moistening his lips and looking up at Sylar. “But I…I really want to see her again.”

Me too, thought Sylar, though he said nothing of the sort. “That’s normal,” the young man declared, putting on the ‘selfless comforting brother’ act once again. Truth was, a dark part of him wanted Peter and Claire at odds with each other…to leave Claire all to him…

No, he scolded himself. Peter obviously cares about her, and I hardly know her. He should be first in line.

But what if he doesn’t, huh? They did think they were family for a few years. Wouldn’t that be a little awkward for them, hmmm? No, there’s not  a chance. She’s all yours…

Stop it!

“Um…of course…like I said…,” he stuttered, coming out of his thoughts. “You probably feel guilty and are worried about her, and us, so…so yes, that would be normal.”

“You alright?” Peter leaned forward a bit, peering at him suspiciously.

“Oh! Fine,” Sylar assured him. “Just woozy. It’s probably the chai.”

“Right.”

Peter’s mind was in a fog too. He couldn’t help but accessing Molly’s ability, seeing where Claire was at that point in time. In her car, driving in the rain somewhere, while wiping away the tearstains on her cheeks. Peter shook off the vision, bowing his head in misery.

“You didn’t get to have dinner,” Sylar reminded him, walking into the kitchen. “I made Ramen noodles.”

“We have those every day,” Peter moaned, closing his eyes and relaxing gloomily in his chair. Sylar looked at him helplessly.

“They’re cheap. We already spent all our money on the computer stuff.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter opened his eyes. “Me and Hiro stole most of that from the CIA.”

“The accessories,” Sylar held up a finger. “I had to buy the computer. Granted, I hacked it and got all the programming for free, with Molly’s boyfriend’s help, but the $3000 laptop was out of my pocket.”

“I still can’t believe they took cash for that thing,” Peter reminisced. Sylar couldn’t use a credit card lest he wanted to be found by Homeland Security, so he had to come up with the money in bills. Out of Hiro, Molly, Peter, and himself, Sylar was the only one to evade getting bar-coded as of yet. Peter held off the feds for a reasonable time before that infamous ‘getting-shot-in-back-of-the-head’ incident in San Diego got the best of him.

“If you’re so sick of living the simple life, why don’t you go rob a bank?” Sylar suggested, bringing out a bowl of Oriental Ramen noodles.

“Don’t feel like it. I would be kind of guilty about that too,” Peter admitted. He wound a healthy heap of noodles onto a fork. “I could accidentally end up stealing money from people like us. It’s too risky.”

Sylar accepted that well enough, fiddling with his watch dial to pass the time. 

“When are you gonna get that thing fixed?” Peter noticed and cocked his head towards the timepiece.

Sylar rubbed a thumb affectionately over the cracked glass face. “I like it broken,” he replied simply.

Peter frowned slightly and ate the noodles in silence, contemplating why anyone would want it to be seven minutes to midnight forever.