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episode four, episodes

Episode Four: The Plan

Episode One Episode Two Episode Three

Episode Four: The Plan

Mohinder Suresh
New Orleans, Louisiana

"You're a pretty one." A voice whipped Mohinder's attention from the door he was knocking on to an older man leaning against a nearby wall. "But you don't look like you need help being a real boy...and you're not here dressed like you want to be a real girl, either."

"Excuse me?"

It had taken an entire hour to locate the apartment building, but Mohinder had just been relieved to be so close. By the time he found where the name on the list lived it was already midnight, he hadn't been expecting the man he was looking for would be out on a weeknight. After knocking five separate times he had been just about to go into the laptop bag he was carrying to find something that would allow him to break in, but luckily hadn't pulled anything out, yet.

The older man was black, with salt and pepper hair and dancing eyes, he moved slowly to stand closer to Mohinder, not showing any concern toward a stranger. "Yeah, I didn't believe it, either. But living next door, I've seen it. Gotta wonder how many other boys grow up wanting to wear frilly dresses who would kill for what he's got."

Mohinder stared at the man, eyes distracted by the swirls of smoke coming from his clove cigarette. "You're saying that he...."

On his father's list there were possible powers down next to some of the names, but this name had been without any notes, just a city. What the man was suggesting fell in line with potential powers Mohinder had thought of, a manipulation of a person's body on a genetic level wasn't so unbelievable compared to what Mohinder had already seen. It was even comforting in its simplicity.

"Whoever sent you should have known, Jacqueline's never home on at night, he's always down at that club all the way down Bourbon Street. "

"Jacqueline...is John Stark?"

The old man laughed. "Yeah, that's her. John, Jack, Jacqueline. 'She's' been calling herself that since she was in high school. Drove her parents insane."

"What club, exactly, would she be at?"

***

Noah and Claire Bennet
Minneapolis

"You won't make it past Minneapolis," the campground attendant had said as Noah and Claire had hastily hitched the Civic up to the back of the RV. "The roads are gonna be a mess."

And he'd been right. They hadn't even made it quite to Minneapolis, in fact. Noah had finally given up when he'd seen a Comfort Inn sign glowing through the swirling snow and darkness just off the interstate in a suburb called Roseville.

"Nice storm, huh," the desk clerk said.

Noah didn't answer him, just took the key with a dark look and thought once more how much he hated driving in the snow.

Once they'd reached their room, Claire said, "Who was that guy?" She'd been respectfully silent the whole drive down, and now the question burst out of her like she'd been holding it in the whole time.

"I think I know," Noah said. He pulled the file out of his suitcase and flipped it open to the picture paper-clipped to the inside cover. Yes. That was the same man, and his accent had sounded one step off from British, which easily could have been South African like the file said.

"That was Markus?" Claire said, leaning over his shoulder.

"Apparently so."

"Wait," she said, "We're not teaming up with him, are we?"

Noah shut the file and tucked it back in his suitcase, then turned around to sit on the edge of the bed. "No. Clearly not. I guess we'll have to formulate a plan B."

She plopped down beside him. "You know, Dad, using big words just 'cause they're big is kinda dorky."

"Huh?" he said, reviewing what he'd just said.

"Formulate?" Claire said, rolling her eyes.

"It's only three syllables," he protested. "Besides, you'll thank me when you do spectacularly well on your SATs. As I'm sure you will."

"Ugh. SATs. Standardized tests are so unfair."

Mr. Muggles jumped up on the bed between them and yipped. He did a little dance, shifting from foot to foot to foot. Noah and Claire exchanged a look. Then, before Claire could start the argument, Noah just sighed, "I'll take him out."

***

Niki Sanders and D.L. Hawkins
Somewhere in Texas

“Why, hello!” Niki and D.L. heard exclaimed cheerfully, even before they noticed that Shelly had opened the door. While she wasn’t dressed up, she still looked perfect in her sun dress. The white of her smile was almost blinding. “I love seeing you two, come on in!”

She opened the door wider and walked inside, and they followed. The house was huge and exquisitely made. “Please, have a seat,” she said, ever the gracious host, and they sat. “Would you like something to drink?” When they shook their heads, Shelly seemed a little disappointed, but not for long.

She took a seat across from the leather sofa they were sitting on. “What can I do for you?” she asked, still smiling. It seemed like she never stopped.

“We have some questions about this neighborhood. Would you mind answering some?” Niki asked, politely.

“Oh, no, I’d love to help you with anything,” she enthused.

Niki glanced over to D.L. for a moment, feeling unnerved by her perpetual enthusiasm, and she found the same look mirrored in D.L.’s face. She managed to shake it off in order to ask, “When did this all start?”

“Oh, that’s a good question!” Shelly commented, looking like she was pondering hard, trying to remember. “It’s been quite a few years, I don’t remember how many… more than ten, I’m certain.”

Niki and D.L. were both surprised. They had expected this to be a more recent project. Before they could ask another question, Shelly looked out the window and frowned. “It’s getting too dark,” she murmured, and with her words, all the lights in her house turned on. At their brief startlement, she smiled. “Have you ever wondered why you don’t have to pay an electricity bill? That’s all me.”

They glanced at each other again, and D.L. reached his hand out to hold Niki’s. If Shelly was able to power a whole city without breaking a sweat, then they were dealing with someone much more powerful than the cheerful persona belied.

Shelly mistook the actions as shock. “I’m just doing my duty to help our community. We all use our strengths to help it.”

This didn’t sound good to D.L., who asked, “What do you mean?”

She widened her eyes. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know yet. You weren’t supposed to know until later, but I can trust you to keep a secret, right?” Niki and D.L. nodded, looking a little wary. “You haven’t been fully initiated yet. Everyone who lives here uses their power in some way to help everyone.” She paused. “I’m not sure what they’d want you two to do. But I’m sure that Micah’s talents will be greatly appreciated.”

“Micah’s just a kid, leave him out of this,” Niki snarled, feeling the all too familiar protectiveness rising in her, whenever Micah was brought up. D.L. squeezed her hand, first in comfort, but then as an expression of his own anger at the thought.

“Don’t worry; he wouldn’t be doing anything dangerous.”

Niki shook her head. “It just reminds me too much of what happened with Linderman,” she said, then bit her tongue; she had divulged too much.

But D.L. had noticed Shelly wince slightly at the name, causing him to hiss, “Just who is running this place? Was it Linderman?”

Something remarkable happened just then – Shelly’s face, while usually very expressive, suddenly became neutral. She gave a small, apologetic smile as she stood up. “I just remembered that I have some business to take care of. It was really nice talking to you both. I hope you can come over again later for some tea.”

Niki and D.L. took that as their cue to leave. They exchanged farewells, and they left the ornate home feeling, for the first time since they arrived two months ago, afraid.

***

Noah had never been particularly fond of the little hairball, but right now, he was feeling downright homicidal.

"Mr. Muggles, it is not this complicated to find a spot to do your business."

The snow was already high enough that the small dog was more swimming in it than walking, and the temperature had to be below zero, and yet, Mr. Muggles seemed to be perfectly content to nose around, occasionally make an aborted attempt to raise his leg, then move on to the next spot.

A car pulled into the parking lot, easing through the snow and stopping in a reasonable approximation of a parking spot. Poor soul, Noah thought. Caught out in this even later than we were.

Mr. Muggles gave a small moaning beginning of a bark, then waded on to the next straggly parking lot tree.

"Oh, you stupid, stupid dog," Noah groaned. Then he sucked in a hard breath. "Oh, Sandra, I'm sorry," he murmured.

Mr. Muggles gave a startled yip, and the leash tugged, and when Noah looked... Mr. Muggles was hovering about four feet off the ground. Holy shit, the dog can fly, he thought.

Then a second later, the air shimmered, and Mr. Muggles was sitting in the arms of a scruffy man dressed in a tattered old overcoat.

"Hello, mate. Long time no see. Excluding that time you tried to taser me a few months ago."

After a moment of unseemly gaping, Noah managed, "How did you--"

Claude gave Mr. Muggles a scritch under the chin. "Old mutual friend of ours, goes by Wireless?"

***

Micah Sanders
Somewhere in Texas

His parents had gone out to directly ask those in charge questions. It made Micah want to laugh. Why would they do that when he could just use his ability to get honest answers? Adults confused him sometimes.

So here he was, sitting in front of a library computer. The computer lab was empty except for him, the door was closed, and it was unsupervised. While a computer in city hall would’ve made this easier, this was the best he could do on short notice.

Connect me to the mayor’s computer, he ordered the computer, and the screen promptly changed to a different desktop, only slightly different from the one before it. Show me the files about this city. A window popped up, filled with folders. Micah skimmed the names. Most of them were on boring topics, like taxes.

He spotted one with a peculiar title – “purpose”. He immediately opened it in curiosity.

There was only one document in the folder – it was a mission statement. He opened that, too, and read it. It was mostly full of all the boring, idealistic mumbo jumbo adults always infused into everything. Micah felt himself yawning as he read it. Just before he closed it, however, he caught sight of the writer’s name.

A name that belonged to the president of the project. The name looked familiar to him, somehow, but he couldn’t remember where he would’ve seen anything like it. Not that it mattered – he could get good dirt on this guy, he knew it.

Show me everything you have on him, he commanded.

Nothing happened.

Micah frowned. He repeated his thought, a little more urgently this time.

A new window popped up – one asking for a username and password. Micah laughed. He could always bypass those. He ordered the computer to let him in. Red text appeared, saying “incorrect username”.

Micah was getting frustrated. Computers had ALWAYS obeyed him; what was going on?! He tried, again and again, to get past the barrier, but nothing budged.

Until after his tenth attempt.

TRESSPASSER ALERT, proclaimed the bold red font in the new window. And the computer began emitting an alarm.

Micah jumped in his seat. Stop it! Micah ordered, but the alarm continued to wail. “Stop it!” he yelled, but it only grew louder. Micah looked around anxiously; any minute, someone would come in, and he would have to explain himself.

He tried one last thing. Shut down, he ordered. Nothing happened.

Micah took that as his cue to jump from his chair and run.

***

Janice Parkman
Los Angeles, California

Janice traced her finger over the boldfaced label on the file that Audrey had given her. She hadn’t looked inside yet. She had a queasy feeling, and wasn’t sure if it was to do with her pregnancy or some kind of sick anticipation. She just knew that if she opened the folder, this would be the only case she worked on and given that she was currently in an interview room of county lockup with a client at her side while the ADA John Mitchell paced impatiently on the opposite side of the table, she couldn’t afford to go chasing phantoms. Sylar would have to wait. She forced herself to reach past the file to stuff her notebook back in her bag.

“Hey man, this is stupid!” her client, Eduardo Juarez, protested to the latest offer of jail time and punctuated it with a long string of Spanish expletives.

“Ms Parkman, can you remind your client that he’s already confessed, and it’s in his best interests to cooperate with us?” the ADA stabbed a finger on a copy, with the signature highlighted in yellow.

“One moment,” she said and leaned over to the agitated prisoner. “Calm down, okay? You’re not doing yourself any favors by losing your temper.”

“Bitch, I haven’t even begun,” Juarez hissed back. “You said you could get me out of here,”

“I could have if you didn’t talk to the police and sign a very, very detailed confession,” she couldn’t keep her irritation out of her tone. “But the good news is that forensics trumps that. The bad news is that it’s admissible and the police are gathering new evidence to back it up. So since you’ve had enough of a change of heart to plead guilty, the least you can do turn over your supplier and take the lesser charge. You could be eligible for parole by the time your kids start high school instead of when they graduate.”

She watched the muscles on his jaw move as he clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his dark eyes almost seemed to bore into her. Behind the anger was a slight thread of fear. “I already done what you people wanted me to do, and now you want me to turn snitch?”

“You’re a low level dealer, Eduardo. The DA is more interested in your supplier and his drug shipments. You’re still going to jail, but how long is entirely up to you. The more you argue with me and them,” she glanced over to the other lawyer. “The longer it’ll be. So make a decision.”

His upper lip twitched as his shoulders sagged and he let out a long breath. “Fine, whatever. I’ll take the deal,”

“We have an agreement.” She pushed back in her chair to knock on the glass for the guards.

“I’ll get the paperwork to you tomorrow,” Mitchell gathered up his evidence.

After her client was escorted back to his cell, the conversation quickly turned mundane as Janice tried to slot in a time for Juarez to now give evidence without getting himself into more hot water. Mitchell walked her most of the way out before he got a page from his boss, so she was left to arrange the visitation. A name caught her eye on the visitor logs – Adam Clarke. He was one of the junior associates of her firm. According to the sheet, he’d visited her client two days ago. He’d been assigned to be second chair if this thing had gone to trial, so she didn’t find it too unusual. It’s just that...the day he’d visited Juarez was same day he confessed to the police.

***

Ando Masahashi and Kimiko Nakamura
New York City

Ando had never worked so hard in his life. Well, there were a few times when he had come close, when he had actually broken a sweat, but they were based around trying to get his internet connection back up after his computer got infected with huge amounts of spyware. And then there was that time when Hiro thought it was a good idea to dress up as Captain Kirk and go to work proclaiming something about “Seeking out new life forms” and “boldly going” somewhere.

Hiro...

He sighed for the fifth time in the past hour and played with the edge of the large binder of information he was reading. It wasn’t that Primatech was boring, well- maybe it was a little boring... or a little more than a little. Even without the boring aspect, though, every so often some word or phrase would remind him of his friend. Remind him that he wasn’t doing anything to help find Hiro, lost and alone wherever he was.

It was good to have a focus, he knew, but when that focus was something that seemed to have no real connection to where Hiro was at this exact moment in time? And what moment in time was he in, anyway? How could you find someone who might be years in the future?

He looked up in frustration and found Kimiko gazing steadily at him, fingers resting on the keys of her computer.

“Ando,” She started and hesitated. It was an uncharacteristic action usually, but not when she was upset. He’d been seeing a lot of it lately.

“I know you want to find Hiro, I do too. You know that I do.” Ando felt his frustration simmer lowly; leaving him with an ache that he knew was shared. “But this... this has importance too and we have to-“

His anger flared back to life. “Nothing is more important than finding Hiro!”

“-We have to do this and trust that it is a step in the right direction, Ando.” She finished, looking more sad than upset that he’d interrupted her. Yet again he was reminded of how tired she looked, worn down.

“I’m sorry,” He murmured, rising from his chair before he realized that he didn’t know what he was going to do. He shifted his weight awkwardly, blushing even though she paid him no mind. Kimiko looked on with an unfocused gaze which sharpened abruptly when her computer gave a weak chirp.

“What is this?” Wonder made her eyes wide. Ando hurried around the desk to see what she was looking at.

“These files...” He leaned over her shoulder to get a closer look. Words and names flew past as Kimiko scrolled down quicker than he could read. She switched from tab to tab, skimming rapidly before reading small sections over thoroughly, again and again.

“Do you see? This is it.” She looked up at him, excitement barely visible as she began to think and plot out what it all could mean. Ando reached for the mouse to scroll back up so he could read it at a slower pace, still not quite catching on, when his hand came into contact with Kimiko’s. Startled, he pulled away and apologized with a blush.

She shook it off absently as he blinked, dazed. “This could work. This... this is a good step, Ando.”

Kimiko smiled at him. He could do nothing but smile back, still a little confused, but remembering why he had faith in her in the first place.

“We’re going to do this right. We’re going to bring them down, the right way. And not just here, Ando, don’t you see?”

He shook his head, captivated.

“Everywhere.”

***

Nathan Petrelli
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

I flew. Christ, I flew. What does this mean? Did I know I could do that? He was clinging to the window ledge, staring down at the dark floor of the warehouse far, far, far below, and wondering how the hell he was supposed to get down now, since he really wasn't sure quite how he'd managed to get up in the first place aside from flying.

You didn't have to come here, could have stayed away, moved along, found somewhere safer, but no, you had to see what was going on...

Then the heavy warehouse door rumbled open along its tracks and a dark figure entered the warehouse and flipped a switch, turning on a set of track lights down near the floor and illuminating a stainless steel table surrounded by lights and monitors and a crash cart lined with shining surgical instruments.

Ok, he thought, I've seen enough now. I'll just go back out, get... back down, somehow, and go somewhere far away. Then call the police.

He started to turn around, gripping the window frame with white knuckled hands, carefully trying to move one foot around so he could turn...

And as he picked up that one foot, his other slipped, and he lost his grip, and suddenly he was floating. No, he was falling.

He stopped about three inches from the ground, hovered for a second, then fell the rest of the way with a noticeable "thump."

Well, shit, he thought. And then a voice over his head said, "Well, well. A trespasser."

Then there was a metallic click, and memory or no, there was no mistaking the sound of a handgun being cocked. He scrambled backwards and up onto his feet so quickly he was almost surprised to find himself standing. "No, wait!" he said, even though he had no idea what else he was going to say.

The man was older than he would have expected, maybe late fifties, early sixties. Dark-haired and surprisingly handsome for someone who was about to shoot him. He was more concerned, however, with the dark eye of the gun barrel pointed at him.

"Look, you don't want to--"

The man cut him off. "Nathan?"

"What?" he said, confused, looking up at the man's face again as the gun lowered.

"I heard you were dead," the man said, looking at him with--amazement.

"You know me?" he said. Nathan. Was that his name? Or was this guy just mistaking him for someone else? And, dead? He was dead?

"Of course I--" the man stopped himself. "You don't remember."

"I don't remember anything," he--Nathan, he tried it out--snapped. "Who are you? How do you know me?"

And what the hell is going on in here?

"If you don't know," the man said, "I'm not about to tell you." His expression darkened, though he was smiling, coldly. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You here, him gone, her alone now... I always told them they were nothing without me, but they didn't believe me. Now they know. All their plans have fallen to rubble, their glorious future wiped away in an instant..."

Nathan turned just his eyes towards the door. Maybe he could make a break for it. Maybe he could figure out this flying thing--

"You'd never make it," the man said. "Not with me here. Don't bother trying."

"You expect me to just stand here and let you shoot me?" Nathan said.

The man laughed. "I'm not going to shoot you, Nathan. I actually liked you."

"That's the second time someone's said that to me today, as if they were shocked by it," Nathan said. "I'm beginning to think I'm generally unlikable."

"Well," the man said, "you come by it honestly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe it's time I moved on from historic Philadelphia to greener pastures."

And with that, the man kicked off of the concrete floor and flew out the broken window, so fast Nathan hardly saw him move.

Angry, wanting answers, Nathan leapt to follow him.

He fell to the floor.

A moment later, before he could sit up, it was as if an anvil fell on him, something intangible but impossibly heavy. He felt as if he was a small bug crushed under someone's shoe, as if the gravity of the world had suddenly increased a hundredfold.

He screamed in pain, and then he was enveloped in darkness.

***

“Shoot,” Janice swore as she rummaged through her bag. The Sylar file wasn’t in there. She sat in the car and took a couple of deep breaths before trying to think where she could have put it. After meeting with ADA Mitchell, she’d come back to the office, updated her notes, cleared some more things from her inbox and...

...put the files in the cabinet. She must have just grabbed everything out of her bag and shoved it into the drawer without looking. The icy fingers of panic started to relax from her heart and annoyance set in. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her keys and purse, slid out of the car and headed back toward the elevator.

Up in the office this time of evening, very few people were working late and the janitor was already vacuuming in the conference room. She felt like an idiot as sure enough, the folder was in her filing cabinet. While she’d made the decision earlier to not read it – yet – she didn’t like going anywhere without it. It felt too personal to leave behind, not just because Sylar was responsible for Matt’s death, but he represented a chapter in the recent crazy upheaval of her life. She still hadn’t made up her mind as to whether it was the first or final part.

Janice hugged the file as she locked the cabinet, then her office, and managed a tired smile to the janitor as the man headed toward reception to begin emptying waste bins. She glanced in the other occupied office on her way toward the elevator. She peered through the blind to see Adam Clarke leaning against a wall, which was covered in photographs. She recognized the scale ruler and number tabs – they had to be crime scene pictures. The centre of macabre mural was made of mostly reds with the occasional flash of white. She winced as she realized that those were photos of the victim. Clarke stepped back from the display, as though to admire the whole display. Then he reached out and touched one of the photographs. His fingers brushed over the dark red stain, and Janice swore she saw a shiver go up his arm as he pressed his palm against the picture. His head slumped forward as his shoulders trembled slightly. She wet her lips nervously as she debated whether to knock on the door to see if he was okay, but felt her face flush as she then would have to confess to virtually spying on him.

“Oh, hi Janice,” the tired, yet still irritatingly cheerful, tone of the intern jarred her out of her thoughts, and nearly made her yelp with surprise.

She turned to see the young woman trying to juggle a heavy stack of books and a coffee mug. “Hi...Jenny, right?”

Jenny-the-intern nodded. “Working late?”

“No, I just...” Janice glanced down. “I forgot a file.”

The other woman squinted and tilted her head to read the side. “Sylar. Interesting case?”

Janice smiled wryly. “You have no idea.”

***

Mohinder never had time to go to clubs in New York, so he wasn't sure if this one was so different than what he'd find there. It was certainly rowdy, colorful, and high paced. He was dressed very casually in comparison to the majority of patrons, but there were a few men in suits, who must have only recently gotten off work, who stood out more.

The moment he moved towards the entrance, eyes had been on him. He usually made an attempt to blend in, to sink into himself so that people didn't notice him as much. Here, it would be better if he was noticed. If Sylar was slinking around in some corner and saw him enter, was distracted from his prey.

He was hit on no less than a dozen times in the ten minutes it took to make his way to the bar and order a drink. Mohinder was approached by women, men, and people who were dressed as the opposite. Though the majority of the transvestites were flocking around a table in the corner, where he guessed Jacqueline would be found.

It was an interesting phenomenon, which person manifested which power. A prisoner who was able to walk through walls, a baby who was indestructible when a fire starts in her home, and a transgendered man who gets the ability to switch others' genders.

A watchmaker's son...he thought, and for the first time since being shocked by the fact that people knew of Jacqueline's power, he wondered what Sylar would do with it. With his hearing, Sylar would have overheard what it was. It was something good for what Jacqueline used it, or for petty pranks, but Sylar would be better off going after a real shapeshifter.

Mohinder looked up as someone squeezed in next to him, giving him a toothy smile. "New in town, or just visiting?" he asked with a slight accent.

They had a casual conversation, then he wandered off into the throng of dancers once Mohinder said he was looking for someone. Mohinder was relieved to not have to make more small talk, or deal with his polite, but roaming, eyes.

"You're late."

He'd recognize Sylar's voice anywhere, the underlying tone of someone who knew a secret, the sense of superiority, the darkness. But the voice didn't shock him, he didn't jump or even flinch. Instead it uncoiled a constant chill in his chest that he had managed to push back and ignore for months.

"I thought you'd realize where I would be over a month ago," Sylar continued, shifting around Mohinder so they were looking into each other's eyes, bodies almost touching. "It's not like me to be so wrong." It was hard to make out his mood in the darkness of the club, even with his eyes frenzied and bright.

"I found you before that, you're not making much of an effort to hide what you're doing."

Sylar leaned in closer. "So you're not here to kill me. Have you finally accepted that you'll learn so much more about superpowers with my help?"

Mohinder narrowed his eyes. "I know I lost my chance to kill you, I doubt you'll ever be that weak around me again. But that doesn't mean I...that I like you." He took a sip of his drink to delay his next words, praying that the burn of the alcohol would help to make him bolder. "But I do need your help."

Sylar tilted his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing in actual confusion. "You need my help?"

"I do."

He leaned back, away from Sylar, and watched the dancers, eyes falling on the familiar face of the man he'd been talking to, then sliding towards Jacqueline and his/her crowd. The seconds stretched out, the throb of the music like the ticking of a clock. Sylar broke first:

"With what?"

When Mohinder turned back, he deliberately focused on Sylar completely, giving him the undivided attention he craved. It was as flattering as Mohinder could stand to be. "Someone is after me. They...they killed Molly and have chased me down the east coast." Sylar's demeanor began changing with each word and Mohinder wished they were somewhere with better lighting. "They have a connection to the people Bennet worked for."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"So far they're sending metas." Sylar's lips quirked up, then into a full smirk as he seemed to understand what Mohinder was suggesting. "Think of that as an opportunity." He closed his eyes, fingers playing over the rim of his glass. "And if they get me...they get the list. Do you think they'll leave those people alone for you?"

Not being able to see Sylar gave him a thrill of danger, more so as he felt a brush of a hand over his arm. "If I help you, I want to see it." Sylar's voice was excited and soft, feeling intimate in the very public space they were occupying. "I stop these people, you show me the updated list?"

Mohinder swallowed and opened his eyes to Sylar leaning over him, faces only an inch apart. "Yes." It felt like selling a piece of his soul.

***

"Geeze, Dad, what took you so lo--" Claire stopped in midsentence, staring at the... trio that had just entered their hotel room. Dad, Mr. Muggles, and some hobo-looking other guy.

She thought about going for the gun, but before she could put that plan into action, Dad said, "It's ok, honey. He's a good guy."

And that was when she realized he looked familiar. Distantly, like an old relative or something. Then it clicked. "Oh my God, Claude? Dad said you moved to Cleveland!" she said, dashing across the room and flinging herself into his arms. He caught her with a startled "Oomph."

She pulled back quickly and saw him shoot her dad a meaningful look.

"Cleveland?" Claude said, dubiously.

Dad kind of cringed and shrugged, and Claire connected the dots. He'd been Dad's work partner, Dad didn't really work for a paper factory, therefore, neither did Claude, and so...

"You... didn't really move to Cleveland, did you?" she said.

"No," Claude said, succinctly, and did not elaborate.

Sensing it was a good time to change the subject, Claire said, brightly as she could manage, "So, what are you doing here in the middle of, like, the Blizzard of '07?"

"Looking for him," Claude said, gesturing at Dad, who had closed and locked the door behind them. Mr. Muggles shook the remaining snow out of his fur and trotted over to lie down next to the heater. "Stupid dog," she heard Dad mutter.

They all took off their coats and scarves and ended up sitting around the table near the window. Claude glanced at her. "You sure you want her overhearin' this, Bennet?"

She looked at Dad. He looked at her. Then he turned back to Claude. "She's a part of this. As much as any of us."

She grinned ear-to-ear, even though Claude still looked doubtful. "All right, then. If you say so." He folded his hands on the table and leaned in, as though someone might be lurking in their room and overhear. "The Company's up to something. I don't know what, but I've got a bad feeling about this one."

"The Company's always up to something," Dad said. "And that's why we want to take it down. Completely. Permanently."

Claire just listened, swiveling her head between them like she was at a tennis match.

Claude's eyes narrowed a bit. "Too bad you didn't have that little epiphany about seven years earlier."

Dad shut his eyes for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry."

Questions pressed at Claire's throat, but she held them back, knowing now was not the time.

"Sorry doesn't begin to cover it, mate, but there's bigger fish to fry right now. What's your plan?"

"No plan yet. I'm still in the information-gathering phase."

"Oh, great. So the plan right now is 'Step One: Take out the huge, dangerous, multinational secret organization. Step Two: Have lunch.'"

"You can't build a plan on bad information."

"Well, fuck it," Claude said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Maybe we should just report them to the IRS for tax evasion. I mean, hell, sometimes it works on the mob."

Dad looked up.

"What?" Claude said.

Dad didn't answer. He just jumped up and went back to his suitcase and pulled out the big file folder, beginning to spread it out across the bed.

Claude got up, heading over to join him. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

XXX

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