Harikari (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hari_kari) wrote,@ 2009-04-28 00:32:00 |
|
| Entry tags: | fanfiction, impasse, paire, sylar/mohinder |
Impasse
Impasse
by Harikari
Pairings: Sylar/Mohinder, Peter/Claire
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just having some non profit fun.
Warnings: Incest, violence, slash, dub con, strong language, possible gore, AU that takes place after the events of Season 1.
Notes: I know, I know. I should be working on my other WIPs, I even posted about only working on a certain two of my WIPs this year. But...this plot bunny hit me and I couldn't help myself. *iz guilty* This is a strange one. An AU Paire and Mylar fic. I already have it planned out, so it shouldn't be more than three or four chapters long. Feedback is love, if you notice any mistakes feel free to point them out.
Summary: Peter wants to save Claire. Sylar wants to use Mohinder. The two powerful rivals team up in order to get what they want.
Part One Claire hated the brown and white blouse Lyle had given her for Christmas last year. The sleeves were tight around her upper arms and the coarse material made her skin itch.
Still, when the two stone-faced men -- they were both heavily armed, both garbed in black fatigues and sporting ID badges that informed the now former cheerleader they were instruments of the U.S. Government -- appeared suddenly and ushered her and the dozen or so other girls and women she had been trapped with out of the cell and down a very dimly lit, dank hall the thought that popped immediately into her head surprised her.
She thought: I can't believe I'm going to die wearing this stupid thing. I wish mom had done some laundry before they came for me. I wish I had done some laundry.
She blinked; made her way down the hallway, bumping shoulders with the other prisoners as she walked. She decided to blame the strange thought on her shock. And yes she knew it was a strange thought, knew that she shouldn't be focusing on how much she disliked the outfit she was going to die in, instead should be focusing on how not to die.
She couldn't just give up. Couldn't let her fear paralyze her.
She had to hold on to hope, had to devise a plan.
A petite girl to the left of Claire stumbled, crashed to her knees and let out a gasp. It was pure instinct for the former cheerleader to halt at the sound of the girls (and now that Claire was paying attention she was sure it was a girl, a little girl maybe ten or eleven years old) pained exhalation. Instinct to backtrack the few steps and lean down to help.
It was difficult -- she was cuffed, and the girl was cuffed. It was only because their handcuffs weren't secured behind their backs, and because another prisoner also backed up to help that the little girl was able to gain her feet again.
"Hurry it up," growled out one of the uniformed men that was flanking the frightened group of women just as the girl caught her balance.
At the threatening growl Claire and her two companions continued their slow walk down the hallway.
"Thank you," whispered the little girl. And she sounded like a little girl; at the sound of her voice Claire's throat felt suddenly tight, her eyes damp.
"No problem," she answered.
And at the same time the other woman who had helped the girl, who was now at Claire's side muttered, "You're welcome."
"I'm Molly," whispered the little girl.
Claire started; shot a look at the girl and... Yeah, it was Molly. Molly Walker from Kirby Plaza. "Claire," she offered. And the look she got in return told her Molly remembered her, too. Remembered Kirby Plaza and the battle. Remembered their brief meeting before everything had gone to hell, before the battle had gone wrong (not apocalypse wrong, not New York was destroyed wrong but still wrong) and before the government had -- thanks to the aforementioned battle -- decided to label everyone and anyone with 'special abilities' dangerous. Had decided to round them up and dispose of them.
"Monica," said the helpful young woman to her left, and Claire nodded a greeting.
Molly shot a furtive glance around, perhaps assuring herself that their captors weren't paying attention. Then, "They're going to kill us, aren't they?"
Claire swallowed, didn't answer.
"We have to get out of here," hissed Molly.
Yeah. No kidding, thought the former cheerleader just as the guards and group of prisoners turned a corner.
They came to a large, metal door that blocked the hallway. Stopped when the guards shouted. Claire watched as the uniformed grunt in the front said something into his mouthpiece before turning and punching a code into a numbered panel near the door. There was a click, a hissing sound. Slowly, the large door slid open.
Claire gagged, coughed and tried to bring her hand up to cover her mouth; couldn't because of the cuffs restraining her.
It smelled beyond the door. Smelled really, really bad. Like something old and rotting, like death.
The smell seeped quickly over the group of women and girls. They started to panic. Some cried out, some whimpered, some burst into tears. Two tried to bolt only to be violently grabbed and flung back to the group by the expressionless guards.
"Move!" demanded the uniformed man at the back as the crying and nervous movement and fear escalated.
Death. Beyond the door it smelled like death. These guards were marching them, the herd of prisoners, to their own ends. Had doubtlessly marched many other prisoners to their deaths in the same way. Claire knew it now, the rest of the captives knew it.
"No!" shouted Molly; she had started to cry, was shaking her head.
Despite all this, despite the protests and the shouts and the wet sounding screams when the guard shouted again they all continued on.
Claire's hands curled into tight fists. She shot a glance at one guard, then the other. She couldn't do this. Wouldn't do this. She had to run. Had to try and get away; had to get away and then find a way to save the others. The guards would shoot her, and it would hurt. But maybe it wouldn't kill her -- maybe whatever drugs she'd been injected with when she'd been captured and whatever gas had been periodically pumped into the cell she'd just exited wouldn't stop her ability like it had stopped the other womens abilities.
Her ability was different, wasn't flying or strength or shooting fire from her hands. Maybe the ability dampening drugs hadn't taken her healing away...
And maybe I'm fooling myself.
She was. She knew it. But she didn't care. She was going to go out trying to get away, trying to do something. She wasn't going to be compliant about being killed.
She took a deep breath. Stopped walking. Monica shot her a questioning look and slowed -- maybe the young woman would try too, would run with her.
"We said move, freak," said the rear guard. And he hurried his pace so that he was crowding her from behind, trying to keep her walking.
But Claire didn't move. Monica came to a stop a few feet ahead of her, to her left. Molly was very slowly shuffling forward, kept turning back to watch the scene unfolding with red and puffy eyes.
The guard shifted, presumably so he could better reposition his gun -- maybe shove the business end of it into her back...
Claire spun; brought up her restrained hands in a blur of movement and knocked the nose of the gun aside. The guard wasn't expecting it, let out a surprised sounding huff and stumbled back a step.
The former cheerleader took advantage of the man's shock. She ran.
The sound of her sneakers slapping against the concrete was unnaturally loud; Claire felt a stinging in her eyes, closed them tight. Her heart was beating fastfastfast inside of her chest. Behind her she could hear it as the man she'd surprised cursed. He was trained, had marched dozens -- hell, maybe hundreds -- of people to their deaths under orders and knew what to do when one bolted for his or her life.
"Hernandez!" she heard the guard at the front bark.
"I've got it!" snapped back the man she'd hit. And then there was a rustling, the sound of Hernandez positioning his weapon. Aiming it.
"Noooo!" came Molly's raw and betrayed sounding cry, and at this point Claire was sprinting with all she had to give; had her eyes closed (she was crying, tears running down her cheeks because despite her earlier thoughts she knew she'd been kidding herself, knew what she was doing wasn't smart and planned out and brave -- knew it was a last ditch attempt at selfish survival, an animal reaction to a FUBAR situation, knew that if she had to die she wanted it quick and over with) and her heart was going to explode it was beating so fast-
KAWOOOSH.
A wall of force rushed down the hallway, like an explosion. Claire fell flat. For a long moment couldn't breathe, couldn't move. (Had Hernandez pulled the trigger? Was she dead? But no...she could feel pain in her knees and elbows and cheek where she'd hit the concrete floor and that sound hadn't been the sharp report of a gunshot).
There was movement behind her, surprised exhalations and grunts of pain and footsteps. Then, "Claire?"
Peter.
Claire struggled up to her knees, turned her head and...yes. It was Peter. He was standing in the hallway before her. Behind him, behind the other captives (most of them had fallen too and were struggling up) and the prone bodies of the guards, beyond the metal door the building's roof and part of its wall had been destroyed, blown apart. The sun was shining into the building, lighting up the dank hall and illuminating the confused, pinched faces of the female prisoners.
"Peter," she said. "What...how..." she trailed off.
Peter stared at her for a moment, dark eyes taking her in; feeling awkward and lost and embarrassingly dirty (she hadn't bathed since she'd been captured a few days before), she stumbled to her feet. Peter came closer, reached out to grip her arm as she caught her balance. "Claire," he said, and Claire saw that his eyes were wet. His muscles tense. "I thought you were-"
But he cut off mid-sentence, grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. "You're okay," he said close to her ear, moist breath tickling at her skin.
She hugged him back, breathed in deep. "Yeah." And then she found herself pulling away a little, but not letting go. She strained upward, and Peter seemed to know what she was trying to do -- he leaned down, caught her mouth in a kiss. The kiss was wet, hot (their teeth clicked, their tongues found each other) and brief.
She pulled away before he did, breathing hard. "I'm okay," she assured. And it wasn't a lie. She was okay. Okay now that Peter was here, now that she and the other women had a chance. Okay despite the fact that she'd just unexpectedly made out with her uncle. It hadn't felt wrong, she didn't feel the horrible guilt she maybe should...it had felt right. Like something inevitable, something falling into place.
Peter nodded, stepped back and away. "Okay," he said, shot a look back at the scatter of women behind them. As he was turning back to the former cheerleader there was a loud boom, the ground shook and the far off rat-tat-tat of gunfire started up at the same moment the loud wailing of an alarm started to sound.
"We have to go," said Peter. "We have to get the others out."
"What was that?" asked Claire, and Peter grinned.
"Sylar," he answered.
Claire gaped at him. "What? What do you mean Sylar?"
"He's here. He's helping me." When Claire shook her head in disbelief, he shrugged. "He wanted to get in here, too. For obvious reasons. And...he said he wants to get Mohinder out, too."
"Dr. Suresh? But-"
"I don't know why." At this, his lips pursed. He combed his fingers through his longish hair. "I'm not going to let him take anyone with him, or kill any of us but...I needed his help so I could take this place down. Save everyone. Save you."
Claire nodded; her mouth turned up in a smile.
But her smile fell quickly away when the ground shook again. Dust rained down from what was left of the roof and the gunfire sounded suddenly closer.
"What do we do?" yelled out one of the prisoners. It sounded like Monica. She sounded nervous, a little angry.
Claire took a step towards them and Peter turned to take them all in. "We run," he said. "We get the hell out of here." He took a deep breath, raised his right arm. His fingers moved, jerked; there was clinking, the sound of metal hitting concrete as all of the handcuffs unlocked and fell off.
Claire watched her own pair drop to the ground, rubbed at her sore wrists.
"Come on," said Peter. He sounded anxious now; ready for a fight. He reached back, wrapped his hand around Claire's left wrist. His hand slid down, skin brushing skin until they were holding hands.
"Let's go."
Claire watched her own pair drop to the ground, rubbed at her sore wrists.
"Come on," said Peter. He sounded anxious now; ready for a fight. He reached back, wrapped his hand around Claire's left wrist. His hand slid down, skin brushing skin until they were holding hands.
"Let's go."
