how to stop an exploding man.

[regenerated]

The papers read November 7th, 2006. The much anticipated New York congressional elections were underway as people all around the city were filing in lines, some staring with a bit of curiosity or trepidation at the new booths provided by one Daniel Linderman, a big name throughout the whole of New York, but one who came with his share of shadiness as well. Not every household trusted him, the most wary sticking in their apartments, offices, and classrooms, absentee ballots clutched in their hands, but the turnout was decent on the whole, the only event which seemed to set that day apart from most others in that gray city, skyscrapers stretching all the way up into the clouds above.

But, unknown to the general populace, there were a group of individuals scattered around the whole of the city, some whose faces were plastered on posters at every turn, others making it onto national television, and still more trying their best to avoid any detection altogether. And those individuals were special, the pinnacle of human evolution, some believed. Destined to do something great.

A hospice nurse.

A taxi driver.

A watchmaker.

A girl next door.

An office worker.

A policeman.

A socialite.

A soon-to-be Congressman for the 14th District.

A manager at a paper factory.

A cheerleader.

Heroes and villains.

This was their story.

Comments

kirby plaza

[regenerated]

Everything changed in the span of a blink. On Tabula Rasa, the sun always shone as though it would never have the same chance to again, smiling at them from above, warming everything from the air to the sands under their feet, the scent of flowers and fruit in the air, too sweet from overripe fruit which tumble to the ground. Even without opening her eyes, Claire could feel the difference, the shadow which was cast over the whole of her body and the smoke which lingered in the air, traces of gasoline. The crash of waves was replaced by the zoom of cars, beeping which pierced through the constant din. And in that moment, Claire found that even though she had asked for this, had wanted to return to New York with all of her heart, the pieces weren't quite fitting right.

She remembered, first of all. Remembered all of Tabula Rasa, the friends she'd made, the tears she'd shed, the kisses she'd shared. That was never part of the bargain. She never wanted to remember, to be pulled back by nostalgia.

Besides, it was daytime. And the last thing she remembered in Kirby Plaza was, well. The spread of colors through the sky. An explosion that lingered in a burst of fire.

Claire's eyes opened and her expression fell, looking around until she saw a leaf of a newspaper flying through Kirby Plaza, running toward it with all her might until she stamped it down with her foot.

Nathan Petrelli Wins in Landslide

November 7th.

"I've got a day," Claire suddenly whispered to herself, eyes going wide.

so we could save the world

[regenerated]

It's not any easier the second time around. If everything had progressed in the same way, if nothing changed, at least Claire would find it easier to treat it like an exercise in futility. But this, all that's happened, that she even knew how things had fallen into place last time and still didn't manage to fix any of it, that just sears into her the brand of failure. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, she can't be blamed. Last time, she wasn't trying to look over so many friends, friends completely and utterly unequipped to deal with Sylar and what he was. She can't even bring herself to look over at Cissie, who she knows is off and to the side, in the hands of someone far more capable than Claire herself, someone who might be a doctor with the way he seems to be checking her over for bruises, anything. There's nothing there, fortunately, aside from a panicked look in the other blonde's eye that Claire can't meet, even if she owes all of the debt in the world. She can hear Coraline too, brave Coraline who thought that one nightmare could be defeated with another, but both of them have learned better now. Claire's even lost track of where Chris exactly is, perhaps a willful ignorance from the way she refuses to believe that he knows, now, what she is. There are people who think Claire a hero, she knows, but she's just standing there with that gun rattling in her hand, knowing that it's too late now and that any moment now, Nathan's going to come swooping down to take Peter up into the sky, higher up than even the tips of Claire's fingers will ever reach.

She starts crying earlier this time, the pounding in her ears deep, warm, so much that the words barely come clear from Nathan's end.

"You saved the cheerleader... so we could save the world."

And in spite of the tears blurring her vision, she keeps her eyes open, because the thing she'd kill herself for most is not seeing this time how everything unfolds. The island's probably not generous enough, it may end up sweeping her under the rug as soon as that critical moment hits, but she's got to try, her body fighting to move forward until she feels a pair of arms wrapping around her, she doesn't even know whose. She just knows that she's being stopped, held back, and this time when Nathan takes off into the air there's a strangled cry in her throat that wasn't there before, because it's over, it's ending.

She's failed them both.

Everything in her body comes to a still when those colors spread out over the sky again, like a spill of oil turned into dust, but before she can try to make out anything there, it's dark again.

The air humid on her lips, lips that feel too dry now. In the background there's a hum, a hum that she doesn't remember being in her room in Odessa, doesn't remember being in any of the hotels she's stayed in, not even in the hut that she shares with Eden. It's the hum of machinery, one that mixes with the medicinal smell in the air to tell that Claire's in the clinic now. Her eyes grope through the darkness, arms throwing aside blankets and spotting the familiar silhouette in the darkness, of people sleeping, of the room not being hers.

That's the worst of it.

The cry dies in her throat as she turns over, silent sobs as her hand grips and digs into the padding of the pillow, cloth already warm with her tears.