Death Is Nothing At All


audrey2_icon.gif felix_icon.gif logan_icon.gif peter7_icon.gif peyton_icon.gif

Scene Title Death Is Nothing At All
Synopsis Wendy Hunter is laid to rest and people who know her, know of her, and strangers all gather. Some feds do too, lacking something called Tact.
Date March 16, 2010

St. John Roman Catholic Cemeteries, Brooklyn N.Y.

It seemed wrong to bury her on a cold day like this day. But with the body of the Wendy Hunter finally released and the wake, vigil and mass held, everyone headed out from St. Patrick's and made the long drive to Brooklyn for the committal and internment slow in the morning. An impending blizzard made it seem appropriate though. That nature itself raging at the loss of life taken from the earth before too much of it could have been lived.

But the people who came wouldn't be subjected to standing out in the snow and the cold while a casket was lowered. Wendy wouldn't be sleeping eternally in cold ground. Cremation had been the choice for the Hunter family given how she had died and the urn where Wendy's remains rested had been one of her creation. Even in death she was still immersed in her art with it's cream colored facade and black peacock feathers traced over it in heavy lines. People milled about and stood feet deep. Some family, some close friends, but a majority were those who were friends and associates of the family and it's business. You could tell who they were because they stayed near the back, ready to go the moment it was all over and wore dark somber colors.

"At the rising of the sun and at its going down…"
"We will remember her."
"At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter…"
"We will remember her."
"At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring…"
"We will remember her."
"At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer…"
"We will remember her."
"At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn…"
"We will remember her."
"At the beginning of the year and when it ends…"
"We will remember her, for she is now a part of us, as we remember her."
"When we are weary and in need of strength…"
"We will remember her."
"When we are lost and sick at heart…"
"We will remember her."
"When we have joy and wish to share it…"
"We will remember her."
"When we have decisions that are difficult to make…"
"We will remember her."
"When we have achievements that are based on hers…"
"We will remember her."
"For as long as we live, she too will live…"
"For she is now a part of us as we remember her."

On and on it went in the cool shelter of the mausoleum from the storm, Father Benjamin intoning and the rest replying as if they knew the words even though the instruction had come moments before. John Hunter held his mothers hand, a white sports coat on under his yellow and black winter jacket. A celebration of life, it was requested that black be eschewed in favor of bright and joyous colors just as their daughter had favoured, in defiance of the storm and in defiance of their loss.

"Eternal God, you have shared with us the life of Wendy Olivia Hunter. Before she was ours, she was yours. For all that Wendy has given us to make us what we are, for that of her which lives and grows in each of us, and for her life that in your love will never end, we give you thanks."

"As now we offer Wendy back into your arms, comfort us in our loneliness, strengthen us in our weakness, and give us courage to face the future unafraid. Draw those of us who remain in this life closer to one another, make us faithful to serve one another, and give us to know that peace and joy which is eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

The Lord's Prayer followed by the twenty third psalm came till eventually the now youngest of the Hunters stepped forth. "Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed, at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word it always was, let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well."

The urn is lifted and put into it's hold in the wall beside other generations of Hunters who came before. The marble square is put back over the opening with a thud leaving just the reddish rock with the addition of Wendy's name, dates and her face saved behind glass with others.

And like that, Wendy Hunter finds eternal rest.

It's not out of disrespect that has one of the mourners standing at the back of the gathering, but out of respect for their health. Trying to control his shivering and using his bright red scarf to hide the paper facemask he wears over his mouth, Peter Petrelli endures the aches and chills from his viral infection in this cold, lonely mausoleum to see someone he hardly knew — but someone who lives on through his ability — laid to rest. The details of the Hunter murder were never made public, and perhaps it's that ignorance that provides Peter with some semblance of peace of mind.

Wrapped in a button-down white jacket he hasn't worn since before his brother was a senator, back when he thought leaping off a rooftop could make him fly, back when he watched people die for a living, Peter is in contrast to the fairweather business associates of the Hunter family at the periphery of the gathering.

He's been lost, in both thought and direction, for the entire proceeding, lost in remembering the last time he'd ever seen Wendy and the conversation they had. She didn't seem like someone who was simply going to roll over and die, she was detoxing, she was trying to get her life back in order. It's a cruel end, to come when not even expecting it, crueler than someone like her should have had to endure at any rate.

Peyton stood near the family, having greeted them and offered condolences, and been offered hugs and kisses from the Hunters, though now she stands apart. She's bundled in a sunny yellow wool coat, with boots and the hem of fuchsia skirt peeking out below the coat to complement and contrast. Her eyes were puffy and red even before the service began — for reasons that had nothing to do with Wendy.

Now, however, her mind is fixed on her friend and all they went through together. Is it possible she had only known Wendy for seven months? They seemed to have been together for a lifetime. The memories flash like a slide show through her head, as if she were using her power but somehow looking through an earlier Peyton and an earlier Wendy's eyes to see the history of their time together.

Peyton offers a slight smile to John as he returns to his mother's side, but her smile slips away and her face sets once more into one of pensive sorrow. They are there to celebrate Wendy's life — but the loss is too great to ignore. She can't help but mourn the friend.

The irony is…..there's a stone not far from here, made of chaste white marble, reading 'Felix Nikolaievich Ivanov, November 30, 1972' - under the date of birth is a gouged-out line, where the date of death has been expunged. It amuses him, in a terrible, dark way, to visit it now and then. He'd picked the spot, paid for it, sees no reason to waste money on a new monument, not yet. That grave's ready and waiting.

But for once, even that sight doesn't give him a smile. He liked Wendy, what he knew of her. And it burns that this thing he's set his sights on has killed again. They specified no black, so Fel, being Fel, is in a medium gray suit, with a darker gray overcoat. He's with Audrey at the back of the throng, a gaunt, weary figure, with his hat in his hand, a fedora that matches the coat.

She was a corpse on the ground, top of her head cut off and a victim to a serial killer. That's all Audrey knows of her. The woman laid meticulously out on a array of cotton, work interrupted and a clue to a case. Beside the speedster she stands, hands in her own pockets, black on black, pinch faced and never once really looking to the front.

Audrey's looking at the people, marking them off in little mental check boxes as to whether they've been interviewed, should they be interviewed. Would they be able to provide any insight as to who the real killer was. Audrey lacks tact today and she's here on the job and she's about to soon remind Felix that he's here on the job too.

Logan is among those slightly removed from the group, recognising only a few faces and caring for none. The occasional lover of the deceased whose last gesture to her had been the slam of a front door shhhould probably not try to mingle with family and friends and so— so— he does not try. Good excuse as any. He has his right hand planted upon a cane, an oddly practiced thing of polished black and silver that looks like it serves a function as opposed to pure affectation — those who had seen him walk had seen him use it.

Colour was requested and he supposed he could do this much, even if black is, you know. Slimming, forever fashion forward, et-cet-era. Perhaps she would have appreciated, however, the gold and black of a tiger-stripe velvet jacket, white silk wrapping around his throat in a frivolous scarf tucked into the unfettered white collar of his shirt beneath. His slacks are black but his shoes are white, as shiny as bleached bone.

Who knew that going to a funeral meant that it mattered what you wore. The hand not braced against a cane has an unlit cigarette he's restlessly turning around and around. Not for the first time, Logan casts a glance off to the left towards where the lady-agent stands with her new boytoy, one he even recognises yet again. Delightful.

It's only after the service has concluded that Peter notices the gaunt lines and sharp shadows that define the sallow form of Felix Ivanov's long face. Furrowed brows and a dark-eyed stare regard the agent over one shoulder, though recent memory may be foggy in all detail, he still does recall the agent carrying Gillian under his arm at superhuman speed out from the collapsing Amundsen Scott station. Shoulders rise and fall in a wheezing sigh, and Peter's eyes move past Felix towards the unbelievably familiar woman standing at his side.

Agent Hanson.

He hasn't seen her in over three years, not since she and Parkman cornered Peter in an interrogation room about the Homecoming massacre that Sylar had been present at. There's a sudden worry, given what happened just the other night, that traces over Peter's features on seeing the two of them together; Ahab and Ishmael.

Maybe that's why he diverges from the back of the room, and moves towards more familiarly friendly faces. Coming up on Peyton's side, Peter offers her an askance look, head tipping in a silent nod, the lower part of his face still hidden behind that bright red scarf. "I'm… sorry." It's all he really can say about this, and better to say it so someone he knows who was affected by the death, than a stranger. Perhaps it's easier for him to grieve that way.

When Peter approaches, Peyton turns swiftly, hoping to avoid the interaction. But too late. He's already giving his condolences. Her eyes narrow, her loyalty to Richard Cardinal, not to mention Gillian, fuel the anger, but this is no time for rudeness. She turns back, teary eyes harder than they were during the service, and inclines her head slightly. "Thank you. I'm sorry, too. She liked you a lot, the little she knew of you," Peyton says, civility reigning over her tone. There is clearly an unspoken addendum: But I don't know why.

Having turned, slightly to face him, she now sees the agents behind the throng and her eyes narrow more. "God," she says with a shake of her head, angry that they would come to this place for their morbid business, even if it's business that needs to be done. There's a touch of fear there too — her hopes are they are present for the murder case and not for … well, other murder cases in which her name might be associated.

Peter Petrelli. None other. Fel watches him with absent curiosity. Any real ire is reserved for Logan - though he doesn't glare, he doesn't offer that exquisite sneer. Just fixes those pale eyes on him thoughtfully. No attempt to mingle with the other mourners.

Don't think that Agent Hanson hasn't seen you oh younger brother of the president. Eye's narrow at the sight of Peter and she nudges Felix and gestures with an elbow. "Co-incidence?" Maybe, Maybe not. Makes her big toe twitch in her high heeled boots the way he sidles away and towards the family proper and close friends as if that might protect him. Congratulations, you've been ticked off under the 'take a closer look' box.

Audrey runs her tongue across the bottom of her teeth. "Logan's here" noted with interest. The lover attends. "Best friend" Subtle gesture to Peyton. I'm going to go linger near a few of her artist friends, you take Petrelli and Whitney and maybe we'll add a few more to our list. Make sure that you tell him we're going to be speaking with him" Even more so given the look that the Whitney woman just shot him. She wends off Logan direction and the gaggle of people who while somber, look like the typical slummy artist friends the deceased woman had.

Striped cuff is slid back as Logan observes the time on his watch, sniffing once before he scans the room as if to see if he can slip out quietly. Peyton is studied, briefly, but it's Audrey's movements through the crowd that catches his attention — most things that look like they have a game in them does. His cane clicks against the ground as he moves to intercept without particular rush, his stride hitched with injury but about as smooth and lazy as he'll get it. "Coming to pay your respects?"

Brown eyes follow Peyton's look across the mausoleum towards Felix and Audrey, then settle back on the young brunette. "Why're they here?" It's a simple enough question, given Peyton's reaction, but he has to surmise it has something to do with her unexpected death, and with two federal agents here, it likely didn't have anything to do with an overdose or something unfortunate. He'd been staying away from the little details the media had offered out on the case, but murder is something he has a hard time wrapping his mind around; why would anyone want to murder Wendy?

"I— Didn't really know her all that well either, to be honest. But," Peter's brows furrow, "she— she was a good person. I wish I'd had the chance to get to know her better… she was— " Peter cuts himself off, head shaking slowly as he looks back to Peyton. "Were they even invited?" He asks of the feds, because inviting yourself to a funeral is tactless.

Peyton can't quite bring herself to be angry at Felix — they have a sort of bond, and Wendy is part of that too, though it is a bit tactless. Audrey, however, gets a dirty look, and Peyton shakes her head at Peter's words. "I wouldn't //think so but maybe they told the Hunters that it's possible that her … that he would show up," she whispers, dropping her voice so that the Hunters don't catch her talking about the killer in this sacred place.

She watches Logan play interference, and she smirks a little — one has to smile at that outfit, after all. "I've already talked to the police, so I wouldn't think they'd need to talk to me again, but you know how they don't share with one another and every agency has to get their own statements." Her nonchalance doesn't quite make it to her nervous-looking eyes.

"I was invited," Felix says, very quietly, and with no defensive bite to his tone. "I knew Wendy outside of my job. I didn't know her -well-. But we both suffered from what Humanis First did, and I counted her a friend, if no a close one." He's up within hearing range of Peyton and Peter, those wolfish pale eyes darting between them. "And yes, the chance that her killer might appear here was also a thought." He's got his hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched against the cold.

"You could call it that" Audrey pulls up when Logan gimps his way over. There's the slightest raise of brows at the tiger striped jacket but given the colors that everyone else is pulling off, no surprise. "Coming to get a list of who's who, see if any faces picks up on any radars. Come to pay your respects? Last I heard you and she had a fight. Pretty loud fight as one neighbor recalls, no one saw you again after that" Audrey's hands are still in her pockets and she smirks /just a bit. "Rest assured Mr. Logan, you are not on the radar anymore and Homeland Security thanks you for your co-operation. Unless you had anything you remembered that you feel we should know about?"

Coming to a halt when he's snagged Audrey's attention, Logan rolls the filter of his cigarette against his bottom lip, thoughtfully, pale eyes rolling upwards at her observation. "Don't exactly know how much action you get, love, but it could clue you in a bit that if I bothered to have a fight with anyone, wouldn't it be because I cared enough to have it?" he remarks, although his voice is blithe, and he certainly hasn't been crying unlike some of the red eyes around them. "And don't be like that, I like feeling wanted. Where's your loyal hound, anyway, or did he go and get benched? Wouldn't be surprised — what a mouth on him he has."

A grunt of disconcerted surprise comes from Peter when Felix sidles up to where he and Peyton are talking. Turning enough to include Felix in with their conversation, Peter offers a pointed look to Peyton's ascertation about the unspecified murderer in question, if her aborted words could be inferred as such, followed by a dark-eyed look offered up to the tall Fed. "What brings you out here, Felix? I thought you retired after Apollo?" That much is offered quietly, given how secretive the assignment was.

"Are you here for Wendy or— " Peter glances over to Audrey and her flamboyant company, and then back to Felix, "business?" There's worry in Peter's tone of voice, anxiety and fear coming next; don't let this be what he thinks it is.

"Felix," Peyton says softly, offering a smile to the agent, even if she's less than happy to see him there with Audrey in tow — she can forgive his presence but hers seems an intrusion. Her dark eyes alight on Logan for a moment as Audrey talks to him — she hasn't said hello to the man herself, just a nod of sorts when they were close enough to register one another's presence.

As far as the killer goes, she frowns. "You know if he were here, depending on the powers he has, he could be anyone," she says in yet a lower voice — whether it's Sylar or someone with Sylar's power of stealing abilities… and she knows Sylar can shape shift. "So I don't think that you're going to find him that way."

"For both," Felix says, gently. "And you're absolutely right," he adds, to Peyton. "I'm not retired," he explains to Peter, a little surprised. "I'm only thirty seven." And a million years, after what he's been through.

"I'm sure he gets that comment all the time Mr. Logan. You don't want him though. Just ask Daisy was it? One of his Ex-Wives works for you. Don't think you need to worry about him making insinuations about you again Mr. Logan. I brought my other coon dog. We're more worried that the person who ended Ms. Hunter's life might decide to show up here" Lie. He can likely sense it where others wouldn't be able to.

Hands are brought out, black leatherbound notebook with slim black pen.

"People fight for many reasons. Sometimes because they love each other, care, or have some sentiment or feeling of the positive nature. Other times it's a more base or nefarious intention." Audrey studies Logan before clicking the pen once to expose the writing tip then close it again. "I think your fight was the former. Now, tell me. Of the people present here, who do you think we should look into?"

"No one." Helpful as ever, is John Logan, and he cuts a smile at her that seems too bright even in this crowd of colourful mourners. "Maybe it might matter if the culprit that turned into me and then R— Spurling, that indicates a degree of caring, isn't that right. But you've got and writ him off and where does that leave you? Some dead girl. Like that Hispanic bird previous. I did my homework too." His teeth bare a little when he bites down on his cigarette filter and finally succumbs, getting out a lighter, and the cylinder between teeth jerks and twitches with his words as he adds, "She didn't matter enough for anyone close to her to know a thing. That's what I think, Agent."

Flame to tip, he breathes smoke out through his nose, then jerks a chin up to her. "Come on, let's stop wasting time and go get a drink or something. You're not catching your killer here and I may as well give you a reason for coming out in this weather."

"Felix, who did this?" Peter's right up front about asking what he needs to, even if at this close proximity both Felix and Peyton can hear Peter's wheezing breath and see the sweat beading on his forehead, it's not hot in here at all by any stretch of the imagination. "Felix, I don't care what you want out've me for telling me, I just— do you know who killed Wendy?" After last night he has a horrible and sinking suspicion and it's eating away at the back of his mind. "Because if you do and you— "

Whatever Peter was going to say is broken up by a hitch of his breath and a ragged cough. Clasping one thermal gloved hand over his mouth, Peter staggers to the side and clasps it over his scarf covered face with a crinkle of the paper mask beneath. He hacks, wheezes and chokes into his palm, using the stone wall at his side to hold himself up, shoulders shuddering and the gasping breath he draws in afterward wheezing like an old man with emphyzema.

Peyton glances from Peter to Felix, wondering if Felix will tell Peter the truth — or what they think the truth is. But then the man begins that hacking cough, and she takes a step back. "Oh, shit, you're… you have the flu, don't you," she says, that cool tone of civility finally lost and genuine fear and perhaps a touch of sympathy creep back into her voice. "You shouldn't be out in this cold, Peter. You shouldn't be out at all." Perhaps a little less compassionately, she pulls her own scarf, a bright royal blue, up around her face while staring at the man. She glances over at the Hunters and then back at Peter. "You need to be home — or … maybe there's somewhere your brother can get you help?"

"Did you just threaten me, Mr. Petrelli?" Felix's voice is about as cold as the air outside, and very, very low. "If I knew, would I have made that comment about us wondering if the killer might come take a look, mark someone out for his second course? But for what it's worth, no, I -don't- know." Despite his chill manners, he does move to hold Peter up, as he half-collapses. Untroubled by the idea of catching the flu…but then, he's no doubt had his shots. He murmurs something in Peter's ear.

Audrey just stares at Logan, a beat, maybe two before laughter springs from the agent. A rare occasion this, and perhaps out of place that it's at a funeral of all things. But it's overshadowed by a cough and some people shifting away from Peter, Felix and Peyton that has part of her attention as well. She doesn't answer Logan's offer with anything but that laugh and walks away on striking heels to marble so she can come to the side of Peter, pulling Felix away from him once he's done whispering sweet nothings in Peter's ear.

"Mr. Petrelli. You should be in bed. Ivanov, what happened to information blackout" Audrey hisses."Get a ride back with Ms. Whitney and see if she knows anything. You don't, either of you, need to get this bug" Her hand curls around Peter's upper arm, giving him some support. "Come on Petrelli, you and I gotta talk and we're gonna do it while I drive you home and I don't have to worry about you fighting me back"

And she laughs and walks away, which, even on Logan's piechart of possibility, was a reasonably big slice of outcome. His mouth twists in a smirk as he watches her walk away, but it immediately dims when that hacking cough echoes through the space. The biochemical manipulator goes still as his gaze swivels to identify the culprit, and the flashing sight of a paper mask has him immediately flinging his much more drab overcoat over one tiger stripe clad shoulder and headed for out.

Sick people. Who needs that. Logan's health (and ability) are very important commodities for him, and so, it's with his lilting, cane-assisted stride that he takes his leave, weaving through the mourners without a glance back. It's rude, and obvious, but such things have never stopped him before.

One black gloved hand comes up to wave off Felix and Peyton in equal measure, even if for different reasons. "I— came here for Wendy," Peter finally manages to breathe out in response to Peyton, and some little cold isn't going to keep him from paying respects to someone that deserves them. Swallowing dryly, Peter offers a look to Felix that — while without words — conveys that expression of surprise, because Agent Ivanov's words imply that he knows Gabriel is alive and out there. But it's not him, it wasn't the man he let get away the other night, and there's some small solace in that. He'd never have been able to forgive himself.

Dark eyes angle to consider Audrey for a moment, brows furrowed and head bowed. "I thought we were through with interrogations?" Peter wryly asks of Audrey as he slants a look at her, then straightens and clears his throat. Nodding his head once, the dark-haired man looks towards Peyton, voice quiet. "Wendy could've been a friend, if I'd had the time. It hit me enough knowing she passed, and I'm sorry…" There's a brief look to Felix, then back to Peyton, "I really am."

When he looks back to Audrey, Peter nods his head and weakly acquiesces to her request. It's the first time someone from the government had their hand on his arm, and he wasn't trying to yank it away and run for the nearest hole in the ground. Seems like time does heal all wounds. Or, at least leaves a nice scar.

Peyton's dark eyes drop when Peter so earnestly tells her why he's there. For Wendy. And Wendy did like Peter, Peyton reminds herself. Tears spring to her eyes at the talk of what-could-have-been. They could have been friends. Peter Pan to her Wendy Darling, as Wendy said. She nods solemnly. "She would have liked that," she manages in a whisper, those tears spilling over the dark lashline onto her cheek.

She glances over her shoulder at Audrey, then nods to Peter. "Get better soon," she tells him. Cardinal may have cursed the Petrellis with a pox, but she doubts he meant it literally — and now Peter has the evo-plague. She turns to Felix and offers a half shrug. "I guess you can finally share that cab, huh?"

"I drove," Felix says, simply, jerking his head back at the parking area. "Not well, but I drove," he adds, lips pulling into a wry little moue. "Lemme give you a ride home." He doesn't seem all that well himself, really. A little flushed, but without any of Peter's drastic symptoms.

"Oh Petrelli, you know me, Interrogations are my thing" Logan if he was still there, might be smirking at the insinuation. "Least you can't pass this on to me and I'd rather prefer Speedy be speedy." Her hand is still firm around his arm, trying not to make it look like she's goosemarching him out of the funeral because he's guilty of something. "Where am I taking you Petrelli and no, I'm not gonna have any drinks with you either" There's a roll of her eyes in Logan's direction before she and Peter walk off and into the snow and cold weather for her own vehicle.

"My mother's place, on Manhattan. I can give you directions…" The Petrelli mansion is a relatively famous landmark in the city now that one of the boys who was raised there is President. Admittedly Peter's not quite as famous as his multiplicity of a brother. Offering a look over to Peyton across his shoulder, the weary smile Peter offers is lost behind his paper mask and scarf, but the words he offers to Audrey Hanson come as a little more tongue in cheek than she's used to getting — at least since before taking this case:

"I guess tactlessness isn't a superhuman power, is it?"

"If it were, I'd have two powers, and be biologically very unique," Felix returns, without a beat's hesitation. Yes, Peter, he overheard that.

"It's the only one I have Petrelli." Audrey answers, slanting a look to Felix before they disappear out into the snow.

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