Disappearing Act, Take Two


bob_icon.gif claude_icon.gif trask_icon.gif

Scene Title Disappearing Act, Take Two
Synopsis Claude finally escapes the Primatech facility, and is finally helped along by good Samaritan Trask.
Date September 19th, 2008

Primatech Research - Cell Block A

There's only one word to describe Level Five at this precise moment in time, and that word is: quiet. Like the calm after a storm, a stillness has settled over the bowels of Primatech Research in the wake of PARIAH's raid. Blue-tinted light floods into Claude's cell through the glass panel that separates his living area from the outside world — or the closest thing he has to it, anyway. Shards of broken glass litter the hallway's concrete floor, many of them glittering with blood belonging to Elle Bishop, though Claude has no way of knowing this.

Of everyone in Cellblock A, his view of the action was the worst, and there's only so much a man can do to piece things together using what little he was able to hear through the walls and glass. What he does know is this: Adam and several of the other prisoners are already gone — escaped — and while he didn't have the good fortune to have his own cell broken into, he still has a chance of securing his freedom. Perhaps strangely, there is no sign of security on the other side of the glass save for the cameras mounted from the ceiling, but judging from the ruckus earlier, it's unlikely that anyone is still manning them.

The first thing that Claude will notice now that the chaos has passed is that the door to his cell doesn't look the same way it did a few hours ago. The metal is warped in some places and, in others, dented in as if it had been exposed to an unusual amount of heat. It probably wouldn't take a strongman's effort to pry it open now that it's damaged.

Well… shite. Claude had never been one to step up and stand in the front lines, but he's beginning to feel sorry for having merely observed the situation so far— something that proved itself much more useful when he could still do his little disappearing trick. Having been in this particular cell has not exactly done wonders for his confidence either, but the more time passes, the more sure he becomes of the fact that this might be a good time to try and get out of his little cage. He's been quiet for too long.

"… Is anyone still there?" Claude calls, approaching his door slowly, carefully, as though expecting it to come crashing inward at any moment. "Anyone?"

The only response Claude receives is a sudden, crackling pop from the overhead lights outside, plunging another part of the cellblock into darkness. If there's anyone out there, they're probably in worse shape than the door.

Yes, definitely time to make a run for it. The crackle sends Claude back a step, but he sneers as soon as he finds out his fear is wasted on inanimate objects. "Right. Enough of this." The glare the door receives next is quite possibly one of the nastiest it's ever gotten and precedes Claude rushing into it with a shoulder upheld. You are coming down.

The door doesn't come down so much as it does jump open. Debris outside in the hall blocks Claude from pushing it all the way, but he's able to create the space he needs to slip free. As tight a fit as it will be, tight is better than none.

The space that is there is deemed plenty! Another few shoves at the metal later, Claude is working his way through the gap with his gut sucked in and his eyes on the twisted door to try and make sure he doesn't cut himself on anything sticking out in the process. It's only after he's managed to get all the way through that he looks up properly, scanning the hall hastily for the best way out.

Unless Claude has spontaneously manifested the ability to phase through walls on top of rendering himself invisible, there's only one way out — and that's the stairwell at the end of the hall, past the freight elevator that the Company uses to transport heavy equipment down to the labs. While there are plenty of pointy, shrapnel-like objects sticking out of the walls, cutting himself is probably the least of Claude's worries. He's in more danger of slipping in all the blood that's smeared across the floor.

Not to mention the bare feet. It doesn't take him long to figure out which way to go, but it takes him a little longer to figure out how to get there. Mostly through very, very careful steps in the direction of the stairwell, shoving things aside here and there as carefully as he can. All of the blood earns him a pang of disgust and the unease shows clearly on his face as he shudders.

As Claude starts toward the stairwell, a figure appears at the very bottom of it, rounding the corner in a slow, weary fashion that suggests he isn't in any shape to stop him. It's Bob Bishop, and he's limping along with the aid of a metal rod transformed into a makeshift cane. More importantly, he's alone. Either he's come down to assess the damage himself, or to check on what few prisoners the Company has left.

How very perfect. As soon as his footing allows him to, Claude advances more steadily, more confidently, leaving red footprints on the floor behind him as he walks. "Bob Bishop!" The name is spat out like a curse, his face twisting with contempt. No longer caring about stepping into glass (and getting tiny bits of it lodged into his feet in the process), he quickens his pace, fully intending to swing a fist into Bob's face.

Claude's voice registers in Bob's ears and his head snaps up. For a moment, it looks as though he's about to raise the rod and use it as a shield — but, either because he lacks the strength or the conviction, he fails to follow fully through and instead turns his head away so Claude's fist catches him in the jaw rather than the nose. His balance lost and stars swimming in front of his eyes, he slumps against the nearest wall and crumples clumsily to his knees.

"THAT one was for your daughter!" Claude growls, reaching to snatch the rod up while trying to ignore what twinges of pain are getting through to him through the adrenaline rush. "But you know that feeling, that horrid feeling that you've done everything wrong? That feeling, that one's from me." Angry scoffing man has no pity for you right now, sorry.

"For God's sake, Rains," Bob's voice comes out in the form of a low, rasping croak. "Wipe off your feet." Translation: Don't get caught on your way out. He pushes the metal rod away, watching it roll away across the floor through one rapidly-swelling eye. No, he won't be getting up again — not until help arrives.

Colour Claude surprised. He peers down at the man with a look of surprise and confusion all at once. One thing does spring to mind, though, and that's not to kick a man while he's down. Especially not someone who doesn't appear to want to do you any harm. "I'm done here."

Halfway up the stairwell he stops to try and pick out the bits of glass from his feet, silently hissing out in pain. Finally managing to rub most of the wet blood off, he proceeds upwards. Let's see what's behind door number two.

At the top of the stairwell, behind the door, is what appears to be a lobby — or, more accurately, what used to be a lobby. Like Level Five, everything is in a state of disarray. The only source of light shines in through the windows, illuminating several corpses strewn around the room, all of them riddled with bullet holes. From here, it's a clear shot to the front door, and the darkened world beyond it.

The sight of corpses is met with even more disgust from Claude, who was having a hard enough time focusing on getting out with all the blood downstairs. Corpses, that's a whole different story. He might feel obliged to see who the victims were, but… he's not recognizing any of the bodies, and that front door is just too damned close now. Out it is. A breath of fresh air is all he's wanting right now.

The air outside the Primatech Research facility is still. There are no police cruisers parked outside, no signs of life except for a flock of pigeons taking shelter in the highest branches of an old oak tree. Either the NYPD wasn't notified of what took place here tonight, or they're busy elsewhere. Knowing the Company, the former is more likely than the latter.

Luckily for Claude, the clouds partially obscuring the moon lend him the cover he needs to take his final leave of this place.

Trask is one of the last out, he has sent the others on ahead, and in some cases they were able to take more dramatic ways of escaping where he is limited to his own two feet. He is even hanging back a little to see if he can catch sight of Parkman and Bennet, he is horribly conflicted about the idea of leaving Claire behind; Petrelli, he could care less about.

The front door of the facility opens with a start. Claude, still dressed in no more than the gray scrub bottoms and shirt that easily identify him as one of the building's prisoners. Or he was, anyway. His first few steps out the door are painful due to some small lacerations in his feet, and his eyes give the area a scan. Anyone out here? Not that it matters- if it's up to him, he's going to be out of here and as far away as possible, as soon as possible.

Trask hears the door open, and turns his gun leveling at the man coming out. Well he's not one of the guards at least based on his get up, but that doesn't mean he's not Sylar in another disguise. The man frowns behind his scarf, "Hold it right there, Comrade."

"I am not your comrade." The man responds with gritted teeth and a heavy British accent, letting go of the door and proceeding forward despite the warning. "And you can see me. Great. Ah well, beggars can't be choosers."

Trask keeps the gun level, "Not one more step, Mr Sylar. I don't know how you got past Piotr but right now your my ticket to trade for Blondie"

… Okay, Trask's got the man's attention now. Claude sneers, but continues onward. "… Sylar? You think I'm Sylar?! Is THAT why you're here?" He slaps a hand to his forehead, groaning. There could barely have been a worse reason.

Trask Doesn't waver from staring down the barrel of the gun, "What do you know about Sylar? How do you know that's why we are here?" Ok so maybe he is a little rattled and not thinking straight, give the boy a break it's been a long night.

Claude has had a long two years. He's a little prickly and rusty on the whole… social thing. "I know he's a psychopath. Other than that, I've just been held up in there for a few years," He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the building, and finally stops to yell, "and am completely clueless. Now, are you going to put that bloody gun down, or what? I don't want to hurt you, but I am determined enough to try if you don't let me pass." He squares back his shoulders, eyeing Trask up and down. He's taken on tougher men and got away.

Trask nods, "There is several miles of nuclear irradiated New York in the direction. If your going anywhere you better come with me, I have a car over the hill. What is your name Limey?

Claude frowns, looking in said direction for a few seconds, before his eyes trail their way back to Trask. He's exhausted, and… however much he would like to wander off on his own, the chances of him ending up anywhere remotely useful seem slim. "… Claude." Pausing for but a second, he adds, "If you so much as look at me funny, I am—" He leaves the rest of that sentence up to Trask's imagination. He is not pleased.

Trask Drives out of the area and speaks, still keeping to the Russian accent, "Look I can take you to a safe house, get you some clothes. Piotr was supposed to have a link to someone who can help you disappear, but I'm not sure if he made it out."

Claude never quite settled down, his reluctance clear. His eyes stay mostly on Trask, occasionally flitting one of the windows. "I'll be disappearing on my own, thanks. Safe house'll be fine." In a slightly less harsh tone, he adds, "I'm sorry about your friends."

Trask says, "Petrelli can take care of himself, it's his plan after all, as for Claire…well at least I know they won't kill her. Just means we gotta do part two breaking her out.""

Claude tenses at the first name, hands clenching into fists. It rings all too familiar, and he can't help but be curious. "Petrelli? Should'a known. Which one?"

Trask frowns, "You know Piotr?" he suddenly looks over at Claude Suspiciously.

It takes Claude a second, before he suddenly barks out a laugh— the first in a long, long while. "Peter?! Yes, I know him! The pup's still alive, then. Interesting." Is that pride? A little bit, at least.

Trask says, "I last saw him fly through a wall playing Human Torch and throwing that Sylar guy around. He said to pull out, and that's why we are here."

"He had better know what he's doing." Claude has little else to say, especially to a stranger. It's clear from his tone of voice, though, that he'd very much rather have Peter come out alive than dead.

Trask pulls up at the Safe House after a few more minutes, "So far he seems to be flying by the seat of his pants." he shakes his head, "And now we are short one cheerleader."

Before the car has even fully come to a stop, Claude's already got his door open. "If the past is anything to go by, that might be very bad." He swings out, wincing as his feet hit the ground. He grabs the top of the car and peers back in. "Thanks for not blowing my head clear off, mate. Comes around goes around and all that."

Trask raises an eyebrow, "Where do you think you are going? What are you going to do? You said you were locked up for two years, you think you can just disappear without help?

Sadly the Haitian pills have taken care of that, but… eventually? Claude flashes a grin, giving the car a pat before he pulls away and gives the other man a wave. "Yep!" And with that, he turns and walks.

September 19th: Escape, Evade, Regroup
September 20th: Three Days Later
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