aviators2_icon.gif kaylee2_icon.gif

Scene Title Doors
Synopsis Closing, Behind, Concealed, Locked, Opening…
Date February 5, 2010

Lower East Side

Peter's Apartment

Get here, and we'll do the rest…

In a way it's much like the first time in this hallway. Footsteps creak across the hardwood floor, eyes wander to the way paint peels off of the walls beneath one of the sconce lamps that illuminates the way. Despite the fact that people do live here, there's a strange sense on the fourteenth floor of this tenement building that it's vacant. Out of all the apartments here, Peter Petrelli is usually the only one ever home, ever in the halls, ever in the elevator coming out onto this floor.

The blue bus is callin' us

From down the hall at room 1407, there's a sound of music, guitars and drums, an odd-cadence beat, and the smoky voice of Jim Morrison echoing like a ghost's last words down the corridor. It's been a long week for Kaylee Anne Thatcher, a long and emotionally trying week. Her hair isn't combed, tangled blonde locks falling about her shoulders. Dark circles beneath her eyes suggest a lack of sleep and compounding stress.

The blue bus is callin' us

Making her way to the old wooden door marked 1407, Kaylee can hear the music more closely, see the door pushes open just a few inches into the apartment. Diffuse gray light from the outside is shining in a narrow band across what she can see of the hardwood floor. The record player inside is blaring music at volume that would make it impossible to hold a conversation.

Driver, where you taken' us?

She can't hear herself call out, to see if anyone responds. The radio is loud enough that it's hard for Kaylee to even hear herself think. Standing there by the door, she sees a shadow move across the reflection of light on the wood floor, someone passing by the windows deeper in the apartment. There's no one approaching the door though, nothing but the sound of music ringing between her ears and down the hall.

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on

Confusing is the best way to describe Kaylee, her mind a bit hazy from sleepless nights out on the island wondering when the next text would come from Colette. Her phone is dead having run out of juice an hour ago, it's the reason she's hear… She needs her charger. But seeing the door open, the music impossibly loud, she's first confused and then worried.

He took a face from the ancient gallery

Pressing her shoulder to the front of the door jam, Kaylee carefully moves her head one way and then the other trying to see within with her eyes. The blaring music makes it almost impossible for her to concentrate enough on her ability to reach out into the apartment. The telepath is left to dealing with the situation like a normal person.

And he walked on down the hall

She turns her head to look down one side of the hall, then the other, tip of her tongue touching her lip nervously. Her mind is telling her to turn an leave, but what if something is wrong and Peter is in there needing help. That is enough to get her to reach out and push the door open enough to let her poke her head in and get a much better look, before she considers stepping in the rest of the way.

He went into the room where his sister lived, and… then he

When Kaylee looks inside the apartment at first glance, there's no one to be seen. Just the empty interior of Peter's apartment, a few boxes still left to be unpacked, piled three high by the door. The coat rack is empty, no sign of his winter coat or scarf, just the dark wood illuminated by the afternoon light coming through the open windows. Snow falls on the skyline of New York City outside, and the music's bassline causes the floor to vibrate beneath Kaylee's feet. The guitar twangs, Jim Morrison's voice growls out the lyrics, and only once she's past the threshhold and into the apartment, does she see someone standing by the bookshelf where the turntables are, dressed in a brown leather jacket with the collar up against the back of his neck, faded blue jeans fit snugly, and a pair of snakeskin boots.

Paid a visit to his brother, and then he

The man is taller than Peter by a few inches, broader shoulders, lighter hair cut shorter. His fingers slowly roll across the metallic front of the record player, a graze of calloused hands over cold metal. For all that Kaylee's heart leaps up into her throat, it seems like the stranger may well have heard that cord of fear being plucked as he turns to look towards the door.

He walked on down the hall, and

Kaylee's reflection is mirrored in a pair of dark sunglasses, a muted glimmer of her own reflexively fearful expression. The stranger's five o'clock shadow stubbles his chin, and his reaction to Kaylee's appearance is a crook of one brow up higher than the others in silence, and a brush of his fingertips gliding across the volume knob of the radio.

And he came to a door…and he looked inside

The record player is silenced, and yet he still says nothing, one eyebrow raised and shrouded eyes settled on Kaylee through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. It isn't Peter Petrelli, not by a long shot.

Once spotted, Kaylee pushes the door open further, her own blonde brow lifting at the stranger, blue eyes skimming over his form. There is still a healing bruise across her cheek, but she still crosses her arms and sets her shoulder on the doorjam. "I do really hope you have an appointment?" She asks a pleasant tone in her voice, offering a fake smile. A hand moves so she twirl a finger at the floor, "Cause I'm pretty sure this is trespassing?"

Pushing off the door jam with jerk of her shoulder, she steps into the apartment and to the side of the door. Offering the open door with a flourish of one hand, the other resting on the doorknob. "Leave now and I won't consider calling in the cops," Kaylee is tired and worn out.. and would really not want to have to do with police.

Pursing his lips together now that the music is off, the man with those dark sunglasses cracks a smile. "Call the cops?" The stranger's expression turns into a toothy smile as he slowly stalks across the apartment. "Well hold the phone sweetie, the cops are already here." Reaching inside of his jacket, the man in aviator sunglasses removes a leather badge folio from inside of his coat, flipping it open to reveal a white badge on the interior.

Avi Epstein

Central Intelligence Agency

"So I guess this puts our little meeting into a whole different perspective, doesn't it?" Both of Avi's brows rise as he folds the badge closed, tucking it inside of his leather jacket. "Name's Agent Epstein but I guess you can just call me Aviators, everyone else does." The moniker comes with a tap of one finger on the frame of his glasses, lips curled up into an amused smile. "What're you doing sneaking in to the apartment of the President's brother?"

Now both brows lift high on her head, eyes dropping to the badge. "CIA?" Kaylee gives him another once over, looking somewhat amused and looking like she almost doesn't believe it. "So I what.. it's casual Friday at the office, Agent Epstein?" She sounds just as amused as she looks, letting the door shut finally, him still on the inside. She waves a hand at his get up. "I would not peg you as the government type.. Course my experience with CIA is like— nil. And Feds seem to have sticks permanently stuck up their asses."

"I'm a friend of his.. and I've been crashing on his couch till I land a new place.. got evicted from my own." Kaylee actually decides to be polite and offers a hand, "Name's Kaylee." But that's all she really offers. "Sorry, if I interrupted your….. I dunno what this is.." She looks thoughtful but it's obvious she'd just faking it, before she adds. "Oh.. wait, it's called…. snooping." Her tone a touch bland.

"I get paid six figures to snoop, not dress in a suit; isn't that interesting?" Aviators moves around the blonde and to the door, pressing it shut behind her and offering an unusual smile. "So, Kaylee, you're a house-guest of Mister Petrelli?" His demeanor seems to have shifted to something more squirrely since he was listening to Peter's record collection with a kind of creepy stalker vibe. "That explains the girly hair product in his bathroom." No, actually, it doesn't…

Moving away from the door, Aviators tucks his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, boots scuffing purposefully across the hardwood floor. "I was actually here on a…" his head bobs from side to side, "I dunno, I guess you could call it an errand more so than a favor." He pauses in the middle of the living room, looking down at the sofa and then back up over his shoulder to Kaylee. "So tell me, Kaylee, has your friend Peter been acting strange at all lately? I dunno— eyes the wrong color, grandiose plans to cause mass genocide, started wearing a swastika or talking in a German accent?"

He's joking, right?

"Yes.. I believe I just said I was. Kinda doubt he'd let me sleep on his couch out of the goodness of his heart." Kaylee gives him a flat look, before moving to a set of duffel bags tucked in a corner, blue eyes narrow at them, trying to see if there is any outside appearance of them being messed with. She opens on of them and starts shifting through the contents seeking out the laptop under the stacks of neatly folded clothing and female underthings.

His question make Kaylee pause and she twists on her heels to give him a look that clearly says he's crazy. The telepath chuckles softly, "No, Agent… None of that.. no shaved head.. or anything like that no." Giving a little sake of her head, she pulls out her laptop, and the white charging cord for her phone. "Hell of a thing to say about the President's brother…. what, looking for political fodder?"

The laptop is sat on the dining table, she takes a moment to bend over, one foot coming off the floor as she plugs it in. "Not that I've ever met President Petrelli or anything.. But I do think his mom is a very classy woman." The comment is offered as she straightens. "So… Anything else?" She asks pleasantly, the white cord plugged into the side of the small laptop.

Of course, she remembers Peter before, not that this man needs to know that. She's never been a fan of most law authorities, local or federal. Pulling out a chair she slides into and then folds her hands, resting them on the table as if waiting for the next question.

"Classy's a word for it…" Aviators agrees half-heartedly with a shrug of his shoulders, "I'm sure other people would use different adjectives." Coming to stop in his pacing by the windows, his back remains kept to Kaylee, hands tucked into his jacket pockets with the casual grace of someone who belongs in the apartment. "So… No nazi ghosts?" There's a joking tone to his voice, "Good, good… that means I don't need to keep hiding under his bed at night and wondering why he has an assortment of women's hair brushes. Not that a man needs to explain that sort've thing, m'just saying."

Shoulders squared, Aviators offers a wide smile to Kaylee. "So, I take it you're friends with miss Spurling too?" Aviators' dark brows go up again at the question, footfalls slowly clunking across the floor back towards the blonde. "You made quite the hasty arrival up to her apartment a little while back, saw a few people coming in and out've the fifth floor there. You know, terrorists used to live in that building? Honest-to-god terrorists, the international kind you see in James Bond movies, ones that blow up school and kill kids. It's pretty remarkable, really. If you believe the stories they also say the boogey man lives there too."

Scoffing, Aviators walks past Kaylee and reaches out his hand for the doorknob to the apartment. "So… you just make sure ol' Pete keeps his nose clean," there's a flick of his thumb across his nose at that comment, "and that miss Spurling stops doing impromptu medical practice in her bedroom, and we'll be good." Tipping his sunglasses forward, Aviators lays dark eyes on Kaylee, as if to punctuate his point. "We have an understanding, Kaylee?"

There is a slightly confused look at that name, Kaylee's brows dropping when she tries to figure out who he's talking about. In fact, she starts to open her mouth to deny it, but once he's done talking she realizes… Eileen. Blonde brows tweak upwards. "Wow… Eileen and Peter?" A curious look crosses her features. "What the hell could they have done to warrant that I wonder?" Her head tilts to the side a bit, legs crossing.

Eyes narrow slightly at him, her mouth tugging to one side in a small smirk. "I, Agent Epstein, am not their keeper." Leaning back in her chair, arms cross as she studies him. "What they do is their business. Why should I care what they do or don't do?" Of course, she does care, but he doesn't need to know that.

Pausing with the door open, Agent Epstein furrows his brows and gives Kaylee a side-long look. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose slowly, he gives a shrug of his shoulders. "Your call…" he offers quietly to the blonde, without so much as an explanation. "As for what they did to deserve 'this'," he motions around himself as if pretending to be unsure of what Kaylee refers to, "maybe you should ask them both some time about Kazimir Volken and PARIAH."

Managing a broad smile, the agent otherwise known as Aviators gives a finger-wiggle wave and steps out into the hall beyond the apartment, bringing the door shut with a click behind himself. Alone, now, in the apartment, Kaylee can hear his footfalls trailing off, and the quiet noise of the turntable still spinning with the volume all the way down.

She didn't come here to find Peter, and it looks like she's not going to any way.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License