Good Intentions, Part V


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Also Featuring:

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Scene Title Good Intentions, Part V
Synopsis After unintentionally rescuing Amid Halebi, Peter and Gracie come to cross-purposes.
Date April 11, 2011

A metal door slams, angrily; the noise reverberates through the concrete-walled hall. Fluorescent lights overhead flicker and gutter, nearly going out for the barest of moments. "Are you insane?" Peter Petrelli is livid. Standing beside the metal door he just slammed shut, Peter stares down Gracie Lee from just a few feet away. The redheaded former Company agent slouches her posture, crosses her arms over her chest and gives an askance look to the door. She rolls her eyes, leaning sideways against the wall beside her. "We can't do that. Do you have any idea what the DoEA would do to a guy like him?" Peter motions to the door, then waves that same hand accusingly at Gracie.

"An' what do you think's gonna happen if we let Amid fucking Halebi wander Vegas?" One of Gracie's brows kick up, and she pushes off of the wall, coming right up to Peter. "You going to teleport him somewhere?" She wiggles her fingers, "hope he doesn't drop off the grid again and wind up in a major metropolitan area? Hope he doesn't have a bad dream one night and become the next big media sensation?" She's exasperated, tired of this conversation long before it ever began. "Think, Petrelli. Come on."

Peter closes the small gap between he and Gracie, staring at her furiously. "I am thinking," is strained out through clenched teeth. "You're talking about handing him over to the government." Gracie lets her eyes halfway lid, lips pursing to the side. When she looks back at Peter, it's to take a step away from him.

"What's your idea, then?" She accusingly throws back at him, expecting the answer.

"I — " Peter scrubs a hand over his mouth and takes a step back too. "I don't know. Once Amid wakes up we need to figure out what happened to him, and then… I don't know, make a dead drop with the Ferrymen or something. They'll know what to do with this." There's resentment in that entire conversational string. Gracie sees it, seizes it.

"Fucking hell, Petrelli, I thought you got out of the cattle rustling business?" Circling back around for round 2, Gracie shoves her hands in her pockets and stares squarely at Peter. "You pulling up your big boy pants and— "

Pushing Peter too far Gracie finds herself pushed… squarely, off of her feet, and up against the wall with the low thrum of telekinetic pressure. She exhales a short gasp from the impact, scowling. She doesn't need to say anything, and Peter drops her back to her feet once he realizes what it is he did. Making a noise in the back of his throat, Peter scrubs at his forehead and paces several steps in a slow circle. "Jesus Christ Peter," Gracie chokes the words out, rubbing at her neck. "When are you — " but he's gone, disappeared in a huff of spatial manipulation, whisked away to somewhere else.

Gracie, alone in the basement corridor, looks to the door and sighs. "Fucking men."

Abandoned Primatech Paper Facility

Staten Island, New York

"Bennet." Paperwork swirls off of an old desk as Peter appears in a rush of air. The old Primatech warehouse is dimly lit in what is still pre-dawn hours in New York City. A frightened young couple sits at one side of the desk on folding chairs, watching a piece of gauze with blue liquid on it slowly turning purple. Behind the desk, Noah Bennet stares over the frames of his horn-rimmed glasses at Peter. The look is withering, and Peter suddenly looks around and realizes he's interrupting. There's a sheepish raise of one hand, an awkward look.

"I'm — " Peter croaks that out. "I'm uh, s— sorry folks. Just— carry on." His dark eyes meet Bennet's impatient stare, and Peter walks back several paces and tucks his hands into his pockets, walking away to give the three space. Bennet makes a noise in the back of his throat and settles down, breathing in deeply before exhaling a tired sigh.

"Please excuse my friend," is the level apology Bennet offers. "He won't make that mistake again," is offered just loud enough for Peter to hear. At that, the young couple settles in and Bennet makes a noise in the back of his throat on seeing the paperwork. "Unfortunately, I have some difficult news for you both. Miss Lyse, you're absolutely an Evolved human. You're lucky you came to me when you did, given that your brother is already Registered. Mister Turner, however, is not one." Donna Lyse slouches in her seat, running one hand through her hair and looking anxiously to the young man at her side. "Now, my associate Alistair can help you with preparations. We can get you both out of the city, but we need to work fast."

At that mention, a tall gentleman with dark hair steps out from where he'd been watching by a support post. Alistair offers the two a warm, if troubled smile. "Let's talk options," he offers quietly, urging the two up and out of their seats. Donna looks over to her partner, taking his hand in hers and nervously walking to follow Alistair into an adjoining room. This leaves Bennet time to rise from his desk and sternly approach where Peter looms. During that entire exchange, Peter hasn't taken his eyes off of the two younger people.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Petrelli? Just barging in here like that after dropping off the face of the earth?" There's a father's vitriol in Bennet's tone, and for a moment it makes Peter shrink back. But then his attitude comes boiling up again, and Peter advances on Noah.

"This isn't about me," Peter snarls. "Somebody needs your help, Noah. I assume you still do that?"

Montecito Casino Basement

Las Vegas, Nevada

Call Cannot Be Completed — No Service

"Un fucking believable…" Flipping her phone shut, Gracie slouches back against the metal door, eyes downcast. "I sweat t'Christ when Petrelli comes back I'm — "


The muffled voice causes Gracie to jerk off of the door and look back at it with wide eyes. After a moment of Hesitation, Gracie cracks the door open, shedding light into the largely vacant storage space they'd hastily crammed Amid into. The concrete-walled room has a small mattress pushed into a corner with a gray blanket wadded up atop it. The furnace in here rumbles noisily, and a single lamp sheds minimal illumination. In that dim glow, Amid Halebi looks small and harmless, his beard scraggly and eyes deeply set into their sockets. Gracie tenses, then closes her eyes and exhales a sigh before slipping in to the room from the hall.

"Mister Halebi?" The old Company Agent tone comes back naturally to Gracie. "My name's Gracie, I'm — " her voice hitches, "you're safe." She isn't so sure of that, but there's a growing desire to keep him sedate, calm, comfortable. "Do you know where you are?"

Amid looks around the basement, hesitantly getting to his feet. Though, when he tries he finds himself too weak and collapses back down onto the bed. "N— no?" There's an uptick in the tone of his voice at the end. "Where — who — " too many questions flash through his mind. But then, "is Lucine safe?" It's all he cares for, the sole person he's done so much to protect. Gracie looks momentarily puzzled, thinking back to Halebi's old Company file. She pieces together that it's his daughter, but she's forced to lie straight to his face.

"She's fine. Ah, can you tell me what you remember last?" Gracie crouches down nearby to Amid, resting her forearms on her knees, trying to see casual. Amid moves back to press up against the wall, not too anxiously, but out of habit.

"I ah, I was — " Amid's dark eyes drift over to the boilet, then back to Gracie. "I was with Ferrymen." There's a moment of scrutiny, and Gracie looks confused by the sequence of events.

"And then… the Institute came? Took you?" One of Gracie's brows raise slowly. Amid's eyes narrow, lips curling into a frown.

Gracie can intuit the, "No," before it comes.

Abandoned Primatech Paper Facility

Staten Island, New York

Outside of the Primatech Paper facility, Noah moves at a brisk pace, walking toward a beat-up wood panel siding station wagon from the 1970s. "I'm glad you came to me when you did, Peter." He looks aside, slowing his pace and turning to look back at the younger man. "We've been worried about Amid Halebi for a long time. We've got some connections in Nevada, it shouldn't be too hard to get some help your way. It might take a few days, though. Keep him at the Montecito, keep him out of sight." Under the moonlight, Peter's breath is visible in the cool April air. He nods, scar creasing deeper into his brow.

"What're you going to do for him, once your people come?" It isn't as though Peter cares, not entirely, but there's a sense of responsibility. He'd rescued Halebi, ostensibly. Noah looks at Peter for a long, silent moment. Then, turning to continue walking to his care, Noah offers his answer over his shoulder.

"Take care of him," is the best answer Bennet can give. When he opens the driver's side door of the station wagon, he looks back at Peter one last time. "Don't worry, Peter. You made the right call." Peter can sense the dismissive tone in Bennet's voice. We can handle this now, all but said flatly. There's no love lost between the two men, no friendship to rekindle, just old and painful memories. Without another word, Peter disappears from sight and leaves Noah alone by his car in the cold April air.

After several long moments, Noah retrieves a phone from a matte gray ziplock baggie in his coat. Opening it and dialing, he waits on the other end. "Mister Verse," Noah's voice is kept low. "Could you redirect my call to our mutual friend?"

Montecito Casino Basement

Las Vegas, Nevada

"And then…" Gracie has been frozen in rapt attention as Amid Halebi recounts his story. She's gone from crouching to standing, pacing, one hand clasped over her mouth. "…after everything in D.C. fell apart, we… Mister Bennet said it would be best if I hid inside of that strange coffin machine. Brian and…" Amid's eyes narrow, trying to remember a name. "Samara," he finally finds it. "They tried to hard. I just — " Amid's dark eyes move from a spot on the wall they were vacantly inspecting, up to where Gracie is standing. "I don't remember what happened next."

Drumming fingers on the sleeve of her jacket, Gracie look back at Amid. "Did Bennet say who he was contacting? When you were in D.C.?" At the question, Amid presses a hand to the side of his head, fingers tangling into his hair. For a long while he contemplates the possibilities, memories swirling in broken connection to one-another, drugs still deadening his senses. "No, I… I don't know. I heard something that he was returning a favor? Something about his son?"

None of it is worthwhile to Gracie, and she paces back and forth, pulling out her phone. "Amid," she looks back. "I need you to stay here for a minute, I have to go out and make a call." Swallowing anxiously, Amid slouches back against the concrete wall and pulls the blanket over himself. His nod is the silent approval Gracie didn't need. She's already three steps out the door by the time he'd given that. Phone in hand, Gracie steps out into the hall, hustling toward the stairs, looking to find cell service.

"Please, please answer your fucking phone, Peter…" Gracie mutters to herself, even as the hair on the back of her neck begins to stand up as an electric charge crackles in the air.

Peter and Jessica's Penthouse

Montecito Casino

Las Vegas, Nevada

Neon lights burn bright against the white-painted walls. The apartment is just as Peter left it, save for the cigarette burning out in the ash tray has finally snuffed itself out entirely. Exhaling a sigh, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. As the call rings, Peter stalks over to one of the partly blinded windows, pushing the slats apart and looking out onto the neon lit street.

«It's Jessica, leave a message. Or don't.» Clicking his tongue, Peter waits for the automated answering service to roll over to record. "Hey, Jess. Something's come up, I might be busy for a couple of days…" Peter takes a step away from the window, walking past where clothes lay in a heap on the floor. "I know you've got a lot going on right now, but I just — didn't want to leave you hanging. I'll be back before the weekend. I'm just going to keep an eye on something that's — " A beep chimes, an incoming call. Peter checks the screen.

Incoming Call: "Agent Angry Ginger"

He pulls the phone back up to his ear. "Hey, Jess, sorry — I'll talk to you tomorrow." He quickly ends the call, then picks up for Gracie. "Hey, I'm just upstairs. What's up?" There's nothing on the other line; silence. Peter's brows furrow, and a tremor of worry chills down his spine.

Montecito Casino Basement

Las Vegas, Nevada

One gauntlet-covered hand reaches down, picking up a phone from the concrete floor. With a whirr of hydraulics, Lucas Eldridge turns the phone over in one hand, then looks back to the men behind him. Desmond Harper, covered head-to-toe in his FRONTLINE armor, inclines his head questioningly.

«Who was it?» He asks, one hand firmly grasping the arm of a silent, but terrified Amid Halebi. Beside him, Rene stands in dignified silence in his shark gray suit, dark eyes focused on the radioactive evolved, ensuring he can do not harm. Eldridge tosses the phone to the ground, shrugging.

«Outgoing call. Number is in the phone as "That Asshole."» Eldridge gives another helpless shrug, and Harper shakes his head. «Let's get the fuck out of here.» Moving closer to the others, Harper closes his eyes and concentrates on a remote location. There's a crackling snap of static electricity in the air, and then the lights in the boiler room flicker and go out. A sphere of matter is removed from the basement, water mains cut, power conduits severed, and that sphere of removed matter glows orange-hot and smokes at the edges.

Just a moment later, there's a rush of air and Peter Petrelli appears in the hall, phone in hand. He jostles as he notices the missing sphere of matter where the hall once was. His breath hitches in the back of his throat, dark eyes wide. "No!" Scrambling down the hall, Peter steps through the demolished doorway to the storage room. Amid's bed is empty, and on the floor, Gracie Lee lies in a pool of blood with a single gunshot wound to the back of her head. A cell phone lays on the ground nearby. Breathing in sharply, Peter drops to one knee, nearly reaching out for Gracie before he realizes there's nothing he can do. His hands tremble, clench into fists, and he picks up the phone with shaky fingers.

"Please, please, don't— " Peter stammers, looking through the call log. There is he, That Asshole. Directly below it, DoEA Anonymous Tip Line. "Fuck!" Peter hurls the phone at the wall, breaking the case apart. The phone scatters to the ground and Peter clenches his fists tighter and lets out a wild scream before disappearing in a rush of displaced air. But if he'd taken just a moment, had a hair's breath more faith in Gracie, he'd have noticed what was right below that first outgoing call.

Call Cannot Be Completed — No Service

He never learned who to trust, or when.

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