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| Scene Title | Interrogations |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | This isn't going to end the way you think. |
| Date | November 8, 2011 |
Midtown, Manhattan
Staring into his own reflection, a young Hiro Nakamura wonders to himself how it came to this. His glasses slouch down the bridge of his nose, unable to be pushed back up. Though it doesn't stop him from trying. His handcuffs won't raise that far, hooked as they are through a loop on the table in front of him. Behind the one-way glass, the scowling countenance of Rene keeps a close focus on Hiro's ability, pressing it down and preventing the time-traveler from whisking himself away. Beside Rene, Matt Parkman stands with arms crossed over his chest. He casts a side-long glance to Rene, then looks down to a file folder set out in front of him. A photograph of Hiro Nakamura, poking out from the corner, looks nothing like the fresh-faced boy in the other room.
Raising his coffee to his lips, Matt takes a sip and lets it linger there. The aroma wafts about, sharp, invigorating. It's going to be a long day. After a moment of thought, Matt glances at Rene. "I'm going to try something," is about as vague as he can make it, setting his coffee down and sweeps up the folder beside it, then moves to the door out of the observation room. Rene's eyes narrow slightly, jaw set and head canted to the side as the door closes behind Parkman. Out in the hall, Matt toussles his hair a little and loosens his tie. His usual calm demeanor is worked out, attempting to appear a little more on edge than usual. He doesn't have a good cop to be in the room, but he remembers something Kaydence once said to him. Sometimes when all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. But sometimes, you've just gotta be the hammer.
Entering into the interrogation room, Parkman slams the door shut and stares Hiro down. Brows raised, Mat waits expectantly, as if Hiro should be doing something. The young Nakamura bolts upright in his seat, hands slapping flat to the tabletop. "This is all misunderstanding." Matt's brows furrow, and he circles Hiro, bringing up the folder and slapping it down on the desk so the contents scatter out. He's practiced this toss before, it doesn't always work, but when it does it looks cool. The photographs inside slide across the table's surface, of a black-clad Hiro with a sword caught by different security cameras at different points in time.
"Hiro Nakamura," Matt looks down to the photos. "Born Osaka, Japan, to Kaito and Ishi." His eyes lift to Hiro's, stare piercing. "Teleportation, stopping time…" he looks to a photo from the security cameras at the Moab Federal Penitentiary. "Prison breaks," then another of Hiro and several others fighting black-clad DHS agents in a government facility. "Attacks against US interests— No, I don't think there's any misunderstanding." Anger tinges Matt's voice, a practiced level that he'd learned from years of these kinds of interrogations. Yet all the while, for every furrow of his brows, Matt is registering nothing with his telepathy. There's no recognition, just confusion and chatter in Japanese.
"Prison breaks?" Hiro asks with eyes wide, looking down to the pictures of his future self. Her scans the faces, no one familiar, hardly even his own. Matt, in turn, picks up the kensai sword from a nearby table and brandishes it in front of Hiro, hoping to pluck a memory from the visual association.
"Two years ago you killed a lot of good men when you raided the National Science Center in Raleigh." Matt pushes, deeper, searching the depths of Hiro's mind for a spark of recognition, for the fabrication of a story. But there's so much Japanese in there, he's having trouble piecing together non-verbal memories into something tangible.
"No, I know myself." But then, there goes Hiro being a kicked puppy about everything. "I'm not a killer." That pushes Matt, pushes him to push Hiro. He lunges forward, grabbing Hiro by the arms and forcing him back as far as his restraints allow. The chain comes taut, and Matt presses his psychic probe as far into Hiro's mind as he can. He scrapes for information, for signs of memory altering, for anything. And then —
From the top of the Deveaux Building, the ruins of Midtown sprawl out like the carcass of a dead animal. Like a carcass, it's been picked clean in the intervening years. The rubble of demolished buildings has only been made more ruinous by the addition of construction equipment set atop the still-standing scaffolding of damaged skyscrapers. Bulldozers on the ground plow down the remnants of smaller buildings, ground-based cranes bring in heavy steel. There's a sound of industry everywhere, and all around the construction sites hang blue and white banners reading Maxwell Construction Company.
Of all the things in the ruin, though, the decorative molding of two cherubs and a ring of stone on the Deveaux Building's roof have managed to stay intact. Though one cherub bears the pockmark of a bullet, it remains a recognizable landmark. The rush of air and howl of displacement indicates that the pigeons up here will have company today. Shoes crunch over old, broken wood and chicken-wire from demolished pigeon coops. Glass, too, crunches gently beneath sneakers. A tall, wiry Japanese man dressed in a security guard's uniform tentatively approaches the edge of the rooftop, mouth slacked and brows raised in an expression of worry.
"Mirai," comes breathlessly from behind the taller man. Hiro Nakamura, fresh-faced and young, walks through the rubble with a sunken expression. His eyes follow the jagged skyline of Manhattan, dark clouds hanging overhead. Ando is stuck with silence by the destruction he witnesses first hand. "B— Bakudan," Hiro mutters, looking down to the ground, then up to Ando. "Watashitachi wa sore o yamenakatta." He looks back to Ando, who rests his hands on the railing and stares down into the ruined streets. His arms tremble, head swims. None of this makes sense.
"Gaka ga nani o subeki ka shitte iru Isaac," Hiro insists, turning around with fearless temerity, looking to his erstwhile friend. One of them has to be calm, one of them has to be in control. For now, Hiro is content to let that person be him. "Yuko," Hiro says confidently, resting a hand on Ando's shoulder and drawing his attention away from the rubble. "Kare no apāto wa tōkunai."
Matt tenses, fingers curling in Hiro's sleeves, and then with a burst of motion he releases Hiro and stumbles away with a shake of his head in disbelief. "How can you not remember that?"
"Because I do not know what you are talking about," Hiro protests, staring up at Parkman with a look of equal disbelief on his face. He is convinced, through and through, he isn't a killer. Furiously, and this time not as part of his act, Matt slams the sword down on the table.
"I'm talking about men like you and Sylar ruining it for the rest of us!" Matt's voice nearly cracks when he shouts that. "Making us live in fear, captivity, and hiding." Matty's face is right there in the back of Parkman's eyes, the last time he saw him. "Making us choose sides." He isn't even sure what his own son looks like now. "Tearing families apart…"
Hiro's expression softens, he feels for Matt, and Parkman can sense that emanating off of him like a stink. "I — " Hiro's voice almost fails him, "would never tear a family apart." Parkman circles in again, brows furrowed and telepathic probe pushing against Hiro's mind. He hears English, something projected intentionally at Parkman: I just want to be a hero.
"You," Hiro's future self states with incredulity. His younger self's brows raise, eyes flick over to Ando who stands slack-jawed.
"Me?" Is all the younger Hiro can muster in response. But in that hapless answer, his older self has all the evidence he needs to make a decision. He lowers his sword, expression shifting from concern to disappointment.
"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here."
Parkman steps back again, one hand wiping sweat from his brow as he circles the room. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Nakamura." Matt's eyes scan the room, anxiety building a knot at the back of his neck. "What you're hiding. But I'm gonna get it out of you." His jaw clenches, brows furrow. Breathing in deeply, Matt steps to the door and flings it open and slams it shut behind himself. Hiro, eyes searching for something that can anchor him, something that makes sense, slouches back against his chair and looks back to the photographs on the table.
Out in the hall, Matt walks away from the interrogation room, quickly pulling a phone out of his pocket. But standing there in the hallway intersection, Matt can't figure out what his next move is. After what he saw in Nakamura's head, what he presumes to be possible after so many previous instances of time travel, it sends a chill down his spine. When he flips the phone open, there's a photograph of Matt Jr from the last time Parkman laid eyes on him. His jaw clenches, neck muscles tighten, and he presses 3.
Speed Dial: White House Secure Line
It rings for a while, and Matt anxiously paces in the hall. Once it picks up, Parkman is quick to direct the conversation. "Good morning Lisa, could you send me through to President Petrelli?" There's a moment's pause. "No, I — I understand, Lisa. This is a matter of national security, I need to talk to him right now." A bead of sweat form on Matt's brow, and he waits as the silence on the other end of the line hangs. Then, finally, there's a series of clicks and another more anxiety-inducing voice on the other end.
"Good morning Mr. President, I — " Matt hesitates, grimacing. "Please send my apologies to Mr. Suresh. But I need — yes. Yes, I understand. Sir, we've captured Hiro Nakamura." There's a longer pause on the other end, this time, and Matt slows his pacing. His brows furrow, eyes narrow, and he wishes he could use his power through a phone line. Over a distance of hundreds of miles. "That's right, we got him." Then, as Matt starts his pacing again, he's building something in his mind. "I thought that'd be good news to announce at the speech tomorrow."
Whatever is said on the other end of the line has Matt circling, nodding a few times and waiting to get a word in. "That — " he hesitates. "That could be a problem. He doesn't seem to remember anything about the last five years." Then there's a moment where Matt is most attentive, where he doesn't have powers to rely on, just the intuition of a detective, of a father, of a human. "There may be something we've overlooked," is a diplomatic deflection to the other end of the conversation." But then, there's the approval he was looking for. "Yes, sir, Mr. President." When the President of the United States gives you a directive and hangs up on you, there's a need to follow through. This is more than that.
Matt grips his phone tightly in one hand, offers himself a moment for his victory, and then circles back to the interrogation room. Inside, Matt sees the dark-clad silhouette of Rene standing beside Hiro. There's a moment of tension, and Matt looks between the two. "This isn't an Institute arrangement, Rene. I'll handle this." Rene arches one brow, and slowly shakes his head. Parkman, rankling, slowly closes the door. He knows what battles to fight, what masks to wear, what words to say, what words to keep unsaid.
Hiro, Matt's voice rings inside Hiro's head. I know things are crazy right now, but I need you to trust me. Matt looks at Rene, then swiftly approaches Hiro.
What?
And then Matt Parkman punches Hiro Nakamura square in the face.