Participants:
| Scene Title | The Best Laid Plans |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Edward follows through with his own operation to save the world. |
| Date | January 28, 2009 |
Petrelli Mansion
Everything in accordance to the plan.
Like a well-oiled machine, the world turns with clockwork symmetry. Action begets reaction, a seemingly unpredictable chain of events that stretches on infinitely into the future. Amidst heavily falling snow, there is an example of how this machine can be exploited, an example of how those who can see the movements of the pendulum just a little bit in advance can know where the hands on the clock face will fall…
…and when the hour of midnight is upon them.
His footsteps masked by the quickly falling snow, a long man in a black wool overcoat makes his way up the snow covered front lawn. The world shows not the monochromatic display of black on white, of night and snow, but also the shifting and blurring hues of a world only he can see. Hazy forms of yellow light that move all too quick, their forms and movements largely indistinct, one fraction of a greater picture that he can see when he looks hard enough. Paused in the middle of an open field of snow, he should be easily observed, should be spotted by the thousands of security measures to prevent a man on foot from just approaching this building.
Eyes wide, shielded from the falling snow by circular-lensed glasses, he begins his approach again undaunted. Whatever he saw, whatever he felt would change if he had taken even a step more forward has passed. Snaking up along the lawn, the small and otherwise unremarkable man approaches the rear entrance of the estate. He ducks into a shadow cast by one of the manor's eaves, feet treading in snow that buries what come spring will once more be Heidi Petrelli's rose garden.
One leather-gloved hand reaches into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving a small metal device witha pistol-grip and a pump handle on the front. Large, anxious eyes watch the back door of the house, and the outline of the door blurs as if vibrating, glowing yellow-gold on the outer edges. The door opens, swinging inward, and a hazy figure of golden light slips inside, coming face to face without another yellow silhouette as chaos ensues, and the entering figure begins to flee and the whole image falls apart. It is this ability to percieve the flow of the machine that is the world, to envision the action and reaction of everyone around him that makes Doctor Edward Ray one of the most dangerous men in the world.
He has to wait.
He has to be patient.
A shadow moves past the door, creaking floorboards before moving up a flight of stairs just barely in Edward's peripheral vision. It feels like an eternity to hold his breath, and it's only when the shadow has moved out of sight that Edward exhales, a cloud of steam rising up from his mouth, disturbing the slowly falling snowflakes. Moving once more, Edward steps in front of the door, pressing the device in his hand to the lock, squeezing the pump handle as the automatic lockpick extends and with each squeeze and a motion of his wrtist begins to work the lock open. A moment later, a click softly responds as the door pushes inwards to the kitchen.
Edward slips inside, one hand quietly guiding the door open as a cold breeze blows in from the outside, bringing in snow along with his own dark silhouette. Gently urging the door closed, Edward tucks the lockpick gun into his jacket pocket, reaching inside of his coat to retrieve something all-together similar, a tool of similar shape but different design — a snub-nosed revolver. Tension grips his throat, swallowing tightly as he begins walking across the tile floor, eyes upturned towards the stairs even as he breezes through the dimly lit kitchen.
His shoes leave watery footprints in his wake, and Edward pauses at the bottom of the stairs, eyes focused upwards as he listens to the silence of the house and the wind blowing outside. Focusing past the staircase, Edward's eyes settle on the glow of a lamp through a pair of doors with frosted glass set into them. The edge of the doors ripple, followed by a golden silhouette of light as he envisions the door opening, and a broad-shouldered silhouette of light seated at a desk on the phone. His brow tenses, the vision fades, and a bead of sweat rolls down Edward's brow as he begins to creep closer to the office.
Some men have plans. Some men are, instead, swept up into the plans of others.
Nathan Petrelli is one such man and has been since birth. In all his forty years on this earth, it's a role he's only recently recognised and more importantly, accepted. Sometimes the tide is too great to swim against, even if it means making sacrifices along the way. So, you drift. The future they plummet towards may not be a greater future in the books of many, but in his—
"I didn't clear any kind of transfer," is what Edward will hear in his approach, and no answer back. As far as Nathan is concerned, he's alone in the house, talking into his phone and pacing the short length of his office. The phone cradle dangles from his hand, trailing the coiling wire as he walks slowly, an old fashioned office-like phone that he probably won't have in the White House. Everything's wireless these days, right? "That wasn't the point, I should have been notified before they lifted a finger." Pause. "I recognise that. If they're looking for him now then— I know." A longer pause as he listens, an impatient sigh. The desk lamp is switched on and acts as the only source of light. His jacket and tie is draped over the back of his chair.
Sacrifices like family. Nathan's jaw clenches a little as the man on the other end of the phonecall talks. Explains. Answers the questions he had as to Peter's fate. The President has a right to know what goes on in his country, right? His back turns towards the partially opened door, pacing ceasing.
It's the voice that is telling, more so than the creaks of the old house as Edward makes his slow and cautious approach, revolved held down at his side. It's the first time he's ever held a gun, ever considered firing a gun, and for all his worth he can't stop the trembling in his arm. Swallowing, Edward eyes the door again, pausing to concentrate on its frame, and the door's edges ripple and distort a if vibrating, followed by a yellow-gold silhouette of someone opening the door, catching the pacing figure on the phone, a raised arm, a gunshot — missed — the phone is thrown at the attacker. Edward closes his eyes and shakes his head, quelling the vision.
Timing is everything.
Creeping up to the office door, his eyes drift to look back into the kitchen, then up towards the stairs. He swallows hard, anxiety tightening his throat as his back gently leans up against the wall beside the office doors, listening to the sound of Nathan's footsteps against the hardwood floor, his thumb very slowly drawing back the hammer of hte revolver with a series of clicks.
What he'd seen, what Gillian had helped him see, it all starts with Nathan Petrelli. It all starts here, in this office, with this man. Closing his eyes, Edward's hand trembles again, not just from nervousness but from guilt. How many people had he consigned to death today? How many people died so that he could live, to do this? His stomach turns in knots.
"I'd just like to talk to him," comes the final sounding words, footsteps creaking floorboards again as Nathan moves for the window. His own frame hides the slight reflection of the open door, his own eyes looking past the glass towards what he can see of New York City from his own home, the lights in the distance. "I can schedule the flight myself. I don't exactly see how it can be a bad idea." A brief pause, and he gets what he wants. If there's anyone in the world right now that can, it's him. "Thank you."
Something catches the light on the windowsill, and it becomes clear that Nathan didn't wander back to the window to stare pensively out of it. No, a glass half-filled with bourbon awaits from where he'd placed it moments ago, and this he picks up, swirling the liquid inside the glass. For a man with the weight of a brave new world on his shoulders, he's having a relaxing evening, and the sting of alcohol down his throat between conversation is a reassuring one.
The conversation shifts.
"No, I don't expect that," he adds. "What I expect for you to do is throw away the key. The last thing this world is needs is a bunch of heroes." The word is spoken as if it were an insult.
Edward has the ability to see the wings of the butterfly that create the tornado. Nathan? Nathan flies.
Breathing in slow, calming breaths, Edward listens to the conversation, gripping his shaking gun tightly. When he swallows again, it's dry and painful, and as he stares down to the clumps of snow and ice melting on the floor from his path to the back door, he cannot help but think of the myriad of outcomes from an event as monumental as this. This could be the mountain thrown in the river, the final stone to a greater pile that finally diverts the course of the future from the dead end it is headed towards as fast as it can.
It ends here.
With one, steady hand, Edward reaches out for the doorknob, giving it a silent turn before swinging the door open into the office, his other arm raising to hold up the revolver towards the man who has claimed the title of President of the United States. The light of Nathan's desk lamp gleams off of Edward's glasses, and the hood of his jacket falls down around his shoulders, gun hand shakes for a moment as his index finger puts pressure down on the trigger.
"Mister Petrelli." Edward calls out in a wavering tone, staring down the barrel of his gun. And just like that, the trigger is squeezed, and a gunshot rings out.
The bullet flies from the barrel, eating the space between it and the new target in a milisecond. And there the bullet embeds itself..
In the ceiling.
His hand clamped around Edward's, forcing the gun upwards, the other hand wrenches the small man's grip off of the gun, pulling his fingers and forcing the man to his knees. The gun and its new owner now stare ominously down at the man forced to his knees. The tall man watches Edward stoically as he jerks the man's fingers back.
His gaze sways over to the former target, the President. Looking back to the man on his knees, he pulls his head back somewhat. Holding the gun in front of Edward mercilessly.
His name is called, Nathan turns as if this were a natural thing— and his back hits the closed window when the gun flashes into view, goes off, embeds a bullet into the ceiling with a rain of plaster. Nathan is silent for a good long moment, staring at Edward, gaze finally tilting up to look at the Haitian man, his presence almost as much of a shock as Edward's.
The phone swings from it's cord, and a tinny voice can be heard. "Mr. President? Mr. Presid— "
Nathan yanks it back up, says, "talk to you later," in a too-casual tone of voice, and closes the phone into the cradle with a click. Heart hammering, he realises that he's spilled bourbon all over his carpet, the glass still rocking a little where it lies, having dropped and rolled. "What the hell is this," he says, voice quiet and cold as ice, looking towards the now kneeling man.
"You're not the only one whose eyes are resting squarely on the future, Mr. Ray," says a voice from behind the Haitian. A moment later, a slender but statuesque woman appears beside him, and Angela Petrelli places a hand on his arm, long fingers curling around his bicep to give it the smallest and most tender of squeezes. Good work.
She looks down at Edward, eyes dark, expression drawn into a carefully neutral mask, though it's impossible to miss the angry lines crinkling at the corners of her vision — crow's feet more pronounced than usual in the office's artificial light. "What did you think you could possibly accomplish by killing my son?"
"Nnh!" Edward struggles under the twist of his wrist, straining on the floor with eyes wide in absolute disbelief at what is looming over him. This wasn't in the equation at all, there was no indication of a third person in the home, nothing even remotely possible. "H-how did — You're not —" He hisses out a breath as his arm twists just slightly the wring way, eyes focused up to the gun, then slowly over to Angela. "He has to die," Edward spits out, "You don't know what he's going to do — if he lives, this whole — we're all dead!" Or perhaps just Edward, it's hard to tell if he's capable of being altruistic or just entirely self-serving.
The plastic of the phone creaks a little in Nathan's hand, looking at Edward with an expression that could be carved from stone, feeling cold. He'd almost been killed. He would have been killed. Assassinations are old hat. These words, however, he has to die—
Nathan flicks a glance towards Angela, and moves back towards his desk in an authoritative stride, setting the phone cradle back down and punching in a single number. He wants this man removed from his house. "I'll have security here in a few moments," he tells his mother and the Haitian, glancing between them both. An eyebrow raise. "Thanks."
The smile Angela offers Nathan does not quite reach her eyes, though her words are warm when she addresses him. "A prudent decision, dear." Her tone grows steely, however, as she shifts her attention back to the man on the floor. She releases her hold on the Haitian's arm and lets her hand drift back down to her side where he fingers curl into a half-fist, nails digging into the smooth skin of her palm. "You're wrong," she tells Edward, tone clipped, succinct, "I've seen what Nathan will become. I've seen what you will, too."
His gaze rests on Angela heavily for a moment. At her last words the Agent returns his attention to the man on his knees. That's his cue. Hand moving down to Edward's wrist, the man is soon jerked to his feet. Pulling him up rapidly, his other arm moves in the same moment.
The butt of the pistol colides into the right temple of Doctor Ray powerully, the tight grip on his wrist relinquishing as the body starts to slump. As the man falls at his feet, the tall man brings the pistol up, taking out the clip of the magazine.
The last thing Edward will see before his vision goes completely black are his impotent bullets clattering together on the ground in front of his eyes.
 January 28th: The Perfect Image Of Peace |
 January 28th: I Ran |