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| Scene Title | The Midas Touch |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | While everything King Midas touched turned to gold, that very gift was his undoing. Peter, as of late, feels much the same. |
| Date | October 22, 2008 |
Bradburn Used Auto Sales, Harlem
It's dark by the time Peter returned to New York with a newfound sense of determination, and grave information. But for Peter Petrelli, night and day hold little significance, for he's a man with all the time in the world. It's strange to imagine a place like Harlem being one of Peter's first stops off once he's returned to the city, but there's a certain order things have to happen in, and Harlem is where it all begins.
Just two streets removed from the borough's heart is a small and rather nondescript Auto Sales yard, a single garage with a billboard sign depicting peeling paint and a car thirty years out of date, with a faded designation of "Bradburn Used Auto Sales" that is barely legible. A newer, and much smaller, sign hangs on the concrete-block wall beside the singular garage bay. The entire lot is surrounded on four sides by tall and rusty chain-link fencing with spooled barbed wire at the top. Most of the cars inside the lot are from the mid-90's or older, though one wouldn't know it by the exorbitant price tags on them. The bomb drove up the cost of living in more ways than one.
A rush of air from Peter's arrival sends the weeds growing up through the cracked pavement of the car lot rustling, and the thumping beats of rap music from a car parked across the street are the only noises aside from the sounds of distant traffic. This particular side-street doesn't see much through passage. Heading up towards the shop, Peter's mind is still reeling from what Kaito had told him, about just how deep his family ties to the Company go, and just how dangerous the game he's playing is. He can't shake, though, what Matt said to him, and the look in his eyes.
He isn't going to let Elle go. Not that easily.
Approaching the office door to the garage, Peter leans towards the darkened window, peering inside for a moment before walking over to the door. He hesitates, just long enough to build up the nerve, and then steps through the door with a rippling dissolution of his form. Once inside, he pushes out a deep breath he had been holding in, never a fan of the suffocating feeling of Daniel's power.
The office itself is remarkably empty, save for a small desk pushed up by the front window with an old computer sitting atop it, the monitor displaying a marquee text screen saver that reads, "WORKIN' FOR THE WEEKEND" in boldface block lettering. He laughs to himself, shaking his head as he begins searching through the desk drawers, eventually finding a pair of keys in the roll-out tray on the right side. Tucking those into his pocket, he goes deeper into the office, then with a rippling distortion through the concrete wall into the unlit garage.
The yellow light from the streetlamp across the lot filters in through the bay door windows, illuminating plastic bins full of rusting mechanical components. Brake pads, rotors, alternators, even a few carburetors from the older vehicles outside. Nodding to himself, he walks over to the bins and crouches down, sorting through the boxes as he removes some of the smaller bits, like bolts and screws, letting them fall to the floor.
It's been a long time since he was here, those thoughts come back to Peter as he sorts through the junk bins just like he did when he was a kid. This — of all places — is where he went for his first car. Paid for with his own money, a beater of a Volvo, something to get around town with and give him a furthered sense of independence. Picking up one of the broken rotors, he can't help but remember the disapproving way his Father looked on owning a vehicle. "Frivolous," he'd say, in that feigned stern voice he'd use around Angela.
Shaking his head, he puts the rotor back into the bin. Perhaps, then, it's fitting that this is the place he thought to go first after hearing so much unexpected news about his father. It hasn't quite sunk in yet, perhaps that's why Peter's chosen to be alone, why he's chosen to sit here in the dark and play with junk.
Well, at least it's not junk forever.
With both hands gripping the side of the bin, Peter closes his eyes and concentrates. It doesn't take much effort to bring up that memory of his conversation with Bob, bring up that tired and world-weary look on his face, and the pleading tone in which he asked for Peter to bring his daughter home safe. He can feel the memory flowing through him, and thanks to the gift given to him by Cat, he can see every last detail in Bob's bruised face, every subtle motion of his jaw made to avoid upsetting the hairline fractures in it. It's a brief, but intense moment.
When his eyes open again, the light that spills through the small windows shines not upon rusted junk, but heaps of broken gold that vaguely resemble car parts. Reaching in to pick out the now solid-gold rotor again, Peter looks at it in the light, turning it from one side to another as it glitters slightly. Letting it go with a heavy and muted thunk, his hand then reaches into his pants pocket to retrieve his cell phone — at least Parkman had the courtesy to shoot him in the chest. Flipping it open, he dials the only person he thinks he might be able to count on right now.
"Petrelli, where in the bloody fuck've you been?" Agent Woods may be a prickly-pear of an individual, but at the very least he's someone Peter can count on in a pinch. This, though, might even strain Woods' patience.
"I need you to come out to Sixteen-Thirty, one-Hundred and twenty-third street in Harlem." His eyes move over the gold, "I've got something related to the bodies down in the lab, and I need you to make a delivery for me too."
"Delivery?" Peter holds the phone away from hsi ear with a wince, "Do I look like the fucking parcel service to you? Fucking Homeland security has gone apeshit looking for someone who's either you or Sylar. An I ain't bettin' my britches it's ol' noggin' knocker."
"I'll explain when you get here, I promise." Peter breathes out a strained sigh, looking up to the windows, "Oh, and Woods? Take a cab." Peter retrieves the keys he took from his pocket, cracking a smile. "I've got a car here waiting for you."
 October 22nd: When You Least Expect It |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 October 22nd: Me, Myself, and I |