Participants:
| Scene Title | There's No Coming Back |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After being denied information from Wireless, Peter Petrelli takes matters into his own hands… |
| Date | August 17, 2009 |
You changed sides.
Those words stare back across the glowing screen of an open phone, black text on a white background viewed by narrowed eyes in an unlit room. There's a creak of wood, one dark form slouching back against an old and rickety wood chair with worn down arms. A single column of pale moonlight spills in through an open window, particles of dust glowing like specks of silver in the air.
A black gloved thumb presses the down arrow on the phone, and those half-lidded blue eyes stare at the remainder of the message, the corners of his lips curving into a disappointed frown as those sapphire crescents drift from side to side, scanning the text message.
You don't get to come back from that. I'm not helping you.
A grunt, and the phone is slapped closed, its light extinguished. Dark brows furrow together, creasing the defined scar across his forehead, giving it more contour, and makes it seem deeper than it really is. When his eyes open, they drift up to the crescent moon visible through the broken window, the dark silhouettes of a shattered window frame stark in contrast against that pale illumination that reflects on broken glass and blood scattered on the floor.
It's not the first time Peter Petrelli has looked at that text message from Wireless, not the first time he's gone over the subtleties in her own polarization of his position. For a woman who lives her life swathed in the moral gray cloth of her own private rebellion, she seems to find it disappointingly easy to draw everyone else in black and white.
That phone is roughly tucked into the breast pocket of Peter's suit jacket, and his eyes move to a dark lump on the floor amidst the broken glass. "I'll ask you again…" his eyes narrow ever so slightly, "when was the last time you spoke to her?" Peter begins to walk again, each step crunching the broken glass beneath his feet against the hardwood floor. He passes by the open doorway leading out to a derelict hall, the doorknob bent and frame broken in from a swift kick.
When his circling of the prone figure laying in the fetal position stops, Peter nudges his forehead with the tip of his dark, glossy shoe. "How long ago?" A groan erupts from the curled up figure, and his chin is lifted up on the toe of Peter's shoe, one eye black, blue and swollen shut, the other bloodshot and uplifted to look at the scarred man. Despite the hardened ferocity of his expression, the softness and incongruent gentle affect is clearly visible, as if the eyes betrayed the scowl and glare.
"A week," the young man spits out with an aching jaw, blood drooling out of the corner of his mouth, mixed sticky with saliva and smeared at the side of his face where it clings in thin strands to a puddle on the floor. Peter's eyes close, briefly, and his foot lowers to allow the young man's head to rest on the floor again.
"A week?" Peter echoes in question, and his captive audience nods once with a weak and involuntary noise of pain. The confirmation makes Peter slowly ease down into a crouch, one knee pressing to the floor, the other higher with an arm draped over it. "Who's your supplier?"
There's a dry, ragged sound of fear from the young man as Peter's gloved fingers wind into his hair and painfully jerk his head up so that they can make as much eye contact as his bruised face will allow for. The young man groans, that line of blood running out of the side of his mouth where a tooth was knocked out, lip split and flesh blossoming with bruises. "Some—some chick—" he splutters out the response quickly, "some Asian chick, I met her at Rapture!"
Sylar was right about one thing; pain is a remarkable motivator. Peter's fingers wind tighter in the young man's hair, and his head is bent back just a touch more to emphasize that motivating point. "Does she have a name?" Both of his dark brows rise up with that emphasis, blue eyes locked with the one open eye of the young man.
"Ling!" He practically screams, but his voice is too hoarse and it comes out more like the rasping crowing of a carrion bird. "Ling Chao, I swear to god, her name is Ling Chao!" The gloved fingers slide out of the teen's hair, letting his temple crack down on the ground. Peter watches him for a moment, still crouched there, then turns his eyes over to a pile of bones, ash and crumples clothing on the other side of the room by the door, near to where an abandoned handgun lies.
"I'm going to find you again…" Peter's blue eyes sweep back to the young man, "…and if you're still dealing, they'll bury you in a dustpan like your friend." One choked sob of fear escapes from the teen as he wraps his hands around the back of his head and curls up tighter into the fetal position, trembling violently. He's responding in some spluttering stutters, but none of it is coherent; he gets an A for effort, however.
"Clean yourself up." The sharp words Peter offers the young man isn't something as simple as superficial cleaning. As the darkly dressed man rises gracefully to stand up straight, his gloved hands come to tuck into his pockets, one dark brow raised as he waits for the young man to try and form words. They don't come, but the fear is there, and fear – like pain – is a great motivator.
Turning slowly, Peter walks away from where he leaves the kid curled up on the floor, past the dusty bones and sooty pile of ash that was once the only other person in this abandoned tenement building. He passes through that pale shaft of moonlight, skin practically glowing from its pallid coloration in the soft glow, and then out of the light and subsumed back into shadow as he steps past the busted door and into the hall.
Someone else is in need of motivation.