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| Scene Title | Where Do We Go From Here? |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Jolene Petrelli goes on a journey. |
| Date | July 4, 2005 |
Is this how it happened? Dread coils in the back of Jolene’s mind. Is this how it went? She wasn't even born yet. Did we stop anything? The pool of black vapor at Vincent’s feet swirls in frustration, turbulent in the ways air pressure isn't causing.
What would mom do?
Give them what they want, to save the others. Jolene doesn't like the answer.
What would dad do?
Do something stupid and get probably killed. Equally unpalatable.
What do I do?
It's the question Jolene has struggled with her short adult life. In the insubstantial heartbeats between mist and meat, she realizes the answer.
Do something stupid to save the others.
In an eruption of black vapor Jolene explodes up from incorporeality into a column of a person directly in front of Vincent. She's there only for a moment and then she's gone in a rush of displaced air. Not vapor, just gone.
The Bronx
December 6th, 2008
Standing in the middle of a demolished street, surrounded by overturned automobiles, bent street lights twisted by some unseen force, Peter Petrelli — dressed in a long black coat and hair slicked back — is staggering as a hail of bullets perforate his body, little eruptions of blood exploding from his bare arm, his neck and his chest. Striding down the street, with his arm in a sling, a blonde haired man in a black suit with a matching tie slurs out a string of colorful profanity, "You bloody fuckin' idiot, I tol' you to wait for us." Agent Woods. Behind him two very contrasting figures. One, a man in a jacket with leather patches on the elbows, looking more like a teacher than anything else, one hand in his pocket and the other raised as if he were ready to conduct a symphony. At his side, a tall woman with a severe look to her, pistol readied and leveled at Sylar; Agents Lee and Grant.
Not far away, a black-suited double of Peter dressed like a Company Agent stands with his gun trained on the unmistakable figure of Sylar, warding off peril from the sleek figure of a woman in a motorcycle helmet. There's a visible look of betrayal in Sylar's eyes as bullets ricochet off of a forcefield around his body, sparking off of the street and perilously close to the woman in the helmet.
Sylar freezes in place, mouth slightly open and looking shocked, as if these two humans and one relatively harmless looking Evolved were, for a split second in time, all that was needed to take him down, if only because of what they represent. A year of sedation and capture, a year of half-life and glass. It's over quickly, and his mouth pulls into a snarl, leaping easily to the only conclusion possible: Agent Peter betrayed him.
"You lied," he snarls, more to himself. Instantly, Sylar's hand is out, projecting green and blue lines of laser light from his palm that dance out from his localised little jungle rain, cutting through the air almost with a hiss and raking with medical carelessness through Wood's body, with all the power he has behind it. It only stops when a slash suddenly appears across his chest, ripping fabric and flesh, thanks to Grant, but by then…
There is a thunderclap of light and energy when the lasers strike Woods, followed by the blur of a humanoid shape that could be his own shadow burned into the ground, except for the tangle of auburn locks following it. When the blaze of light is gone, there's nothing left of Woods but a smoking mark on the ground and clean spots where his shoes touched the asphalt.
Coney Island
July 4, 2006
With a crackle of light and a sudden implosion of air, Jolene Petrelli falls out of the sky and crash lands on the sandy beach under pale moonlight. Sand blasts up in a divot, she rolls, smoking, tumbling end over end until she finally comes to a stop with smoke rising off of her heavy winter clothes. Pushing herself up onto one shaky arm, Jolene looks around with brows furrowed and mouth hidden by the ragged fringe of a scarf no longer seasonable for the weather.
"What the fuck?" Jolene hisses to herself, spotting the dark silhouette of the Coney Island ferris wheel looming in the distance, a landmark destroyed by Norman White in the era she just recalled being in. But her head is swimming, eyes unfocusing, and she feels as though the world was so much water sloshing in a too-shallow glass. Feeling the humid summer air on her cheeks, she begins to unwind her scarf, shedding her winter coat even as it continues to smolder. Though she stands, it's clear her body isn't ready to. She wobbles, pitches, and clutches one side of her head with her hand.
Walter never said it was like this, Jolene thinks to herself as she opens one eye, squinting at the horizon. She remembers trying to find her father, her mother, trying to get help, but it felt like she was a bullet fired out of a gun trying to hit another bullet in midair. She missed, at least to some degree, and she isn't sure yet of just how badly she did.
Wetting her lips with her tongue, Lene notices lights in the distance. Lights from Manhattan. Lights from Midtown.
"Oh," Lene whispers to herself, to the crashing surf, to the crab on the beach staring up at her.
"I feel sick."