2007-07-31: Breaking Points


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Summary: Because we all have some. Cyprus finds Nathan unconscious after a visit from a monster and handles the situation.

Dark Future Date: July 31st, 2009

Breaking Points

Penthouse Suite - Washington DC

Inside the hotel room, it's all very quiet, but that could very well just mean that the resident is asleep, even if it's only pushing about 9 pm. Cutting through the silence, a cellphone rings out, and rings incessantly, before the caller is directed to voice mail. This happens once more. Some time goes by. Outside, two identically dressed guards passively flank the door in the brightly lit hallway, and both look towards the elevator when it stops at their level. One murmurs into a small, discreet mic on his person, confirming that yes, Cyprus Donovan has stopped on this level.

The elevator doors slide open, and there stands Cyprus in his usual suit. The red tie has been swapped out for one that is a solid, deep green, and he steps off of the elevator with a briefcase in hand. A namebadge hangs from his left breast, and he sets off down the hallway with directness in his stride. He pauses before the two guards outside the door, and smiles. "Jaspers, Schmidt," he greets them both. He focuses on the left one while he holds out his name badge to be scanned. One can never be too careful these days. "How's your wife doing? She's still got another five months before she's due, right?"

Something murmured into the mic once more by Jaspers, as Schmidt smiles easily at Cyprus, taking out the scanner and swiping it over the card. Not a foolproof way to stop impersonators, but it's 9 times out of 10 aren't bad odds. Especially when you can always shoot someone if it all goes horribly wrong. "Pushing four, Mr. Donovan," the agent says, as the machine beeps positive. "You can go right in, sir." Jaspers obediently moves to open the door - it's unlocked, meaning, the President hasn't requested that no one disturb his beauty sleep just yet.

Cyprus nods to Schmidt. "I'll call Margie and make sure she gets your wife something nice," he offers, before stepping past them, and into the penthouse. He closes the door behind him as he does so, calling out "Mr. President?" He reaches to flip on the lightswitch for the foyer.

The door is clicked shut just behind Cyprus just as the lights reveal the room within. Everything seems in place at first, no evidence of violence, of struggle. A cellphone lies in the middle of the room. 2 Missed Calls. Then across the spacious room to the left, the unconscious figure of Nathan lies in an unceremonious heap on the floor, right up against the wall. A smattered smear of blood is still a bright red against the white wall, as if something had hit it with force. That something would be Nathan, as half his face is bloodied.

And there is the briefcase hitting the floor. Cyprus's eyes go to the blood first, and he takes a deep breath to blink his attention onto Nathan. He seems to concentrate for a moment, then shouts "Schmidt! Get a team and secure the area! Jaspers! Get the healer on the line, and get her out here now! The President's been hurt!" Because that does not look self-inflicted. At least, unless he suddenly decided to try flying around his own penthouse. Cyprus crosses the room in three strides and stands near Nathan. Still deliberately keeping his eyes off the wound, he focuses his gaze with a look of intent concentration and puts two fingers two his temple.

All across the hotel, the secret service surges into activity. In the immediate room, Nathan wakes up with a fullbodied jerk, a hand flying out to grasp whatever of Cyprus he can, just briefly. "Peter," is gasped out, before the hand weakens, grasp abandoned and arm dropping back down onto the floor. A long, shuddering groan sounds out, hand now moving to his midsection as if to check he's not injured there. Incidentally, he's completely uninjured - save for his face, which is just mostly a mess. Owch. Using the wall and the floor as leverage, Nathan slowly gets to his knees, attempting to get to his feet. "'s gone," he mumbles, jaw possibly giving him a little trouble with clarity.

That one word seems to send a shiver down Cyprus, visibly chilling him the way the mention of a boogeyman might a child. He even takes a quick glance around, before crouching next to Nathan, and doing his best to help him to an upright position. Keep the head elevated. "You shouldn't try to move, sir," says Cyprus. "I'm doing my best to keep you working, but you've suffered a concussion, and your vitals are spiking. You need to take it slow, sir. We'll have the healer here as soon as we can. I'll keep you stable until then." Schmidt steps in after a minute with a squad of four, armed and ready, and Cyprus yells out "Secure the area. I want even the roaches asking for permission to enter." The soldiers go about their task, and Cyprus guides Nathan to a chair. He continues to focus, and the room manages to maintain most of its clarity.

Cyprus is giving him some very good advice, and Nathan mostly goes along with it, leaning heavily on the political aide as they move towards the nearest chair. There is something wrong. Something wrong with his face. What happened? Peter happened. Flying through the air but certainly not his flying, no, he got rid of those pesky fight or flight impulses a year and a half ago, but— there's something wrong with his face. With a sudden shove, he loosens Cyprus's grip on him, and he stumbles towards his bedroom, using the wall as guidance. "Sir!" an agent cries out, having only just checked the bedroom for people, but he's ignored. It's the mirror he wants to get to.

Cyprus waves the guard aside. "Out of his way!" he orders, and moves to follow the President. If Cyprus has learned anything, it is not to get in the way of Nathan Petrelli when he wants something. Still, the aide does what he can, working on keeping Nathan's head as clear as possible, keeping the dizziness reduced and manageable. He glances at the agent. "Go check on Jaspers," he orders. "And keep the area secure. I want to know the moment the healer is in the air." And with that, he turns back to continue following the President.

Likely a good move, because Nathan might do something like try to hit Cyprus and then promptly fall over, and that just wouldn't do anyone any favours. His hands land heavily against the dressing table, but it's getting easier to balance, easier to think. He almost stands upright as he observes his reflection. There's broken bone beneath that skin, a cracked tooth or two sending hot ribbons of pain up into his skull, his left eye almost swollen shut. It's painful, yes, but he's starting to see clearer through that haze, much thanks to Cyprus. Nathan lifts a hand, making as if to wipe some blood away with his cuff, but his skin is hot and hurtful to touch. A long moment transpires, the President simply staring at his reflection. Abruptly, he draw a fist back, and cracks the glass.

Nathan leans against the furniture, turning back to Cyprus. "'ll need a healer for my hand," he says. Either he's delirious, or he retains a sense of humour. But apparently, breaking the mirror has made him feel slightly better. He turns his head to the side to spit out some blood, before regarding his assistant again. "Peter disappeared. He won't be in the area," he says, working through the pain to make this clear.

Cyprus nods, and glances away slightly as Nathan turns back. He maintains his concentration, but it seems easier to not meet the man quite dead on in gaze yet. He takes a deep breath, and looks out towards the windows. "Did he slip past the guards invisible this time, or fly in?" he asks steadily, keeping the attention on the subject of security. It's a safe subject, it would appear.

"Neither," Nathan says, in a very quiet murmur, trying not to move his mouth an awful lot. "Teleported. An' used some kind of… he can make illusions. Had a few things to say to me before throwing me into a wall." As he speaks, he keeps his gaze on Cyprus, and it doesn't take much to note the man's averted gaze - especially as he's usually so good with the attentive eye contact. "You with me, Donovan?"

"Absolutely, Mr. President," says Cyprus. He turns back towards Nathan, and very skillfully fights down the discomfort. Within moments, it's almost like it was never there. "Anything we should take into consideration, sir? Anything of his plans, or where he might strike next?"

Nathan nods once to Cyprus once their gaze it met again, and doesn't press the topic further. "Only plan he said he has… is to make me pay for contacting his wife," he says, with as much as a sneer as his injury allows. "Reach her again, he's going to kill me." There's a lack of fear in his voice, and he adds, "Could be useful."

"Could be, sir," states Cyprus. "But with all due respect, last time I checked, it's hard to catch a man who can turn invisible, heal any wound, throw people across rooms with his mind, and apparently now teleport. Even with a trap." There's no real fear in Cyprus's voice either, but with all the iron shod control visible there, he could be as terrified as a child with a cavity at the dentist without showing a hint. He gestures towards the foyer. "I have an update on the White House situation, Mr. President. But we can discuss it once the healer has… tended to you, if you wish."

"Unleash Peter," Nathan starts, speaking up just as Cyprus is saying those last couple of words, a little louder, "and whoever he's targeting will be lucky to have a dental record still identifying them." He winces, but wants to make this point, even if passing out seems like an awesome idea. "Kate Petrelli is publicly a great supporter to the cause. Terrorists might not know the difference." He shakes his head, indicating his complete lack of plan, finishing off with a simple, "Think about it." He pushes himself up to stand, walking tentatively to sit down somewhere. "Gimme the update after the healer, a glass of scotch and a night's sleep. We can discuss it on the way to New York City."

Cyprus seems to mull the idea over, brow furrowing slightly as he regards Nathan. His jaw tightens ever so slightly as he thinks, and then a very small smile seems to find a way onto his face. He sees the point, and nods to the President. "I shall, sir," he states with an even tone. "And I'd recommend against sleeping until the healer arrives. The scotch, on the other hand…" He walks over to one of the cabinets, opening it. He pulls out a glass bottle and a glass tumbler. He pours a small shot, downs it, and pauses a moment before pouring a more full one. He replaces the bottle, and carries the scotch over to Nathan. He holds it out, and asks "New York City, sir?"

"I've already got the Agency aware and ready," Nathan says, reaching out a hand to take that glass eagerly. "Transportation and even where we'll be staying. All you got to do is pack a bag." There goes the scotch, in a steady gulp. Despite his habits two years ago, hell, even earlier, the President is not known to be a drinker. A glass of champagne or wine when appropriate, yes, but otherwise, he leaves the harder stuff to everyone else. Still, he downs the scotch, draining the glass. Then raises an eyebrow at Cyprus. "Sometimes, I organise stuff without you," he says, almost teasing.

"I'll have Margie forward my calls to my cellphone, then, sir," replies Cyprus. He offers a bit of a raised eyebrow back at Nathan. "I'll go check on the status of the healer, sir. You should be fine until then." With that, Cyprus gives a respectful nod, and turns to head towards the door of the room, leaving Nathan alone with the darkness and the broken mirror.

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