2007-08-11: DF: Confessions Of Weakness

Starring:

DFMcAlister_icon.gif DFPeter2_icon.gif

Summary: The Voice and Public Enemy # 1 meet. Only to have him reveal that he's not Public Enemy # 1, or he shouldn't be. Not anymore. Confessions are made.

Dark Future Date: August 11th, 2009

Confessions of Weakness


Safehouse

The Flock does more than wander about and get killed.

Sometimes? Sometimes they drive cars. The guy in the passenger seat even cradles a shotgun, tucked in low and out of sight from casual observation - the Dodge Avenger they're driving making its way up a side street in Brooklyn, coming to rest at an aging brownstone that's done a pretty good job of standing up to weather and the varagries of life in the Bad Apple.

It even has most of its windows intact.

This place is a safehouse, known to the Alliance - closed now. A bit risky, as it was one known to Bat Country, but good enough for today's purpose. There's not much furniture inside - but. Hey. Can't have everything, right?

The car pulls up out front, and - with easy caution - disgorges the Voice, the young woman running fingers through that too-short hair of hers and moving up the stairs, into the building and on, purposeful. Time is always against those who Resist - today, perhaps, even more so.

—-

Time has never particularly been on their side. The Resistance may not be liking Peter right now, but he has a purpose with this meeting. McAlister, the Voice of the Saints, gave him a chance— even if her radio broadcast had been scathing. It's her he trusts with this particular piece of information. Invisible, he stands in the corner of the safehouse, waiting for her, and keeping an eye out for anything that might happen to jepordize this meeting. He's holding an envelope, which he could easily set on fire to keep from getting captured if the need arises— but it appears the car arrives first.

The Saints do have one thing— they have cars.

Shifting into visibility, he approaches the door and waits for her to enter. "Good morning. Thanks to stopping in to see me in person. Hope you didn't run into trouble."

—-

She flashes him a wry grin, as she moves in past him - "You knew I would - how could I not? Don't worry about it." Ali waves to her escort - getting them to stay put, at least. "You holdin' up? And.. I'm glad you got in touch with me. I need a favor, too."

—-

"Then we're going to be trading," Peter says, closing the door behind her and holding out the envelope. It feels like there's something inside, pictures maybe? But nothing too heavy or firm. Smaller than paper work. "I need you to make an announcement for me, when you can manage to get the radio again. If not— you should at least inform the Saints about it." Before that, though…

"What favor do you need of me."

—-

Ali picks a wall, after taking that envelope, tucking it into her jacket for later looking. "Bat Country's thrashed." The DJ is blunt - "And we are handling it. But, I'm a bitch when it comes to this kind of stuff." The woman frowns, watching Peter's face. "I want an ace in the hole. I don't want you there, when we do what we're going to do - but I need to make sure that we've got another layer to cover our ass. And that's you. If you're willing. You do 'noise' better than anybody."

—-

"So it was either Aldric or Deatley," Peter says, frowning a little as he glances up towards the ceiling. "Jones mentioned that the Resistance lost a higher up— someone well connected, but didn't say who. I've been busy with my own problems to find out. In some ways, I hope it's Deatley— either way he's having a bad week." That's a weird statement. But… "If you need a distraction, I have one. In fact, you got it right there." There's a stiff nod towards the envelope she tucked away. "Once it's announced it'll… cause issues." His jaw tightens.

—-

She frowns, and digs the envelope back out - and this time? This time she opens it. "More serious than usual?" And she digs through.

"I don't know /what/ it'll be yet, Peter. I honestly don't. Maybe it'll be a distraction, maybe it'll just be breaking something, maybe it'll be saving our asses - but I will keep you posted. I don't like all of it. Maybe it's the whole, 'it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you' thing - but I just have a Bad Feeling," the capital letters are almost audible, "and .. I trust you. Go figure. I /know/ I can trust you."

—-

"You shouldn't," Peter suddenly says, looking away a little. It's definitely bad news. "This might make people hate me even more than the accident with the train." Inside the envelope… there's photographs of a murder scene. During the war, this scene was a common sight on the news. Top of the skull sliced off, brain removed, eyes staring with death. This one's a woman. The MO is Sylar. "I took this picture a few days ago. She was killed on the 4th of August." The same night as the train accident, coincidentally enough. "Her name is Megan Deatley. And she was killed by Sylar."

Sylar. Who he was supposed to have killed.

—-

Ali goes /pale/. "Oh. Christ." Who doesn't know the stories? Who doesn't remember those early days? "… what happened?" And that may be said looking at those photos, but it's not a question aimed at them directly. "he was /dead/, Peter. People don't come back - that's the one gift nobody's gotten yet." And eyes narrow.

Never, ever accuse this woman of being slow on the uptake. "You never killed him. What's the real story?"

—-

"Actually they do— I've died about a hundred times now," Peter says, looking away from her, tension mounting around his eyes— but she is fast on the uptake. "I never killed him. I couldn't." There's a sound of pure disgust in his voice, hatred, anger. "I trapped him, though— I thought he'd never get out and come back— figured it was the closest I could get to killing him without…" There's a shake of his head. "I was weak— wasn't ready to become a killer at that point. My brother changed that."

—-

"No. You changed that." Ali says that absently, looking back down to the photographs. "This is… I need to think this one through." Then the next photograph.. then back to the beginning. "And death doesn't happen when the heart stops beating. That's just a proximate cause." She takes a long, slow breath.. and she cracks a truly tasteless joke. "think we could introduce Nathan and Sylar? They might enjoy getting to know each other better." Defense mechanisms. Oi.

"Alright. So what do you figure happens when this goes public? 'cause .. maybe I'm not a /journalist/ - but.. I'll be damned if I can just /not/. People need to know, or it's just easy for him."

—-

"He killed her the night of the train accident," Peter says, looking towards the pictures that she flips through. Not all of them are of the body. He took a picture of the broken clock near her hand, the picture of the calander forever stopped on August 4th. "Nearly the same time— by less than 20 minutes. The offical media— the President— is already comparing what I did to him— but at the same time, he took what might have been his first victim in a year. She was also one of my followers. I'm not sure how it's all connected— what he wanted out of it— but I think the train was a set up. If he had access to one of my followers— he might have had access to others, and they may have betrayed me— he may have made them betray me." There's a pause. A lot of things he doesn't know. But strange coincidences in a world that has few of them.

"My wife said she would handle part of this, but— I went back and took another set of pictures. I can't let this get buried by the government. The Saints need to know he's back— The world needs to know he's back."

—-

"I'll get it out there. And I'll try to spin it. Just.." Ali shakes her head. "It's gonna make things worse."

And then - call it odd, if you like - she stands up, crossing those few intervening steps to, if she can get away with it, give the brooding Petrelli a hug. "one of these days, you'll figure out that you really are doing the best you can. You got a good heart, Peter - and there's nothing wrong with that. Worry about fault and regret after all this stuff is over, right?"

—-

"I know it'll make things worse," Peter says with a flinch, which is why he's looking away when she approaches him, and hugs him. It takes him by surprise, but some of the brooding tension fades, and a single arm moves around her to return it, briefly touching the back of her head. "I did my best," he agrees, with a hint of a deeper sound to it. But… "If I were stronger, none of this would have happened." She's the spin master, she can handle things. However, as he peers over her shoulder, jaw partially set, he asks, "Can you inform Lachlan Deatley for me? Him and his sister were no longer close, but— family is family. He needs to know. And if you need help with— whatever you're doing— I'll do my best to be there. Though I doubt that your commanders will want me."

—-

"I don't care if they do." She keeps that hug for a minute, then steps back to look up at the freedom fighter, offering a wry smile. "I toldja - this is /me/ doing some planning. Elena and Jack have all the bases covered; just.. something feels /wrong/ about this op. And I've come to trust that feeling. Call it intuition - this is /me/. You're my insurance - I'll use the Imagine drop over in Central Park. Just keep an eye on it."

"We haven't found Lachlan yet. We're looking - when we do, I'll tell him. If we don't get Cass back, she gave me instructions to take him North.. whether he wanted to go or not." There's a faint set to her jaw there. "I think she had her own 'bad feeling' there."

—-

"Then you can have me as a contengency plan," Peter says once she pulls back, letting his hands drop and turning away a little to look up at the ceiling, as if checking for something. There's nothing there. "I'll stop in every few hours to check on it— so if you send me anything, I'll be wherever you need me. Right now I'm… hunting Sylar. No traces yet, can't lock on him, but I'll find him." And from the sound, only one of them will be left when he does.

"Probably just worried about her kid— if he gets himself killed trying to get her back, their kid won't have a parent." There's a hint of a flinch. The topic of children has never been a big one with him. After all… him and his wife don't have children yet, do they?

—-

"Yeah, that, and she loves him." Ali offers a faintly sad smile - somehow grim. "Cass'd die for what she believes in, but he's her weakness, and she knows it. That's part of it, too. But we'll fix it all, if we can. It'll be a coup." She moves back to her leaning-spot on that nearby wall. "I'll put what few ears I have left out, too - if I hear anything more about him, I'll pass it on."

—-

"Yeah— love," Peter says, looking as if he understands and isn't quite sure he wants to. Love might make people strong in some ways, but in others… "Thanks. Whatever you can do, do— the Saints might not be a direct target, but some of the people you have— he'd want. You especially. The ability to tell people what to do… he would want that." He looks at her quietly, a pause, then he says, "I'll let you know if I get any leads. If you still need me to read cue cards, I will. Just leave a message."

With that, he'll probably vanish, unless she says something to stop him.

—-

Ali just murmers.. "I guess I should start carryin' a gun, huh?" But.. she lets him go, and she starts for the door, stuffing hands into pants pockets.

—-

A gun won't stop him— but it wouldn't hurt. All Peter does is nod stiffly, the broody mask all the way back on, before he disappears. He has hunting to do.

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