2010-06-27: On Call



Date: June 27th, 2010


Tracy and Peter get in contact over a common concern.

"On Call"

Battery Park

New York City

A new walking path recently opened along the Battery Park waterfront. It's really quite lovely: a nice path, some benches, trees that, every so often, provide shade, and of course, a view of the water and the city.

Nothing about the idyllic Sunday evening setting are what drew Tracy to the path tonight. It was just a place. A getaway, sparsely populated. The sunlight above the city is drawing to a close, bringing a vaguely eerie light over the water by way of sunset. Tracy stands against the metal rail that acts as a barrier between the path and the river, looking out at the water and holding a smartphone in a deathgrip.

Dark shades are set on her head, pushing back blonde hair — she's been out and about before the started to set. A light wool blazer in black, a white blouse and neatly tailored white denim mark the typical wardrobe of the advisor. Former advisor?

People glance twice, but no one looks for long, because the blur of movement goes by so fast that it must have been a trick of the wind. It certainly causes wind. Litter left on the park gets lifted up into the air, and hair tugs, as the blur of movement suddenly comes to a stop in front of the blonde former advisor.

Dressed in paramedic blue, it looks as if she caught him during a break when she called, or maybe Peter always dresses like this these days. "Tracy— Ms. Strauss, it's good to see you again, hear from you— what did you need? Why did you call me? Did— did something happen?" There's apprehension in his voice, as if he might have an idea what she might want to talk about, cause he has something he wants to talk about. "I'm glad you called."

As Tracy turns to look at the very sudden presence, her hair breezes and settles around her shoulders. She forgoes surprise at Peter's quick appearance; offhand, she can barely remember an instance he didn't appear out of nowhere. His greeting earns a decidedly skeptical look, her eyebrows raising as she gives him an incredulous expression — seriously? "I think you can call me Tracy," she says, though her voice is in no way welcoming.

"I…" Tracy looks out over the water, then brings her hand up on the rail to glance down at her phone. The screen is cracked in an intricate pattern of damage. "… Thanks— for coming." She doesn't sound especially sure that he would. "You're like a dictionary of … y'know— of abilities. Theoretically," she glances sidelong at the paramedic, eyes wide, brows raised high again. 'Theoretically'… "If there was someone who had the ability to influence you… like a certain person we knew… how would you stop it from happening."

"It's Ivory, isn't it?" Peter asks simply, looking her in the eyes before he glances off, toward the water visible from where they stand. "I know he's alive. I think he's influencing an old friend of mine, but I can't help her until she realizes what's going on. I'm not entirely sure— his ability seems to have a chemical effect, since a chemical ability could remove the effects before. I don't know if there's a normal, non-powered way to stop it…"

There's a pause, before he says, "If it travels through the blood, it might slow down if you're cold enough. Blood runs slower in low temperatures. It may spread less."

Tracy's face turns stony at the mention of Ivory's name. She takes in a deep breath and holds it tensely. "Well, isn't that ironic," she murmurs cynically, a vicious undertone carrying on as she adds, "I can be cold." Slowly, she starts to soften, though the anger stays.

"At first? I wasn't sure if it was him. If it could be him. He was supposed to be dead. Then the messages started. The mind games. I thought they were dreams, but then— " Disgusted, Tracy shakes her head, doesn't finish, only looks away over the river. "Why did he have to be the one to come back." Of all the not-really-dead New York Senators in the world…

"That's why I suggested it— being cold," Peter says with a hint of a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. "I don't know— I didn't see him, I only heard his name, and saw how my friend talked about him. It sounds like he might be running a strip club in town, definitely different from the Ivory Wynn that was a would-be Senator and figurehead of a clandestine group of soldiers set to turn us into weapons."

Yeah, he doesn't much like the idea of Ivory being alive, either.

"I used to feel sorry for him, but if he's doing what I think he's doing… Making yourself cold might help, avoiding him would be better. If his power causes a chemical dependency, the best way to avoid it is to avoid. There may be some drugs that can help with it, but that requires a lot more time and research. I don't know if there's a quick way to flush it from your system short of the way that Lena did it."

The news about Ivory's potential whereabouts these days prompt a roll of Tracy's eyes — incredulous, but only just. "He's gone too far. I'm practically being stalked. It's one ore move to blackmail," she says, quieting as she goes on, "I just got … some form of my life back. I have to— " A restless air overtakes the woman, and she shifts where she stands, gripping the railing with one hand only to step back from it. "I have to find him." Find him and … ? "I just can't let him do what he did to me again."

"If you're going to do this…" Peter starts, reaching out to touch her hand that grips the railing. For a moment, his eyes seem to glow green, as he tries to extend one of his many abilities to her to try and give her a little help in cleaning out whatever she might have gotten in the last few weeks from him stalking her. It may or may not help. "Try to keep your body temperature as low as possible when you're around him, and if you start feeling like he might be the most important thing in the world to you… call me. I can show up and get you out of there."

The green glow of Peter's eyes is met with another incredulous look from Tracy (It's faintly wary as well; when is glowing eyes ever a good thing? All Tracy knows about glowing eyes is that they lead to rabies.) "Well, the way I travel, I wasn't planning on carrying a phone…" Almost as soon as the words — a touch amused — are out of her mouth, Tracy gives a soft sound of distress and doubles forward ever-so-slightly, closing her eyes to the effects of whatever ability Peter is using on her. That there was an effect at all is telling enough, but — though she seems decidedly out-of-sorts as she straightens — she's fine.

"Then just make sure you have an escape plan, Tracy," Peter says, taking his hand back and pulling away a little. "I don't want him to hurt you again." It's genuine and caring, and he may not know her well, despite his… unrequented crush that he'd had in a moment of confusion. "I don't want him to hurt anyone else, either," he adds on as a follow up, to make it less… awkward for him. "Is there anything else that I can do? That should have cleaned you some of whatever he's done to you, or that was the intention. It might make it easier for you."

"Thanks. You 'n' that girl — you're like walking rehab." Tracy closes her eyes for a quick instant and a hand goes to her brow as she feels out her equilibrium. "'m more clear-headed already." As her eyes open, she gives Peter a small smile. "No, you're right — I need an escape plan. Thankfully— " A confident grin appears. " — I always have a strategy." Hopefully the tricks up her sleeve are just tricky enough to slip away from Ivory in time. "And you can tell me where that club is."

"It's called Therapy. It's in Queens," Peter says, pulling back another step or two as he gives the street that it's on, and the block number so that she can find it easily. "I'd been there once before— your sister used to dance there." A faded memory that he barely held on to, due to the clone being drunk off his feet— but he remembers it enough. "You might be able to confuse some of the older employees into thinking that you're her— assuming Ivory kept any of the old staff on when he took over."

There is a long pause that follows Peter's reply, filled with nothing but Tracy's — you guessed it — incredulous expression. She seems to decide that being surprised, offended, or appalled isn't worth the effort, because she only gives a tired roll of her eyes and starts to step around the paramedic. "…I need to go to Queens."

Tracy stops short only a few paces past Peter, however, and looks over her shoulder. "Hey," she says to get his attention, lest he pulls one of those disappearing acts. There's hesitation after the fact. "I'm sorry," she starts and though her words fall a touch flat, the sentiment of the sometimes-ice-queen is sincere. "About what happened to your brother." Sincere— but not with quite enough remorse.. for that. For the this, on the other hand… "The whole press conference— " She smiles; it's more like a wince. "It was my idea."

For someone who lost his brother, there's a moment when his head raises that seems different— perhaps it's because Peter's had time to recover since the news and the sight of his brother getting stabbed. Maybe he's heard it a hundred times already. Or maybe he knows something that she doesn't know.

Instead of responding to her condolenses, or her guilt, he asks something simple, "Did you love him?"

A muffled, dismissive laugh under Tracy's breath is the reply Peter gets at first. It catches her off-guard, and it's clear — for a second — that she doesn't know how to answer. Or if she will answer. "What does it matter?" she asks somewhat flippantly over her shoulder, though the undertone is more serious — rueful. Make no mistake, however, it's a rhetorical question. "You always so romantic, Petrelli?"

"Unfortunately," Peter says, before he takes yet another step back. "Take care of yourself, Tracy. I'll see you later." And with that, the blur of movement begins again, her hair gets blown around, the sunglasses even slip a little, as the air just can't handle the sudden shift in airflow as he speeds away.

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