2008-01-21: Stubborn Petrellis

Starring:

Peter_icon.gif Angela_icon.gif Haitian_icon.gif

Summary: Peter contacts his mother, demanding answers and the safety of Elena.

Date It Happened: January 21st, 2008

Stubborn Petrellis


It's snowing outside and while the sun is up, it hasn't started to warm yet. Peter stands outside, punching numbers into a payphone from a pre-paid calling card bought at the gas station he stands outside. It's early in the morning than it is where he's calling, cause he just happens to be a couple states away, wrapped in a scarf and coat, trying to stay warm against the cold. Best way to avoid quick Company response? Call from the middle of somewhere very far away at a public phone. Or that's what spy movies have taught him is a good idea. Hopefully she'll answer a call from a public phone.

Angela Petrelli, meanwhile, is alone in her office, save for her sentient shadow: the Haitian, who sits at a small, ornate desk off to the side in an antique chair. The woman herself is walking the room. Gentle, distant music plays from somewhere decidedly indistinct; Paganini - Cantabile on violin. The calm eye of the storm while, outside, things rage.

The cell phone. A modern necessity, these days, when one is running a Company with a capital C. Alas. The small black phone, sitting on her imposing desk amidst a myriad of important documents, lamps, pens, and books, gives a simple ring and draws Angela toward it. The number garners a frown. She exchanges a suspicious glance with the Haitian before bringing the phone to her ear. "This is Angela Petrelli," she answers, her tone curt, business-like, and above all, expectant. Who are you and what do you want?

There's some wind in the background, but it seems too quiet to be a city. No horns honking, no ambient street noise, just an occasional sound of tires going by, as if a small unfrequented highway is nearby. "Mom," Peter says into the phone, voice soft with obvious strain and tension.

A current of tension runs through Angela the moment the identity of the person on the phone is confirmed. His voice, after all, is quite familiar. But tension does not equate nervousness, no, not for Angela Petrelli. She turns to face the Haitian, letting it be known by the hardening of her features and the pointed look in her eye who is on the line. "Peter," she says simply — tightly. "I've been expecting your call."

"Figured you would be— you didn't even have them clean up after themselves in her apartment," Peter says, a hint of anger beginning to seep through his voice. He pauses, actually seeming to pull the phone away for a moment as he takes a deep breath. It's pretty obvious he's trying hard to remain calm, even with all the tension still there when he speaks again. "Is know she wasn't hurt in her apartment— but is she okay?"

Angela allows Peter his silence, lets him take his time. In her office, she strolls from her desk to a nearby wall adjacent many shelves of file boxes. But this wall, in particular, holds something else: another form of data. An arrangement of four screens. "She's fine," she answers with a reassuring mother's tone, holding her head high as she regards the top right screen: Elena, in the cell miles away. "And she'll continue to be fine if you do what's right. Turn yourself in, Peter. Be responsible."

"So you can kill me, like you sent Gabriel to do?" Peter asks, the tension coming through again, heightening. Relieved as he may be that she's all right, he has other things on his mind that are making that relief less than it should be. "You already know I'm not going to turn myself in. And by taking Elena away— you just proved everything I've been saying your Company does to people they say they're trying to help."

"This goes beyond your ideals of right and wrong. We have to what's necessary," Angela is quick to answer, her voice becoming heated — yet there's a distance there even so, a detached manner, as if she's not talking to her own son.

"Taking Elena was not necessary," Peter says, voice thickening with force. "She was the one who had the best chance of helping me and you took her." He takes in a slow breath before he can continue again, but the strain is still very audible. "If anything else happens to her, you'll be the one responsible for what happens when I find out about it."

"As I said, she's safe, and she'll continue to be so — but you're not going to see her again unless you turn yourself in. She knows about your transgressions, by the way, and wants you to do what's right." Angela turns her back on the video monitors slowly, crossing one arm over the buttons of her suit's jacket. "I don't want to be in this situation any more than you do, Peter. But you're going down a very dark path. As the head of this Company, it's my responsibility to prevent you from spinning out of control. As your mother … I never wanted this for you."

"I understand what's going on now," Peter says, taking in a tight breath that can be heard over the phone. "What happened with Mr. Nakamura was an accident. It shouldn't have happened. I tried to fix it and…" He trails off, a different kind of teeth gritting this time, as if he's afraid to say much more. "I'll believe she wants me to turn myself in when she tells me herself. What exactly did you want for me, mom?"

"I'd let her speak to you, but she's not nearby," Angela replies with a tone of apology — barely there, but if you listen hard enough… "You can't fix it," she snaps. "Not yet. It's not a switch you can turn off and on. More people will get hurt if you don't come to the Company."

"You don't believe I can do this without your Company," Peter says, anger in his voice, the words almost spat out. "You don't believe I'm strong enough— is that why you told Gabriel to kill me, mom? Is that why you offered him freedom — for himself and Elle — in exchange for my life?"

"Yes." One stinging affirmation. Angela holds the phone in silence for a moment; she strides across her office, standing across the smaller desk opposite the Haitian, touching her fingers to a stack of leatherbound books. "I wanted to test him," she states matter-of-factly. "Even if you fight Gabriel's ability, there will still be blood and it will still be on your hands. You've taken the wrong fork in the road and there's no going back, but there's another way to go from here."

It does sting. So much that there's silence on the other end. A few cars drive by that can be heard more vividly, as if he's taken the phone away from his ear. When she hears his breath again, enough time has passed from the last words that she might suspect Peter's left the phone hanging off the hook. Not the case, luckily. "And what exactly is the other path, mom?"

Angela's response is silence, broken after a few moments by her sudden voice. "Things are going to get worse before they get better. I can't tell you, Peter, not now. You don't trust me and I don't honestly blame you. For now, the best thing you can do is cooperate. No one has to get hurt."

"No one else has to get hurt, you mean," Peter says, voice thickened. "How about this… I have a few demands. I want to know what your Company has planned for me if I turn myself in. And what they'll do to Elena. As much details as you can give. Get the paper work together, as much as you can, put it in a binder on top of my coffee table and leave it there. Maybe after some of my questions are answered, I'll be more inclined to listen to you."

"I can tell you right now that you don't need it," says Peter's mother, flippant, confident, and ever-so-slight impatient with this line of conversation. "But I'll indulge your stubbornness, I know there's no bargaining with a Petrelli when they're on a streak. Very well."

"You just know the only way you'll ever get me is if I come in myself," Peter says in a soft tone, looking at the numbers on the phone. "You know things will get even worse than they already are if you do anything more to hurt Elena." There's a small pause. "I'll call you tomorrow. You can let me know if the file is there or not." And with that, he doesn't give her much time to respond when he hangs up the phone. Stubborn Petrellis.

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