Caution: contains Season 3 material
Starring:
Summary: Bob is taken. How? This is how.
Date It Happened: January 25th, 2008
The Other Side
Bob Bishop's Office
Company Headquarters, NY
Without visitors at the moment, the office is quiet save for its owner, engaged in a one-sided conversation. Pacing slowly in front of his desk, Bob Bishop holds the receiver of his phone to his ear. The coiled cord stretches lazily. "Can we meet like civilized adults to discuss this, Elle?" he says into the phone, his calm voice touched by a hint of agitation. He stops, for a second, and reigns in a tense sigh. "I want you to know that I haven't given up on you." He steps closer to his desk, his leather shoes padding over the rug that's been installed, a relic from Hartsdale. "You're my daughter and I— "
Growing up, Mariska was never really the sort to eavesdrop… now, it's all she ever seems to do. Perhaps it's a side effects of working all angles; paranoia born of information overload. She knows so much she shouldn't and she has so many secrets to keep. She lingers only long enough to determine the nature and length of the Bob Bishop's phone call — given that he was talking to his daughter and that her current situation was… tenuous (to say the least)… Misha knew he was apt to stay on the phone for hours She wouldn't need nearly that long. Instead of biding her time outside of his office, she merely tossed a glimpse in through the gap in the door and headed for the ladies room. Once she was safely installed in a stall, she blinked out with an unmuffled noise.
KRAK! Mariska was in the man's office, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. She took hold of the bald-man's arm and…
KRAK! They both disappeared. The phone clattered to the desk, unheld in their wake.
Shocked to witness the Company teleporter appear unannounced in his office in this manner — with no appointment, with no warning — Bob is struck speechless and appalled. His mouth is open, but before he can sputter out a chastisement, demand she come back another time because can't she see he's on the phone, it happens. All he has time to do is drop the phone, and they're gone.
The office is empty and silent, save for the muffled, high-pitched voice of Elle on the other line, drifting into the empty space as "Daddy?!"
At least it's quick. Mariska's particular method of relocation allows for instantaneous travel with only a second or two of delay. Blink once… and you're there. By the time Bob's eyes come back into focus again, he's standing in a significantly larger and much more luxurious office than the one he left. It has a nice view, too — of Jersey.
Does Bob recognize Jersey outside? No, probably not; but he takes in the sudden change of scenery with wide eyes, instantly backing away from Mariska. The man glowers at her, brows hanging low. "Ms. Ivanova, with all due respect, what do you think you're doing? Where am I?!"
"Have a seat," she says brusquely. The roughness in her voice may be unintentional… or maybe this is Bob's first glimpse of the teleporter's true colors. Mariska, meanwhile, seems to have somewhere else to be and, as such, heads for a pair of double-doors but blinks out just before reaching them — KRAK!
That… just might mean he's locked in.
"… wa— " Wait. No go. Bob does not, in fact, have a seat — he walks briskly to the double doors, trying them, rattling them. Stepping backwards away from the door, he looks around the office for a second time; it's a world away in design from the Company's, bearing no familiarity. "Ms. Ivanova!" he shouts at the door in an exercise of futility. "Mariska! Who's out there?" …
* * *
Bob is counting down the minutes on his watch by watching the second hand tick by, gauging its position every so often. In between those moments, he eyes the spacious office he's found himself in, keenly searching for clues to his whereabouts. He gave up trying the doors about three and a half minutes into his wait — they're locked, he's sure of that, and he's quite sure Mariska knew it, too. No one has responded to his shouts, and so they've stopped, too. Whoever is respsonsible for this, he wants to talk to them.
Presently, he's in the process of eyeing that watch — gold, for the record. He strolls around the periphery of the office, eyeing shelves on his way to the desk. Desks always hold clues.
The door to the office opens suddenly, and the man that comes strolling through it will most likely shock Bob Bishop. Pulling the cuffs of his suit forward, making sure that it's on perfectly, as any fine-tailored suit should be, Arthur Petrelli casually strolls into his office, eyes falling on Bob with the hint of a smile. "Hello, Bob," he says casually, as if they only parted ways yesterday. "How's your golf game going?"
Shocked? Shocked is right. Furrows immediately deepen into crevices on Bob's expansive forehead, eyes widening, growing huge behind the black frames of his glasses. "Arthur Petrelli?" All snooping put to a swift end, his thoughts are obviously far from his golf game. "My god. Well, this is certainly a surprise. You're dead." Wait for it… "Mariska…"
"Half dead," Arthur responds, moving to sit behind his desk. He folds his hands in front of him, forearms resting on the edge of the desk as he leans forward to look at Bob. "But, due to fortunate events, I'm up and able again." As for Mariska? "Mariska works for me now. Has for a while now, actually. I've been wanting to see you, Bob. I've got something for you to do."
Pieces start falling into place for Mr. Bishop, and although the puzzle doesn't fit together yet, the process is visible. His outright stare on Arthur is incredulous. "To what end?" he demands to know — although the direction of his question might not be clear. Half dead, fortunate events, Mariska, something for him to do… "It's been what, two years? I'm not doing anything for you until you explain to me what is going on, Arthur. Pardon me for wanting to spend a moment catching up on the life of a dead man. Excuse me, half dead."
"My wife poisoned my food. Paralyzed me. I've been lying in a bed for the past two years waiting— waiting for the right moment to seize what I needed. Once I took it, I was able to get out of bed. Now I'm here, leading this company into the new world, and you can either work for me, or I can kill you. The choice is yours, Bob, really." He smiles, leaning back in his chair, folding his hands over his lap. "Oh," he says, almost as an afterthought, "and as a little bit of extra leverage to get you to do what I want you to, I know where you daughter is. I won't hesitate to kill her, either."
Mr. Bishop processes this news — all of it, threats included — with minimal reaction, save for a gradual tightening of his features. "A new world — I see you have the same outlook as always, Arthur." The man's reference to 'this company' has Bob strolling along the front edge of the desk, looking around the office and the outside view once more, his arms folded tightly over the grey lapels of his suit. "What exactly is this company?"
"Pinehearst Research," Arthur replies calmly, the smile on his face becoming rather smug. He seems to be enjoying himself. "Dedicated to becoming the nation's most leading biotech company, etc., etc." He looks up at Bob, following him as he strolls along the front of the desk, leaning forward again. "At least that's what we tell the world. We're much like Primatech, Bob, except for one, small detail." It's with this that he offers the man another smile. "We're better."
TO BE CONTINUED