2010-01-29: Vacation of a Lifetime



Date: January 29th, 2010


Angela sees a future that would have Claire running off to another country.

"Vacation of a Lifetime"

Queens, New York

The furthest-away-from-the-door, back corner red leather booth of a homey, and probably greasy, family diner is probably not the first place one would search when looking for Angela Petrelli. That is, nevertheless, where she is. Seated alone at the diner in Queens, dark-haired updo contrasted by the more casual black leather jacket she wears, she fits in, if only just. Waiting, she slowly takes off a pair of winter gloves, setting them down beside a steaming cup of coffee — pitch black, untouched.

She looks tired.

A wool peacoat in a plaid pattern of black, grey, and purple with thin lines of lime green. A black beret that drapes over her blonde locks in a stark contrast. Thick black scarf. Black Thinsulate(tm) gloves. A pair of bootcut jeans with black boots underneath. Claire Bennet looks, as she always does, very pulled together. A genetic passdown, perhaps?

When she enters the diner, smoky hazel eyes peruse the people inside until they settle heavily upon a familiar, austere uptwist of hair. Her posture becomes more rigid in response, but then she pushes forward, pulling her own gloves off as she goes and shoving them into her coat pocket. It's not until she's slid into the far edge of the booth that she addresses her grandmother. "This had better be important."

The darker, but similarly smoky, eyes of Claire's grandmother track her all the way to the diner booth. A twitch of a smile softens the sober line of Angela's mouth, warm if only for an instant. "Claire. It's nice to see you too." If the young woman detects some mocking sarcasm from the older, she wouldn't be wrong, but there is sincerity in Angela's gaze. She's pleased to see Claire well. "I'd have paid you a visit at home, but since your father decided to sell me out and lead his pack of goverment hunters straight to me, I decided that would be a poor choice of plans."

"Fair enough," Claire allows with a purse of her lips, a miniscule shrug, and a ceilingwards flick of her gaze. When the waitress comes, the blonde orders a Pepsi for herself and then plunges her hands between her knees to warm them. Then her eyes go back to Angela, with a Noah-esque grimness. "It's good to see that you're still managing to get out and about."

"I try," Angela says casually, offering the waitress a tight, polite smile as she comes and goes. She shouldn't, as a matter of fact, be so out and about, but this is important. And Angela does not like to hide in the shadows when it's not her idea. Her demeanour falls into severity, and she leans over the table, whisking her coffee cup in front of her only to wrap aging hands around the ceramic. Her voice lowers, takes on a hiss of importance.

"You deserve a good life, and I know Noah is trying to give it to you by presumably keeping you safe from the Protocol, but that won't last forever," Angela says, eyes pinned on Claire. "You're a smart enough girl to know that sometimes what we want and what we're meant for are two different things. I had a dream about you, Claire."

The younger woman leans in to mirror Angela's motion, but makes no other grand movement. Blonde hair slips forward over her shoulders. "If this has anything to do with me going back into some lab," Claire warns with added threat made by way of narrowing eyes, "This conversation is over."

Oh Claire, Angela's briefly rolling eyes and flippant wave of her hand around her mug of coffee seems to say. "You remember our friend the Haitian," she says; undoubtedly a moniker that hasn't come up for some time. "Rene. Well, he needs our help and we need him to come back home. He needs your help."

Rene. It's a name that draws Claire up very short, and she straightens. She blinks owlishly at Angela for a long moment, and then she shakes her head to dismiss the surprise. That's a name that she hasn't heard in a very long time, indeed. And it's a name that triggers a prompt, gutteral reaction as the far more human part of her tears past the layers of distrust and teenaged animosity. "Okay." No more arguments, no more fighting. "What do I need to do?"

"He has a brother, Baron Samedi. A truly terrible human being." That's saying something coming from Angela, isn't it? "He's … a war lord. Weapons… drugs… human trafficking. He's a monster and his followers think he's a god because he can't get hurt," she says, pointedly, watching carefully for Claire's reaction. The parallel between the indestructible man and the girl who can't die won't be lost, she's certain.

"Rene's taken it on as his personal mission to stop Samedi, but what he doesn't know is that Samedi is amassing quite the army over in Haiti. He used to be on Level 5 until the Protocol raided the Company." Bitter? Of course. He'd still be safely locked up otherwise. "Somehow he must have escaped. He kidnapped a few American girls and went overseas… that's where you're going, Claire. I saw you there, I saw you helping those people."

Claire gives this thought the due consideration it deserves. Haiti. Overseas. Noah probably doesn't know about this. Helping people. Helping girls, her age, maybe. Noah probably wouldn't want her to go.

This sounds like possibly one of the best trips ever.

Claire offers Angela a smile. A genuine smile, filled with a hopeful brightness. She waits to speak, when the waitress is coming by with her soda, to say anything. Once it's deposited and it's ascertained that nothing else is needed right yet, the blonde takes a long sip of her drink and then continues. "So," she asks with that beaming smile still in place. "When do we leave?"

Angela, for an instant, matches Claire's smile, if in a more faded capacity, briefly heartened. She doesn't have to tell her not to tell Noah about this adventure. She finally takes a sip of her coffee; black as it is, it draws a frown that only deepens the lines around her lips, but no matter. She reaches into her coat to withdraw a scrap of paper and a map (of Haiti), both of which she hands across the booth table to Claire.

It is the scrap that she addresses, however. "Find this girl. Hallis Van Cortlandt. You might have heard of her from the papers." Angela's look is faintly sour. "She'll be going with you— for better or worse. She doesn't have an ability, as far as I know, but you have something to learn from each other. A very… old associate of mine will help you get where you need to go after that. All I know is that you should leave as soon as possible."

Claire looks skeptically down at the piece of paper. She stares at it for a long time. Then her eyes lift to gaze over that scrap to look at her grandmother as one golden eyebrow pricks upwards. "…What am I supposed to say to her?"

Angela once more lifts her cup of coffee, sipping calmly, her pose returning to a more poised carriage now that the most important message has been passed along. "You're a smart girl," the woman repeats her comment from moments prior, smirking just a tad. "You'll figure something out."

"That sounds really ominous, you know," Claire comments in an all-too-helpful chirp over another sip from the straw sticking out of her glass, body swaying from the feet that she is girlishly twisting beneath the table. Rebellion is very good for her demeanor. Heels point in! Heels point out! Heels point in! Heels point out! "You could try for something a little less Bond Villain, you know."

Bond villain? Claire's grandmother only smirks thinly, tipping her head back as she eyes the girl. It's hard to say whether she's remotely amused in earnest. "You can reach me on the number written on the map. You should really get a head start on finding that Van Cortlandt girl, who knows what shape she's in." She says so rather casually, but without explanation, nor does she allow much time for questions. She shouldn't stay. Unlike Claire, she's a fugitive. Angela begins to slide out of the booth, leaving a few bills and change on the table. "I suppose I don't have to tell you to be careful…"

Claire, who hadn't even bothered to take her coat off, slips out, too. The paper is pushed into her pocket, and then her gloves are pulled out. As Angela offers that last little warning, her pink lips curl up into a smirk of her own and an eyebrow arching. "Yeah. I think that pretty much goes without saying lately." She is Noah Bennet's daughter, after all.

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