ellectrical | May 2007, Detour

A rental car isn't needed to get from New York to Newark. Thirteen miles, and driving will likely only take longer due to the traffic she could avoid with a short train ride. But after her last job, Elle doesn't want to be anywhere near a bus or train leaving the city. She can take her time getting to the airport. And –

Well, it's not her job. It's not supposed to be her job. But she's the one who gets to decide that now.

Whatever that means.

And about five years ago, it was her job. A target who'd come to the Company's attention after not being caught for his sister's murder, when it was proved Rachel Sullivan's injuries couldn't have been inflicted by her scrawny, 5'9" younger brother, Dennis. What the police didn't know, and couldn't understand, was that he had been aided by something more than his own limited strength. Elle and her partner had picked him up from his girlfriend's uptown penthouse when she was nineteen – up until about a week ago, he'd been kept in the Hartsdale Facility. She'd marked his Greenwich Village apartment down on her map, but she hadn't stopped by – the files she still kept on her laptop told her something else.

Now, she walks into the car rental, in jeans and another tourist t-shirt from Glastonbury, her gun slid into the front pocket of the suitcase that rolls along with her, and her bag containing the driver's license that lists her age as 25. Less than twenty minutes later, she's opening the back of a black hatchback, and sliding the suitcase inside.

Daniel Sullivan's assets included a cabin on property near a state park in New Jersey. Nothing close to on the way. He likely wouldn't be stupid enough to go to his old place, but he wouldn't have a lot of other options, and wouldn't be the type to bond with the other criminals on Level 5. Nor has he ever had to run, or even really hide, from anyone. It wasn't the way he worked.

(And maybe, really, Elle's just looking for a fight.)

So, far short of Newark, she changes lanes, and heads off the interstate.

There's a parking lot nearly a mile away – it means there won't be any fast get away, but she's not planning on needing that. What she needs is cover, and the lot, nestled in a more wooded area, lends it. The walk doesn't mean much, as she's only carrying her gun, holstered under her light hooded sweatshirt. In sneakers and jeans, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, she doesn't look like much more than a very off-the-path hiker.

It's nearing dusk by the time she reaches the clearing. Lights are visible in the windows of the cabin – it had been used by the Company as a safe house a few times during the years Dennis Sullivan had been locked up in the Facility, but she can see that the blue Jeep parked on the gravel path that leads up to it is not a Company car. As she moves closer, she can hear a television on inside, but she avoids the windows, stepping quietly over the gravel as she moves straight for the front door.

Elle looks over it once, running her right hand over the door knob, but instead she lifts it into a fist and knocks, loudly, on the wood. Someone yells inside – she can't make out what's said, but recognizes the man's voice. But she stays still, even taking a step back from the door, and it doesn't take long for footsteps to pound on the other side.

It's a woman on the other side when the door opens – nearly a foot taller than Elle, long brown hair falling over her face, though not concealing the bruise over her right eye. Without speaking, Elle moves forward, pushing her way into the narrow entrance. The woman steps back quickly, staying silent, though Elle can tell she wants to say something; the man's voice shouts again from another room.

Elle turns, her eyes catching the flash of metal on a nearby table. She steps over to it, and picks up the car keys.

With a glance to make sure, Elle tosses the keys to the woman. Startled and obviously frightened as she is, the woman catches them without any hesitation.

"Get out," Elle tells her. The slam of the door after Elle turns away lets her know the woman has gone.

The direction of the voice that leads her to an open door a little further down the hall. It opens into a spacious, wood paneled room: a darkened fireplace, windows that look out onto the forest, and a television that's been switched on to some kind of sports game. Sullivan is sprawled back over a brown sofa, a brightly colored can resting on the cushion next to him. He's short (even if that means she'd still have to crane her neck to meet his eyes) and slender, with disheveled blonde curls and blue eyes. Elle hasn't seen him in jeans and a red shirt before.

"Did you tell them to fuck off?" he calls, not looking back.

Elle responds by lifting her hand, and firing a bolt of electricity at the can. Flames burst out of it, and he jumps up – she fires another arc, catching his leg and making him stumble and cry out.

She rounds the sofa, but when she fires again, the electricity crackles up, fading in midair over him. Unlike his girlfriend, he does recognize her.

"You bitch-"

She throws another handful of sparks, which he again deflects – he pushes himself up off the floor and launches at her, forcing Elle to sidestep back toward the door. It's another bitch of an ability – invisible force fields that can withstand just about anything and lend strength to even weaker hits, though they don't have the precision of telekinesis – but there's no different weapon to bring.

Usually I try to hit them first.

He shoves her into the wall, and she twits her leg around him, electricity crackling between them and sending him stumbling through the door back into the hall.

"It took you people long enough," he calls to her as she follows him through the door. Sullivan steps back, toward a door across the hall, and Elle doesn't stop him from reaching it.

"It's just me."

"What?" he coughs, his hand on the door handle. "You're not here to drag me back to your Facility?"

Elle's fingers curl, and she shakes her head.

"No."

Sullivan pushes himself back through the door, and Elle follows. Her right hand slips under her sweatshirt, and she pulls out her gun, snapping off the lock as she steps through the doorway. It's the kitchen, small and already cluttered with dishes and food that had been left out. There's a door out of the cabin on the far right of the room – she throws another arc to block his path to it, but he cuts across the room toward her. Elle darts around the table and out of the way, throwing another arc at him; Sullivan blocks it, like a plate of glass were suddenly between them, but moves past it to lash out at her.

The punch hits her face – it's not well-aimed, and he doesn't have much muscle behind it, but the extra power of the force field means it's more like getting hit with a hard rock. She stumbles back, her gun nearly falling out of her hand, and before she can turn back he slams her forward, into a counter. Her body seems to freeze for a moment; there's a burst of pain from her right side, and she tosses the gun away over the counter as she tries to turn back to face him. He's lingered this time, maintaining the space between them, and after a few moments, she realizes why – she can only hit him if he's caught off guard, or if she can actually touch him.

It doesn't make her next move of rushing at him any smarter. It's like hitting a plastic barrier, and in the moment it takes her to recover from both stumbling back and the sharp pang that's resulted in her right side, he grabs her left arm, and moves to shove her down over the table. Elle hears him scream again as sparks snap up from her skin, but she still nearly falls into the table. A glass on the other side falls off and smashes against the floor, and she can pick up the scent of burnt flesh from his hand.

But it doesn't matter. When she tries to push herself up from the table, he shoves her down again; he doesn't have to touch her, but slam his arm into her, protected and strengthened by his shield. Her arms are shaking as she lifts her left to protect her chest, but this time as she moves up, his own fist is aimed for her head.

But then, he's not there at all. She uses her right arm to lift herself from the table, not sure what's happened even as she hears his groan of pain. Her eyes blink down to what's now his small, lanky figure collapsed against the wall to the right, and she turns back to the door to the hall.

Those few seconds are all Elle needs. His tall figure in the frame of the doorway, long black coat traded for a suit. Even a tie. The whole fucking thing clicks together in her mind before she really comprehends it, like she'd already known and can't quite be surprised, but their eyes meet and still, she says –

"You've got to be kiddi-"

Another movement distracts her – Sullivan's pulling himself off the floor, but before Elle can raise her hand, Sylar's launched the shards of the broken glass across the room at him. They shatter against the unseen barrier, and Sullivan stands.

"I thought you said it was just you."

Elle doesn't answer as she takes a sidestep toward the counter, but Sullivan actually moves toward Sylar. This time, a chair is lifted from the wood floor of the kitchen, and tossed in Sullivan's direction – it smashes apart a few inches from him.

Then it's a few butter knives that have been left on the table. They have the speed and power to shove themselves into Sullivan's chest as he continues to step toward Sylar – they stop in midair, and clatter across the floor. It would seem strange, to keep trying what clearly won't do anything to stop him. But Elle can tell Sylar doesn't mean to kill him. Not like that, anyway.

It's a discomfort she can't really feel, exactly, when she recognizes what isn't striking at an opponent, but merely judging one's prey. Instead, she only knows the advantage it will give her. Elle presses herself up against the counter, and glances once to the side. Sullivan continues forward, seeming to think he'll ever make it close enough to throw a punch. The forks rattle, and join the butter knives on the floor.

Elle sees Sylar's eyes flicker. She launches to the right, closing her hand around a large knife left out on the counter near the sink. The movement of Sylar's hand as he directs the telekinetic shove tells her where to step next; she twists back, as Sullivan this time is slammed across the room, toward the counter a few feet away from her.

There's no time for him to pull up another barrier, nowhere to make a force field between himself and the blade. She's held it upright, his body slammed against it – now, he barely makes a sound as sparks crackle over her hand and onto the blade, letting her drag it up through the weight of his chest. Blood spurts up – onto her tourist t-shirt, her hands, even her neck. His eyes aren't on her; he doesn't even seem to realize what's happened until they've begun to glaze over, and his knees give way, his dead weight falling entirely onto the knife in her hand. Elle waits a moment before reaching out with her left hand, and pushing at his shoulder, sliding his body off the blade. Then, she steps out of the way, letting him fall forward against the counter, and to the floor.

Her sneakers have blood on them too, now. Elle's first thought is that, at least, her jeans are still clean.

"You killed him."

It's the first time she's heard his voice since –

Elle lifts the knife again, and a bright white arc flashes from her hand and through the blade, directed right toward Sylar. She doesn't wait to see if she hits her mark, but lifts the blade in a sweeping motion, sending another arc up toward the logs that make up the cabin's ceiling. The fire breaks out immediately; Elle only takes a moment to reach over the counter and retrieve her gun before she nearly jumps over Sullivan's body as she runs for the door.

It's unlocked. Elle's still running when she makes her way around to the front of the cabin once more. There's another split-second decision when she sees the black sedan now parked on the gravel out front. It'll buy her more time, and that's all she cares about now. Elle raises the knife, allowing herself only seconds to aim, and fires a blue arc in the direction of the car. She barely has time to jump back behind the wall of the cabin as the car's fuel tank erupts over it, sending flames up toward the evening sky.

She might have cared about fingerprints before, but it doesn't make any difference now. Elle drops the knife to the ground, and runs as fast as she can past the flame-engulfed car and back into the forest.

No signs of surveillance, and only her car is left in the lot when she returns. She could have used the device in X's watch, but she'll need to see herself now. It's why the first thing Elle reaches for when she unzips her suitcase is her mirror. Using the car light, she looks over the damage.

The sweatshirt is taken pulled off and set aside. Folded the right way, the blood on it would be easy to conceal. It's a different story for the Glastonbury t-shirt she's got on underneath it. Elle takes a bottle of water out of her bag, and first pours some if its contents over her shoes, using her fingers to scrub off any blood that's left over them. Not effective for removing any traces, but it'll have to do for now. More of the water goes into her hand as she scrubs at her neck. She twists the cap back on with the bottle still-half full, and reaches for her bag.

After sorting her way through her few options, Elle takes out a mint green sweater from inside the bag and pulls it on over her bloodied t-shirt. There's only a moment of glancing at herself in her car's side mirror to make sure it works in hiding what she has to before Elle looks to her face instead.

There's a dark bruise on her right cheek, and a cut on her lip. Now that she's not running, the adrenaline drained, her right side is aching with frequent sharp snaps of pain. There isn't time to check whatever it is, but Elle doesn't have a choice when it comes to how she looks. She takes out her makeup, spreading foundation and powder over the bruise and evening it out over her face. A dark shade of lipstick hides the cut on her lip from anyone who wouldn't be looking for it. It's enough. Elle folds her sweatshirt and shoves her things back into her suitcase, before pushing it in and shutting the back of the car once more.

The driver's side door is open. Elle's about to get in when she stops, her hands flat on the roof of the car

And she's shaking, again. She presses her hands down against the roof to make arms stop, and digs her heels into the ground. Her body feels like one taut wire, edging toward its breaking point. Elle breathes in, and a sharp pang cuts through her chest.

Finally, after a few more painful breaths, the tension in every part of her eases enough for her to slide into the driver's seat. Her trembling stops as she turns the keys.

It's five past eight when Elle pulls into a motel parking lot. She takes down her hair and works to carefully brush it out, her bangs falling neatly over her scar. There's a last check in her side mirror before she heads inside.

No one gives her a second glance.