March 2007, "Fight or Flight"

[ellectrical]

"Like I told ya', you're not gonna find him in there."

Elle doesn't look up from her close sweep of the crate's walls. It did look empty, but when dealing with a man who can make himself invisible, it's really better to not take any chances. Still, she doesn't run into any mysteriously solid pockets of air, and after a few more steps in the dark, her shoulders fall.

She turns quickly, and steps out into the light, following the dockhand. "But you're sure it was him?" she asks, again taking out the large photograph of Peter Petrelli; it's an old one, with his bangs still falling over his face, but the dockhand seems to recognize it immediately, with more certainty as he takes the photo to look at it again.

"Yeah. Found him cuffed inside there a few nights back."

He hands the photo to her, adding, without much sympathy, "Poor sap. Didn't know how he got there, didn't even know his own name."

Elle doesn't skip a beat as she takes the photo back: "Do you know where he is now?"

"Depends." His eyes look over her once, with something like faint curiosity. "Who's askin'?"

She gives a short, sweet smile, and shrugs. "Just me."

There's a pause before she continues, "I work for a Company interested in keeping him out of trouble. Peter is a … dangerous guy."

She smiles at the end of that, and the dockhand nearly returns it. "You don't have to tell me that."

He gives her another once-over, this time more regarding. "He's in town. Place called Wandering Rocks Pub."

Elle doesn't wait to thank him, and turns immediately, heading off the docks. She doesn't stop as he starts to call out after her – "Hey! If he's so dangerous sweetheart, why'd they send a little girl like you in all alone?"

And she does stop, and looks back to give him another smile.

It's gone by the time she's turned the corner.


*


It's easy enough to find the pub's address through a quick internet search, and Elle's driven enough in foreign places (or at least, places foreign to her) to decipher her map without any trouble. The rain is an unpleasant surprise, but she has heels and a large umbrella, which is folded away as she enters the empty bar room. There's rattling coming from the back room, and she takes a seat at the bar, picking up one of the menus to peruse while she waits for whoever it is to come out.

It's not Peter – she can see that well enough out of the corner of her eye. This man is too tall and stocky for that. And instead of looking up, she calls, "You know, I've never been in an Irish pub before." She flips over the menu – there's not much variety. "Do you have haggis?"

"That's Scotland, love," the man answers, placing a box of bottles on the bar. "We have stew. And mussels. And stew."

He opens the box, and begins emptying it. "But I'm closing up."

"Oh." Elle hops off the bar stool. "Well – yeah – I was hoping you could help me – I'm looking for a guy –"

"Best time for that's right after a football match –" he interrupts, and at her confused look, "The fellah's are locked out of their minds – "

Leaning in slightly, "Up for anything."

She gives a weak and insincere laugh before reaching for her photograph, flattening it a little before holding it up for the barkeep. "His name is Peter Petrelli."

The man's already shaking his head before he really looks at the photo, and his face slips into what she recognizes as a nervous smile. "Never seen him before."

"… never seen him before," she echoes, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

"No."

His eyes don't part from hers, and that nervous edge to his smile fades. After a moment, Elle shrugs.

"Cool. Thanks." She puts the photo away and turns, as if to leave. But after only a couple steps, she stops.

"The thing is – " Elle turns to look back at him, "I talked to a few people down at the docks. They said they saw him in here."

"I don't know what to tell you," he answers easily enough, but he's putting less effort into the act. Elle folds her arms.

"So either you're lying, or all those other people are lying. It's just kind of hard to tell who's lying, you know?"

From her voice, it's clear she doesn't think it's particularly hard at all, and the man surveys her once before taking a few steps toward her.

"Like I said, I don't know this Peter." The space between them closes, so he can stand over her, forcing her to look up to continue to meet his eyes. "Is that it now?"

She doesn't say anything, and her gaze doesn't waiver when his shoulders shift, and he nods slightly toward the door. The look he gives her is familiar, but one she's never really understood – it's hard for her to remember what it means to be a little girl.

"I guess so." It's more a decision than an answer, and she turns again, this time not looking back.

"Sorry I couldn't be more help," he calls to her. Elle's not really paying attention – she's more focused on the sound of his footsteps toward the back room.

"Yeah," she answers dimly, as she reaches the door. "Me too."

She's not.

Elle doesn't leave, and glances through the rain-splattered window set in the door before turning its small steel lock. Quietly, she lifts her right hand, allowing a small electrical arc to spark up from her palm and hit the lock; a small burst of flame and smoke let her know that they won't be interrupted, and she turns. Her right hand lifts again, and a pale blue light fills the room.

Ricky McKenna doesn't have time to scream. She would have let him, but the walls don't look too thick, and it's not part of the job. It might be a shame to finish it so quickly, but, well. There would be time later.

For now, Elle just wants Peter Petrelli to know exactly who's looking for him.

And there's nothing more than a charred corpse on the floor as the light dissipates. For once she doesn't linger, but picks up her umbrella, and steps over the cooling body, heading for a door in the back room.

*


The rain falls together, strikes nearly simultaneous on the cement and against the driver's seat window, making a hushing sound, like wind through leaves. Elle hates the sound of rain. She's watching it from safely on the other side of that window, eyes fixed on the pub door across the street. Occasionally, her gaze drifts to the closed butcher she's parked in front of – she's craving some of that tandoori chicken she could get in Milliways. Mussels and stew somehow weren't as appealing.

These thoughts, in any case, are interrupted her cell phone's ringing. She pulls it out of her pocket and glances at the top screen before opening it.

"Hi."

"Elle, are you all right?" Her father sounds more impatient than particularly concerned. She'd probably forgotten she was supposed to check in with him earlier or something.

"Yep, I'm fine," she answers, still cheerful, before casting a glance out the window again. "Weather could be better."

"Have you found Peter?" He gets to the point very quickly, and Elle doesn't mind

"No, not yet, but I will," she says, and while it sounds teasing, she's looking out the window again for any sign of movement near the pub.

"Well, how close are you?"

"He's here," she answers, trying to sound nonchalant. "I had to improvise a little, but –"

"Improvise?" her father breaks in. "I told you to do this quietly –"

"No. I mean –" Elle's shoulders tense involuntarily at the change in her father's voice, but she still sounds calm enough."I just had to use a little… persuasion, that's all."

"Elle, we've talked about you using your abilities like this –"

"Wha –"

"- and ignoring my instructions –"

"No, it was just some guy," she protests, turning away from the car window again, "And –"

"- and you could have compromised this organization by –"

"All right," she snaps, finally, as she knows exactly where this is going – "I killed him, ok? What is the big deal?"

The line is silent, and she's not really expecting an answer. It's not like her father's never assigned her to take someone out before, and who besides Peter could figure out what happened to the guy? The whole point was for him to find out. It made sense.

Finally, "I think we're done with this, Elle."

"What do you mean?" She's genuinely confused. If anything, she'd just thought there'd be more yelling, and then telling her to hurry up.

"I mean I want you to come home."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

Elle's too stunned to speak for a moment, and she shifts in the car seat, turning away from the window altogether. "This is my assignment," she argues, "and I almost have him."

"You may have already tipped him and Monroe off because you didn't follow my instructions," her father answers, and though he sounds calm, she can hear the impatience under it.

Still, she can't help herself from trying, her voice slipping up to something awfully like a whine, "What if I promise not to –"

" – that's it, Elle. I don't want to hear any more."

And that is it. It's over. Her faces slips into a flat, expression as she gazes back out at the rain.

"Fine," she answers, her tone dulled. "I'll come home now."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sorry Daddy," she adds. She always says that. "It won't happen again."

She always says that, too. Elle snaps the phone closed, giving the bar a glare as she pulls out the keys to the rental car. Maybe if she lingered a moment – if he came up as she was leaving, it wouldn't be her fault and she'd still –

But she doesn't. Coming home is her job now. She does the job.

Elle does, however, tap grumpily at the steering wheel as she pulls out into the deserted street.



[ooc: Dialogue largely from Heroes 2x05 "Fight or Flight."]