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apocalypsosTitle: Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,500 words
Spoilers: "Collision"
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, but I do sort of wish I could rent Mohinder.
Summary: It's sunny out. Hiro had almost forgotten what that was like.
*****
Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking
*****
blink
+
-- and he's in New York again.
He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, closes his eyes and breathes. The streets reek of overcooked hot dogs and car exhaust and body odor. He clenches his fists at his sides and misses the familiar weight of a blade at his back.
A bus passes by with a "Vote for Petrelli!" sign on the side, and laughter chokes off in his throat.
It's sunny out. Hiro had almost forgotten what that was like.
+
blink
+
-- and Claire doesn't glance up from the wounds she's tending to, picking at her flesh with bored expertise. She leans against the wall in a darkened alleyway, tugging together the tears in her skin and watching the wounds seal closed. There's dirt smudging her cheeks and blood staining her hair, but her curls stay bright and vibrant, the only flash of gold any of them see anymore.
He sags against the wall next to her, back pressing against the bricks, and when he lets out a ragged breath, Claire jerks beside him in surprise.
"I thought you were going --"
"I did," he says. "I just forget sometimes. You know, what it was like."
She nods at that.
Off in the distance, an alarm rings out in the ruins. The sound slices through the air, and a few blocks away a child burst into loud wrenching sobs. Neither of them say so out loud, but they still repeat the usual prayers in their heads. That someone will shut the kid up, that someone will cover its mouth before it's too late, that if the baby is found its death is quick.
Claire twists her wrist, and he doesn't even flinch at the crackle of shattered bone. It's been a long time since it's unsettled him.
"We should put a bell on you," she says. "My mom used to put one on the dog. Kept the rest of us from tripping over the damn thing in the middle of the night."
"Very funny," he says.
She grins over at him.
"Where's Nathan?"
"Where else?"
Her gaze drifts upward, and his does as well. The dark spot in the sky is there if you look for it. All you need to do is squint.
It's not a surprise. Nathan barely touches ground anymore.
+
blink
+
-- and he's in his apartment in Japan, in what used to be home.
The other Hiro, the one whose location he's always sure of, is at work right now. He's staring at the clock trying desperately to force it to move backwards while his future self shakes his head at the comic books framed on the walls and raids his fridge. If he were here, he'd probably get a kick out of this.
This Hiro sits on his couch and leans back with his eyes shut to the world, savoring the only vacation he gets these days.
He turns on the television with the remote on the side table, and the sounds of Japanese voices sing through the air. His brain takes a few seconds to adjust, like the faded memories of the lyrics of some childhood lullaby.
Traffic rushes past his apartment building in a comforting cacophony he never wants to end.
+
blink
+
-- and the world freezes around him.
The dojo is small and open, his and his alone. Outside its walls the world spreads out with a backwards sort of beauty, ramshackle carts navigating the roads, an oft-used blade within everyone's reach.
He'd wanted a place to learn, to study. It hadn't been hard to find when he'd thought about it, when he'd only been willing to try.
He pulls a sword from the wall of the dojo, tests the weight of it in his hands. He carries it outside to the wide expanse of open ground he keeps for just such a purpose, calmly dodging birds paused in flight and brittle leaves stopped on the breeze.
Sailed ships reflect the sunlight on the harbor, and he turns away from their startling brightness.
He lifts the katana, sure and steady, and practices centuries before the end of days.
+
blink
+
-- and Ando doesn't move.
Ando never moves. That's the point.
Everything still looks the same, but that's the point as well. The dog crouched beside the dumpster barks silently, the familiar flower shop van he's seen dozens of times now sits frozen in motion on the street passing by the far end of the alleyway. Steam rising from the grate not far from Ando's body holds its shape in a serpentine curve.
Here is where people don't breath, they don't blink, and they don't age. Food tastes like nothing, and everything smells empty. It's cold and flat, like a wrong turn into the world inside an antique painting.
Things don't move outside of time. Not if he doesn't want them to.
He hears it first, the same thing he always does -- broken English spoken aloud, slowly fixing itself word by word. The earlier version of himself sits near the ladder to the fire escape, broken glasses tucked into the pocket of his fleece pullover. He reads aloud from the book in his lap, something about plague and dead people and the end of the world. He might not get the joke in his lessons, but his sense of humor will tilt towards the morbid in the future for lack of any other options.
This version of himself hasn't looked at Ando in what feels like forever.
He tries not to remember that much of this time, but that aspect always sticks.
He lifts his head as Hiro approaches, taking in the differences between the two of them, filing them away like he's making a to-do list. The hair, the clothes, the sword he now carries with him. The way his lack of glasses doesn't seem to bother him. The way he's not so quick to smile.
This younger Hiro opens his mouth to say something, then pauses at the look on his future self's face.
In English, is what he doesn't have to say anymore. You need the practice.
The words are hesitant when they come.
"How much longer until I can stop?" his earlier self asks.
The words are correct, but the accent's still too thick. Now is not the time to take chances. Miscommunication could get any or all of them killed, and their fight doesn't take place in Japan.
"Until it's flawless," he says.
His earlier self nods and bends back over the book in his hands without argument.
+
blink
+
-- and Nathan lands beside him on a crumbling rooftop, smiling in surprise.
Strange how he can still manage the politician's grin with everything falling apart around them, but then again it's probably just as fake as the one that adorns the buses and buildings Hiro recognizes in his backwards visits to New York.
"How'd it go, kid?"
Nathan always calls him "kid" like that, like he'll never grow up. Hell, he doesn't even call Micah "kid" anymore. Hiro's still trying to figure out if it's a compliment or not.
He looks down at the remains of the city, tries to ignore what they can hear from up here. "It hasn't gone anywhere yet," he says.
Nathan shrugs. "It will. You've got all the time in the world, right?"
There's so many ways to take that, but Hiro's heard the cliche often enough for it to have gotten old a long time ago.
"Maybe this time it will work," Hiro says.
"Maybe."
Nathan doesn't sound like he believes it either.
Hiro takes a deep unsteady breath --
+
blink
+
-- and he's staring at his target from the other side of a darkened train.
Another familiar face is there, too, holding onto the bar for balance and frozen in place like an expensive wax figure. But it's the first man he's come to see, this younger version with longer hair and just enough grasp of his abilities for Hiro not to have to concentrate. He doesn't know he's doing it, not yet, but Hiro can still feel the slight drain on his energy, the first man's body just as left of center in relation to normal time right now as Hiro's is.
He can't tell him everything, of course. There are steps that need to be taken, certain things that need to be learned.
But nobody ever said anything about not giving him a head start.
"Peter Petrelli," Hiro says, and when he turns to face Hiro it's a shock.
He looks so different without his scar.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,500 words
Spoilers: "Collision"
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, but I do sort of wish I could rent Mohinder.
Summary: It's sunny out. Hiro had almost forgotten what that was like.
Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking
*****
blink
+
-- and he's in New York again.
He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, closes his eyes and breathes. The streets reek of overcooked hot dogs and car exhaust and body odor. He clenches his fists at his sides and misses the familiar weight of a blade at his back.
A bus passes by with a "Vote for Petrelli!" sign on the side, and laughter chokes off in his throat.
It's sunny out. Hiro had almost forgotten what that was like.
+
blink
+
-- and Claire doesn't glance up from the wounds she's tending to, picking at her flesh with bored expertise. She leans against the wall in a darkened alleyway, tugging together the tears in her skin and watching the wounds seal closed. There's dirt smudging her cheeks and blood staining her hair, but her curls stay bright and vibrant, the only flash of gold any of them see anymore.
He sags against the wall next to her, back pressing against the bricks, and when he lets out a ragged breath, Claire jerks beside him in surprise.
"I thought you were going --"
"I did," he says. "I just forget sometimes. You know, what it was like."
She nods at that.
Off in the distance, an alarm rings out in the ruins. The sound slices through the air, and a few blocks away a child burst into loud wrenching sobs. Neither of them say so out loud, but they still repeat the usual prayers in their heads. That someone will shut the kid up, that someone will cover its mouth before it's too late, that if the baby is found its death is quick.
Claire twists her wrist, and he doesn't even flinch at the crackle of shattered bone. It's been a long time since it's unsettled him.
"We should put a bell on you," she says. "My mom used to put one on the dog. Kept the rest of us from tripping over the damn thing in the middle of the night."
"Very funny," he says.
She grins over at him.
"Where's Nathan?"
"Where else?"
Her gaze drifts upward, and his does as well. The dark spot in the sky is there if you look for it. All you need to do is squint.
It's not a surprise. Nathan barely touches ground anymore.
+
blink
+
-- and he's in his apartment in Japan, in what used to be home.
The other Hiro, the one whose location he's always sure of, is at work right now. He's staring at the clock trying desperately to force it to move backwards while his future self shakes his head at the comic books framed on the walls and raids his fridge. If he were here, he'd probably get a kick out of this.
This Hiro sits on his couch and leans back with his eyes shut to the world, savoring the only vacation he gets these days.
He turns on the television with the remote on the side table, and the sounds of Japanese voices sing through the air. His brain takes a few seconds to adjust, like the faded memories of the lyrics of some childhood lullaby.
Traffic rushes past his apartment building in a comforting cacophony he never wants to end.
+
blink
+
-- and the world freezes around him.
The dojo is small and open, his and his alone. Outside its walls the world spreads out with a backwards sort of beauty, ramshackle carts navigating the roads, an oft-used blade within everyone's reach.
He'd wanted a place to learn, to study. It hadn't been hard to find when he'd thought about it, when he'd only been willing to try.
He pulls a sword from the wall of the dojo, tests the weight of it in his hands. He carries it outside to the wide expanse of open ground he keeps for just such a purpose, calmly dodging birds paused in flight and brittle leaves stopped on the breeze.
Sailed ships reflect the sunlight on the harbor, and he turns away from their startling brightness.
He lifts the katana, sure and steady, and practices centuries before the end of days.
+
blink
+
-- and Ando doesn't move.
Ando never moves. That's the point.
Everything still looks the same, but that's the point as well. The dog crouched beside the dumpster barks silently, the familiar flower shop van he's seen dozens of times now sits frozen in motion on the street passing by the far end of the alleyway. Steam rising from the grate not far from Ando's body holds its shape in a serpentine curve.
Here is where people don't breath, they don't blink, and they don't age. Food tastes like nothing, and everything smells empty. It's cold and flat, like a wrong turn into the world inside an antique painting.
Things don't move outside of time. Not if he doesn't want them to.
He hears it first, the same thing he always does -- broken English spoken aloud, slowly fixing itself word by word. The earlier version of himself sits near the ladder to the fire escape, broken glasses tucked into the pocket of his fleece pullover. He reads aloud from the book in his lap, something about plague and dead people and the end of the world. He might not get the joke in his lessons, but his sense of humor will tilt towards the morbid in the future for lack of any other options.
This version of himself hasn't looked at Ando in what feels like forever.
He tries not to remember that much of this time, but that aspect always sticks.
He lifts his head as Hiro approaches, taking in the differences between the two of them, filing them away like he's making a to-do list. The hair, the clothes, the sword he now carries with him. The way his lack of glasses doesn't seem to bother him. The way he's not so quick to smile.
This younger Hiro opens his mouth to say something, then pauses at the look on his future self's face.
In English, is what he doesn't have to say anymore. You need the practice.
The words are hesitant when they come.
"How much longer until I can stop?" his earlier self asks.
The words are correct, but the accent's still too thick. Now is not the time to take chances. Miscommunication could get any or all of them killed, and their fight doesn't take place in Japan.
"Until it's flawless," he says.
His earlier self nods and bends back over the book in his hands without argument.
+
blink
+
-- and Nathan lands beside him on a crumbling rooftop, smiling in surprise.
Strange how he can still manage the politician's grin with everything falling apart around them, but then again it's probably just as fake as the one that adorns the buses and buildings Hiro recognizes in his backwards visits to New York.
"How'd it go, kid?"
Nathan always calls him "kid" like that, like he'll never grow up. Hell, he doesn't even call Micah "kid" anymore. Hiro's still trying to figure out if it's a compliment or not.
He looks down at the remains of the city, tries to ignore what they can hear from up here. "It hasn't gone anywhere yet," he says.
Nathan shrugs. "It will. You've got all the time in the world, right?"
There's so many ways to take that, but Hiro's heard the cliche often enough for it to have gotten old a long time ago.
"Maybe this time it will work," Hiro says.
"Maybe."
Nathan doesn't sound like he believes it either.
Hiro takes a deep unsteady breath --
+
blink
+
-- and he's staring at his target from the other side of a darkened train.
Another familiar face is there, too, holding onto the bar for balance and frozen in place like an expensive wax figure. But it's the first man he's come to see, this younger version with longer hair and just enough grasp of his abilities for Hiro not to have to concentrate. He doesn't know he's doing it, not yet, but Hiro can still feel the slight drain on his energy, the first man's body just as left of center in relation to normal time right now as Hiro's is.
He can't tell him everything, of course. There are steps that need to be taken, certain things that need to be learned.
But nobody ever said anything about not giving him a head start.
"Peter Petrelli," Hiro says, and when he turns to face Hiro it's a shock.
He looks so different without his scar.
