Return to Level 5

Inspired by "Love The Way You Lie (Part 2)" by Rihanna ft. Eminem

"Even angels have their wicked schemes,

and you take that to new extremes.

But you'll always be my hero.

Even though you've lost your mind."

Prologue:

Passion

Passion. It is our passions that drive us for better, or for worse. Whether we use them for good, or for evil, bending them to our will, or they breaking us in turn, it is in an inescapable inevitability of life. So many find their greatest moments in passion while still others will find themselves suffocated by it in the darkest depths of the human soul. Perhaps, if we could find a way to live without our passions then we may be able to cultivate some semblance of peace amongst one another. However, without the inner fire and fortitude that our passions inspire in us, we would also become empty, hollow shells of the once great creatures we were.

The joys of love, the clarity of our hatred, the green eyes of envy, and the desperate ecstasies of pain and grief are all the things that make life worth living as well as ending. We can fight our passions. We can lock them away and refuse to give in to their demands. But the moment we repress them the most is also the moment they will rise and throw us into the tides of emotional upheaval with a resounding roar.

December, 2012

A young blonde woman in her early twenties shuffled along the London streets unaware of the predatory eyes following her every movement. She held her coat closer to her to ward off the late night chill and turned onto a lonely row that was nearly deserted of people at the late hour. Hushed footsteps steadily stalked after her. When she turned to glance over her shoulder her attention was drawn to the tall man in a long black pea coat pacing himself behind her. Somehow the way the shadows enveloped him, obscuring his face from view made the unwelcome presence menacing. Goose bumps prickled over her skin, and a shiver ran down the length of her spine.

The blonde's gait quickened, and so did his. Tossing another look over her shoulder, she saw him maintaining the calculated distance. Her pace slowly increased until she had broken into a sprint. The great tower clock struck the top of the hour and a bell tolled for her ominously. She was frantically trying to escape him then, keeping watch behind her and nearly tripping. His long strides kept him within closing range easily, but he wasn't ready to strike just yet. He enjoyed that he was a predator and she was his prey.

Bong… Bong… Bong…

Her escalated breathing muffled the echoes of her rushed steps against the pavement until the dance between hunter and hunted brought them to a dead end. The young blonde found herself cornered in the darkness of the alleyway. Her hands pawed at the walls blocking her from freedom. Tossing another look over her shoulder to where she knew he stood, hidden by the shadows but somehow taunting her with his stillness, she hesitantly lifted a foot to place on the wall and shifted her center of gravity to start running up the vertical boundary. The girl rose higher and higher from the ground where her tormentor remained, circling over to the next building, preparing to leap towards the fire escape that would release her. And then an invisible force tugged at her and pulled her kicking and screaming back down to the realm of her foe's reach.

"What do you want?" she rasped between urgent gasps as she was pinned to the wall by unseen bonds.

"Neat trick, cheerleader," the low voice came back to her from the darkness. He stepped forward into the moonlight exposing his face to her. Her attacker may have been a handsome man under different circumstances, but the way his thick brow line sheltered the pair of distant and yet coldly calculating brown eyes as well as how his lips pulled themselves into a cruel smirk only made him more terrifying to her.

"Cheerleader? What cheerleader?" she asked in a tight, high pitched tone, fighting for control of her body.

Bong… Bong… Bong…

He moved closer to her until they were nearly chest to chest. His hand lifted to trail fingers down her cheek and neck, and over her collar bones in a startlingly intimate way. She clenched her eyes shut tight and twisted her face away from him as he bent forward to tangle a strand of hair, glowing white in the moon light, around his finger, conspicuously sniffing at her neck.

"I'd like to see how that works," he whispered into her ear, his stubbled cheek scraping against hers. The final bell rang through the night before giving birth to a silence that would only be interrupted by a gurgled scream and the sound of blood splashing over the pavement.

Claire scowled at the white tiled floor that slipped under her feet representing the last mile she would walk as a potentially free woman. Fellow prisoners banged their fists against the glass windows of their cells shouting obscenities and crude innuendos at her as she passed by. She struggled briefly as they stopped at the heavily reinforced vault door marked as the entrance to Level 5 and one of the guards behind her struck the back of her head with his weapon. She winced at the pain, feeling the tell-tale trickle of warm liquid drip down through her hair onto the back of her neck. They gripped her arms too tightly once the door to the highest security sector was open. There would be bruises there in the morning but they didn't care. They were in a hurry to get her contained.

Two sets of guards marched ahead of her, two more in the rear, and one on each of her flanks with their rifles at the ready. She had stiff steel manacles chaining her hands together behind her back and then connecting the ankle cuffs that scraped over the tile with each step. It was all a little overkill. What did they really expect her to do?

Claire was rudely shoved into the last cell on the block, several empty ones separating her from the other inmates so that she would be confined in solitude. She glowered at the smirking faces of the guards as the door slammed shut, sealing her in tight. Her quarters were freshly renovated for her arrival, painted in a gentle pastel blue that was no doubt meant to be calming. A real bed had been placed in the corner where a regulation cot would have otherwise hung from bolted fixtures on the wall. She had even been granted a privacy screen for the humble bathroom area. The meager accommodations should have been somewhat reassuring, but they only filled her with more contempt, serving as a reminder for the real reason she was spending her time there. She was a rat stuck in a miserable cage waiting for some deranged lab doctor in a white coat to come experiment on her.

Claire wandered over to her bed and collapsed onto the padded mattress, wiggling around her bindings to make herself as comfortable as possible. If she had the energy left required to cry the white pillow case would have answered her sobs, but all she really felt was tired. Tired of fate, and time, and the cruelty of the reality she was surrounded by. Tired of trying. Tired of the fight. This was one battle that she wouldn't be allowed to win.

Peter and Luke marched down the hallway of the apartment complex warily watching for anyone that might be following or worse, waiting for their arrival. The duo hesitated once they reached the right number; the knob had been broken and the door hung slightly ajar. They nodded at one another and Luke cocked his pistol. Peter kicked the door the rest of the way open and burst through the entry way with his hands raised, ready to attack with the blue sparks of crackling electricity dancing at his fingertips. But they were only met with silence and a foreboding sense of calm.

"Mohinder? Matt? Anybody?" Peter called into the dark living room. Nothing. There didn't even appear to be a sign of struggle. All of the furniture and electronic equipment was undisturbed. Luke worked his way through the apartment dutifully keeping his weapon ready at his side while Peter followed suit.

"I got nothing. You?" Luke asked, not quite subtle hints of fear in his eyes.

"Nothing," Peter mumbled darkly. The Petrelli moved over to Mohinder's desk area and noticed the blood spatter arched over the computer screen. He winced, his mind running around the numerous grisly scenarios that could have caused such a scene to unfold. Reluctantly he shifted the mouse next to the weathered keyboard and the screen flickered to life. One of the geneticist's DNA mapping programs continued to run in the background with a warning message in bright red letters flashing: MATCH INCOMPLETE. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO TRANSMIT THE INFORMATION NOW?

"Shit!" he screamed, whirling around to drive his fist through the wall.

Luke flinched momentarily before flipping open his cell phone. He snapped a picture of the bloody computer, and quickly punched in a number that went straight to voice mail citing unavailable service. "Noah, it's starting."

Matt pressed a finger to his pursed lips, signaling to the woman at his side to remain quiet. A team of D.S.R.E.C. agents, fully suited in their signature black body armor, patrolled down the alleyway. They both held their breath as one of them stopped to inspect the dumpster they were crouched tenuously behind, cloaked under Matt's concentrated will for invisibility. The field operative jammed the muzzle of his weapon into the garbage, flipping it over and clanging against the metal sides in search of anyone that might be hidden there. He could see the man shake his head at the others and they continued on.

Maya sobbed quietly under Matt's shoulder as they crept back down the alley in the direction they had come from. They were surrounded by Department agents. and both of them were painfully aware that his injuries needed immediate medical attention. Parkman could barely support his own weight. His face was a bruised and bloody mess, his breathing haggard with a sick gurgling sound deep in his chest, and the arm draped painfully around his companion's side bent at an awkward angle.

Someone dropped from the sky overhead to the pavement just in front of them baring the Department's insignia. Matt made to grab for the gun at his hip, but the agent held up his hands in truce. He slowly lifted his helmet so that they could see his face. "West, what the hell are you doing here?" Matt ground out.

"It's over, Matt. They got to Claire." The young man's face was contorted painfully, his eyes glistening with unshed tears of worry and frustration. "They took her to Level 5. We'll never be able to get to her."

"There's one person who can," he wheezed before dropping to his knees.

"Bollocks," Edgar grumbled, rubbing his arms and shivering, each breath puffing into a bit of fog in front of his face.

"How long do you think we'll survive in here?" Tracey asked dreamily. She may have been immune to the sub-zero temperatures of the walk-in freezer, but air was in short supply. She wanted so badly to do whatever she could to help her… whatever he was to her, but the slightest touch would only hasten his demise. The speedster was huddled into himself in the opposite corner, his lips an unhealthy shade of blue and his body quaking desperately for heat. A patch of icy necrosis from frostbite discolored his arm where she had grabbed him earlier.

"I guess it doesn't much matter as long as the right people find him," Edgar gestured half-heartedly to Noah Bennet's lifeless body slumped in the other corner.

"Stubborn bastard," Tracey growled, kicking at the dead man's limp legs. "Should have told someone else where the damn antidote was."

"Don't worry, love. He'll come back. He always comes back… for them anyways." Edgar grinned mischievously, his head growing lighter with each passing minute.

Emma hummed absent-mindedly as she searched through the refrigerator for something appetizing. She shook her head with a small smile; her cravings were getting ridiculous. The pickles and chocolate ice cream with hot sauce was one thing, but the strawberry and coconut chicken over asparagus noodles was an entirely different matter. It didn't even sound, look, or smell good, but her stomach seemed to have taken on a mind of its own.

A glimmer of color caught her attention. Swirls of blue and green hovered briefly around her but that didn't make sense. Emma had learned every sound in the house and those of the people that frequented… Nothing, and no one she knew of made that particular sequence. She turned to see a grouping of men in black uniforms blocking the doorway from the kitchen. The agent closest to her was saying something. She could see the colors coming from him, but his helmet concealed how his mouth was moving.

"I can't hear what you're saying," she tried to explain, her hands subconsciously moving signs with every word. Emma could see the patches on their armor reading D.S.R.E.C. and a wave of adrenaline filled her veins. She tried to remember exactly where she had left her phone. She had to call Peter. He wouldn't like the people from the Department being there.

The agent that had been talking shrugged his shoulders and motioned to the other men who moved to take her. Emma reacted before she had time to think about what she was doing. She screamed in their direction and a spiraling column of various colors shot forward to clash against them.

"Mrs. Whitlocke, we've begun operations as you commanded. We've already managed to capture the Bennet girl as well as a few others. Anyone remaining should be brought in shortly."

"And Sylar?"

"No word on him yet, ma'am, but we'll find him."

Whitlocke flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and turned around to face her most trusted agent. He smiled a touch at her and a faint blush colored his cheeks. She crossed the distance between them and ran a soft hand down the side of his face and neck. "And what are you going to do when you find him?"

"Bring him to you, ma'am," he answered robotically, clearly fighting the primal urges that her presence was inspiring in him. She rewarded his answer with a chaste kiss on the very corner of his mouth, startling the young man. His manner was that of the good little soldier she expected him to be, but the heat rising in his body and his rushed breath told her everything she needed to know about how to really control him. Her hands mapped out the contours of his sculpted chest and stomach before returning to the back of his neck to play with his hair. Whitlocke tilted her head to the side, studying his repressed reactions with an evil twinkle in her eye.

"Would you like to help me punish him, Mr. O'Keefe?" The young agent shook his head in rapid agreement. She moved to whisper into his ear, "Would you like to help me kill him?"

"I'd do anything for you," he pledged instantly. She rewarded him again with a delicate touching of their lips meant more to tease his attentions than to please him.

"Ms. Bennet?" a voice echoed through the cell's com system. Claire rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. She made to grab the sack of fluff so she could put it over her head and block out the annoying voice that threatened to jerk her away from wonderful dreams about him, but her hands cried out in angry stings of pain against the chains that bound them.

"Ms. Bennet," the voice called again. She stirred with a sigh and rolled over, rocking herself into a sitting position. There was the lab coat she had been dreading. "Hello, Ms. Bennet. It's a great honor to meet you. I'm Doctor - "

"I don't care," Claire interjected disdainfully. An honor to meet you, my ass.

The dark skinned woman in the white lab coat lost her wide shining smile and looked genuinely hurt. She had probably just graduated out of some Department training program that fed their rookies grand stories about the heroics of the First Response team and their glorious leader, Claire Bennet. Savior of the "specials". Saint of the damn Department, and flipping pillar of society for the ability gifted. She scoffed without remorse. That pedestal was a tall one. She was only surprised that it had taken her that long to tumble off of it.

"You're a brave one," she muttered venomously as the doctor slid her key card into the electronic lock and punched in the security code that granted access to the cell.

"You're injured," she whispered on entrance. The doctor crossed over to the bed and examined the head wound that had been delivered by one of the escorting guards earlier. Claire hissed when her fingers probed at the damaged area of her scalp. Dark hands also glossed over the forming bruises on her arms, and the scrapes on her hands. "How long have you been without your abilities?"

Claire tilted her head, analyzing the woman before her. She seemed nice, but they all seemed nice at first. "Long enough," she spat out resolving not to give them any more information than absolutely necessary.

"I see," she nodded quietly. The doctor may not have understood Claire's attitude towards her, or the Department, but her intuition had made her privy to larger workings around her than anyone cared to disclose to someone of her pay grade. The D.S.R.E.C. wasn't just a research institute, organization, or a branch of the government. It was a living machine filled to the brim with complexities and secrets that she was better off not knowing. She opened up her file on her patient and skimmed over the pertinent information. "And when were you exposed to the Shanti virus, Ms. Bennet?"

"None of your damn business."

"Claire, please," the doctor tried to appeal to her, "the more you share with me, the greater your chances are that I can help you. I'll do everything I can to treat your… condition," she eyed the patient head to toe, "and maybe we can work on getting your abilities back."

Claire laughed mockingly and flopped herself back down onto her bed. Condition… Is that what they were calling it? "Let me guess. You were sent down here by some corporate suit to figure out what's wrong with me so you can relay that information to the guy signing your pay check. They don't give a damn about what happens to me, or 'fixing' me. All the Department wants is a weapon. Something they can use to control people like us." Too bad they might get it this time.

How did everything go so wrong? It wasn't that long ago that life had seemed nearly perfect for them all. Claire had a job she loved, a fiancé, and friends… She smiled ruefully at her cell's ceiling. Like all good stories, it's best to start at the beginning.