The two girls meet at a party for a mutual friend. The younger one is obviously an innocent; her eyes still reflect the wide blue sky her father showed her as a child. She dances just boldly enough to be noticed.

The older girl is different. She is licking a sucker when they meet. The lollipop is bright, brilliant, luminescent pink, the same color as the lips that surround the curve of the candy. Her teeth, white fangs, press against it, and occasionally her tongue darts out to lick the side.

She is forbidden, she is dangerous, she is sex on legs.

Claire has never seen anything like her.

They go to a hotel afterwards. Claire lets Elle take her dress off. Elle runs her hand over Claire’s collarbone, feeling the terrified thump of the heart underneath. You don’t have to be afraid, she says laughingly.

I’ve never done anything like this before. Their eyes meet, and Claire looks away. The straps of her dress are down around her shoulders like wings, and her hair is mussed around her head. She looks ridiculous. She is ridiculous.

How, Elle wonders, as she presses Claire into the bed and runs her tongue along the hollow of Claire’s throat, could anyone be sad, or afraid, or lonely, when surrounded by this weird and wonderful world? She doesn’t understand suffering; she’s never known it.

She pulls back, straddling Claire, and looks at her. She is a broken doll, her ivory limbs sprawled out across the bed, chest heaving, Elle’s hands lying possessively on her thighs.

It’s moments like these when Elle feels like a ghost, like a wisp of the wind, like something that doesn’t exist. She feels like she should be something else. Someone else.

Their blue eyes meet, Elle’s pale, Claire’s dark, as if they were painted that way to balance each other out. Claire’s head falls to the side slightly, questioning.

Elle feels something like electricity- so horribly familiar, like something she should remember but doesn’t, like an instinct- crackling under her skin. She dives down into Claire, fingers pressing urgently, lips begging of the flesh and receiving.

She knows it’s foolish to be sad.

Afterwards, they lie together without words, listening to the rain outside the window.

-*-

She lies on the ground, spread-eagled and bleeding, a figment.

Or so Elle thinks as she stands over the other girl, panting, raising one sparking hand at her side. Claire is a figment of her imagination, one she can summon at will and that she can just as easily brush into nothingness.

The gash on her forehead glues itself back together slowly. Elle smiles. That’s cute.

Claire doesn’t answer. Her head tilts to one side, lips touching the hard asphalt of the warehouse floor. Her eyes, swollen and purple and healing gradually, close.

Oh no, sweetheart, you don’t get to go to sleep. Not without my say-so. She crouches down and grips Claire’s knee. The electricity that jolts into Claire’s body makes her convulse, gasping, against the floor she is bound to.

Elle spreads herself out next to Claire, touching her cheek and pulling their faces nearer. She bites her tongue and giggles. I’m so glad Daddy assigned me you. She wrinkles her nose. I don’t think doing good is really my thing.

What do you think this is? Claire croaks angrily. A play date?

Her lips pout, eyes still crackling with blue fury. You’re making fun of me, Claire. Didn’t your father ever teach you any manners? Her hand rests on Claire’s cheek coolly, rises into the air, and comes down with a harsh, lightning-flavored slap. Claire bites a hole in her lip and lets the blood run down her chin in a quiet rivulet. Elle laughs.

She pushes herself up, brushes the dirt off her knees. I just hope I don’t have to kill you. Then who would I have to talk to? She watches her fists glow blue. Wanna cut the small talk, though? I’m gonna ask you the question a second time. I hope you’ll answer. I’d hate to have to break your legs again. She swivels and holds out the brightening hands. Where is Peter Petrelli?

The beaten girl stares back from the floor. Elle’s voice catches in her throat for a minute because of those eyes, those damn eyes- so much like hers, but unsullied, darker, without the paleness, the loss of control. They’re beautiful in their defiance.

She asks again. Claire smiles.

Don’t taunt me. A quiet threat. She moves nearer. Where did Peter go after his brother died?

I don’t know, Claire whispers.

You’re the only person he would have told, Claire. We’ve questioned his mother; she wouldn’t give us anything. Where did he go? The light of her hands falls across Claire’s face, illuminating the lines.

You dare jeopardize this and I’ll kill you, Elle thinks. My father trusts me to get this job done. Obey me.

Unfortunately, Claire knows a challenge when she sees one.

Peter flew away somewhere, she singsongs, mustering the widest smile she can even though it cracks the skin. Way away into the sky, where you can never ever find him.

Adorable, Elle snarls, really cute. She falls down on her haunches and plays with one of her fingernails, trying to stop the tears of frustration from falling down her cheeks. You know we have your father, sweetheart, she adds quietly. He works for us now, and we can do whatever we want to him. Relocate him to Madagascar. Dump him into the ocean. Make him kill Mommy and little Lyle… Claire twitches; Elle smiles tremulously at the glimmer of hope. See? See how easy it would be just to tell me? She runs a long finger along Claire’s jaw line, then spreads her hand out across her cheek again. I’m your friend, Claire, you can trust me. I can keep your family safe. I can let you go free. I just need to know where Peter is.

Claire whimpers, a frightening, animal sound that echoes in the dark warehouse. Elle’s heard the sound before, but it’s never affected her like this, never shot this far into her heart where she can feel it reverberating, where she can see herself at age six- two big blue eyes and skinny knees- brought to the company for the first time, hooked up to machines for the first time, screaming. She has known suffering, known it intimately. It is her constant companion.

And here is this girl, this insignificant, foolish, helpless girl, lying on the ground and wanting nothing more than escape, and she is lying to her. Elle feels suddenly sick.

Claire looks up at her, chin shaking, eyes glowing with fury. I wish you would go away, she hisses. As if Elle were a ghost, a wind, something that could be blown away just by Claire wishing it.

Elle leans back and rests her head against Claire’s for a moment. There is something here between them, struggling to come to the surface, Elle can feel it- but what is it? What is it?

She can’t remember a time when she was more unhappy than now.

They lie in silence for what seems like hours, listening to the drip of water somewhere far off.