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As the creature charged past the bodachs, their attack relented—Alma was gone, the creature was gone… therefore, in their minds, the threat was removed. They did not once consider that the monster was now charging towards their mistress, only that he was no longer attacking her. Even now, Alma’s pulse was declining towards only a little higher than usual. Alma sat in her alcove, her hands curled into her hood, eyes pointed towards the gap in the pipes that she had slid under. She was under the impression that the darkness was deeper where the pipes interrupted the mouth of the alcove, but she couldn’t be sure. Still, her eyes pointed downward, wide with fear, while her ears pried for signs of movement.

The creature’s threat still wrung in her ears, in her skull, sinking into her brain—life or death, that was the ultimatum. He was going to rip her to shreds if he got his hands on her. Alma pressed the knife to her head, feeling the cool handle against her skin. Her uncle had never taught her how to fight monsters, only men. She had to be smarter than the creature if she wanted to make it out alive. Her ears perceived the scratching of claws against stone—it was too large to be natural. It had to be him. Alma set the knife in her lap, dragging her hands over the slimy surface of the floor. She wiped more goop on the front of her legs, and on the front of her coat.

When he drew in close, she fell silent. She breathed shallowly, slowly, fearful of making too much noise. His footsteps drew in, pausing at the mouth of the pipes. Alma didn’t move a muscle. She could hear him breathing. He stalked away, slowly, but then circled back. He was tracking her scent—Alma had eyesight and scent to worry about. There was a faint swear in the other direction as he turned, pacing back. His footfalls returned.

Alma remembered back to a time when she’d played hide-and-seek with her sister, and she’d hid in the corner of the coat closet. Her sister was home from Xavier’s on Winter Break, and she was playing hide-and-seek with the older neighborhood girls. Alma managed to tag along and, being the youngest, had the biggest advantage. She’d tucked herself in the coat closet, and her sister’s friend had looked in there three times. Eventually, they gave-up on looking for her and went to do something else. Alma had emerged a half-hour later, hungry and confused, yet victorious.

Shaking the recollection from her mind and refocusing on the task at-hand, Alma listened as the footsteps returned, pausing in front of the mouth of the alcove once more. This time, the boy spoke, his voice cracking with anxiety. The human sound tricked her, momentarily, allowing the young woman to forget that she was dealing with a monster. Unbeknownst to him, she wasn’t really in the position to turn anyone in to the cops. Given the fact that she was directly related to a family of gang-bangers, and residing in a houseful of homeless and criminal mutants, Alma really couldn’t turn the guy in. He was second-guessing himself, convinced that Alma would somehow escape, and that he’d then die… but not if she died first. The kid was desperate and dangerous—and therefore, not trustworthy.

Still blind in the darkness, she did not notice that he’d leaned down near the pipes in an attempt to pick-up her scent: did not know that he was staring straight at her without really seeing her. It wasn’t until he inhaled that Alma became how acutely aware of how close he was. She held her breath, closing her eyes tightly. All it would take was one glance to the side. All it would take was one misstep, and he would be on her.

She waited in silence, and finally, he rose once again, his feet shuffling off. How long could she stay there, she wondered? When would it be best to run? Alma slid thick-soled boots, and slid off her socks, tucking them into the leathery recesses of the shoes. It would better to run sooner, rather than later. And she’d need to be as swift and as silent as she was able. While the boy was preoccupied with following a nonexistent trail, Alma could steal-off in the opposite direction. She’d swallow her qualms with the slimy floor against her bare feet, if it meant living. She could hear the bodachs moving closer, murmuring placidly amongst themselves now that, to them, the threat was no longer imminent.

Alma slithered out from her alcove, slowly getting to her feet. Her ears pried into the darkness for the sound of return, but she heard nothing. Alma righted herself and, in the darkness, retraced her steps, her hand never leaving the wall. The air changed as she left the serpentine tunnels and returned to the cavernous room where the creature nested. She flicked her cell phone on, surveying the nest. God knew how long she would be down there—it would be best to take along some of his food. Alma flicked on the backlight of her cell phone, to get a general idea of where things were, and then shut it off again. She’d need to be smart with the battery. She grabbed canned goods and plastic bottles, tipping them into her bag. Once her bag was reasonably stuffed, she took it off of her shoulders, and set it off of her feet. She ditched the boots and socks, her coat, and her shirt, fishing out garb from the pile. Stuff that wouldn’t smell like her. Alma raked her fingers along the walls, dredging up goop, and she spread it on her arms. It was gross, sure, but what choice did she have? Clothes were replaceable and life was not. Alma picked her bag up once more, rubbing it against the wall as she went.

Now that she was bathed in the scent of the pipeline, Alma flashed her cell phone on again. The walkway wrapped around the pool where the water gushed, leading to another platform on the other side of the room. This platform was enclosed on two sides, the third wall bearing a door into another tunnel. Alma flicked the light off and, using the wall to guide her, walked around the pool, towards the next tunnel. Her bare feet padded against the floor in a hush, and Alma carefully made her way through the doorway, and into the other tunnel.

She flicked the light on again. The walkway was the width of a sidewalk, with a shear drop into the churning water below. Alma sighed, flicking off her phone, and resumed walking. Her hand remained a foot in front of her, her fingers perceiving turns before she went headlong into the walls. All facts considering, she was doing pretty well… she didn’t hear the monster, she was on the move… perhaps she’d even escape and be able to forget this whole nightmare.

Alma was so preoccupied with navigating the tunnel, and keeping her ears perked for the sounds of larger animals, that she was not attentive to the sounds of smaller creatures. Something small and warm skittered over her exposed foot—more than likely, a rat—and Alma did what any reasonable person would. She let out a horrified, disgusted shriek.

“Ugh, ¡rata!” she screamed, jumping and kicking at the offending thing. She heard an eeeek! and a plunk! as the rat was punted into the nearby stream—but, though her immediate problem was resolved, the young woman had now more than likely alerted the creature of her vague whereabouts.

The dark-haired woman had been momentarily deluded to believe that she was home-free. She was making good distance between her and the monstrous mutant—all she would need was a vantage point to hide in until he barreled past, and then she could walk home, no problem. The scarf had fallen from over her nose and mouth, allowing for easier breathing. Alma half-considered kicking off her thick-soled boots, so that she could run more freely, but she didn’t have time for that.

The twenty-year-old had not taken running speed into consideration—but, in her defense, no one ever expected something to come barreling after them at the speed of a low-powered motor-scooter. Alma had enough time to turn, intending on gauging how far back the other mutant was, to determine how much time she had to hide, and saw that he was quickly gaining speed, galloping on all fours, and closing in fast.

A stream of Spanish swears left her mouth, and the young woman started to run again. It was futile, and Alma knew this, but she still attempted to outrun him. She looped her bag over her head so that the strap sat across her chest. Alma could hear the footfalls drawing in, and the leap as the creature sprung. Alma turned, as if to dodge, but she was two steps too slow. The creature tackled her, and Alma hit the pavement hard, her skull hitting the pavement with a dull thud. As soon as she made impact, the world exploded into a sea of stars and darkness, before the nothingness steadily overcame the pinpricks of light.

As soon as Alma had slipped into unconsciousness, the bodachs relented in their attack, confused. They sloughed off of Sylar, if any still clung to him, and ventured into intangibility, prodding at their mistress’s arms and legs. Unable to rouse her, they merely trailed behind her as the creature tossed her limp form over his shoulder and retreated into the dank depths of New York’s underside.

An unknown amount of time had transpired. Alma had been laid to rest on the makeshift bed, and for a while, she lingered in the unconscious slumber, scarcely stirring. The shades stood close to her, occasionally prodding at the piles of snacks in search of candy. If they found some, a small quarrel would arise—little shouts of “Hey!” and “No!” would arise, occasionally interspersed by a victorious peal of laughter as soon as one of the spectral creatures had commandeered their prize.

Alma awoke slowly, at first, shifting sleepily in the nest, as if to roll over. She sighed, and inhaled—and the smell that met her nose was unfamiliar and musty. The room was too warm, and the bed was not her own. All at once, her recollection of witnessing a robbery rushed back to her, as well as her memory of the creature, and an eddying terror surged through her body, causing the young woman to sit up with a gasp. Her bag was still stretched across her chest, which meant one thing—she, herself, had not been robbed. This also meant that she was still armed. Alma waved a hand in front of her eyes, to find that she was in darkness.

Since her eyesight was no useless, Alma took to prodding at her legs, from her feet, along her caves and thighs, to her sides. No missing articles of clothing, either. Alma looked around, prying into the darkness with her ears… she heard steadily gushing water, and the sounds of the city were distant. Where had that freak taken her?!

“Guys?” Alma whispered, trying to locate her specters. The call reverberated in the tunnel, and was then echoed, in the squeaks of the little ones, and the murmurs of the large ones. By now, the bodachs had drifted into intangibility, and were therefore wholly unperceivable by the novice kidnapper. They were there, their luminous eyes piercing the darkness, drawing in closer to their awakening mistress. For once, Alma was grateful for the freaky little devils—they were a familiar sight in this unfamiliar place. They would protect her.

A voice shouted at her from the darkness, and Alma tensed. Of course he was there, watching her closely. Though Alma had tried to move about with making as little sound as possible, he had somehow known that she was awake. It was either his eyes or his ears. Alma couldn’t see anything, and couldn’t hear much more than what your normal human would hear.

>> "I don't know how, but you attacked me! You shouldn't attack a monster, not a normal mutie like you."

Alma scowled into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. The creature’s voice reverberated off the inside of the tunnel, making it hard to tell where he stood. Alma’s heart was hammering heavily with fear, her form wracked with trembling from anxiety and adrenaline—her expression betrayed none of this, except through the tension in her features. Her lips formed a hard line, framing a smoldering glare. Instinctively, she drew her pepper spray, flicking the safety off of it. He was threatening her by yelling, and Alma was showing that she wasn’t afraid through action. In the darkness, when his garish face didn’t warp her perception of him, he sounded younger. Adolescent, even.

“I did not attack you,” Alma snapped, her eyes thinned, “You attacked me, and dragged me God-knows-where—“

There was a rustling in the darkness, and Alma turned her head. A sharp twinge of pain followed, and she winced, a hand feeling the tender area on the back of her skull. Man, her head had hit the pavement hard. Her head hurt, as did her spine. Her body felt like one, enormous ache. Alma grit her teeth at the pain, which spasmed across her face momentarily.

“You chose a dangerous woman to kidnap,” Alma murmured, “I bet that you didn’t know that, boy. Lucky you knocked me unconscious, or else they would have really swarmed you. You don’t have just them to worry about, though—oh no, foolish boy—you’ve got me, too. Me y mi familia.”

Alma felt behind her, her hand bumping a slick wall. Alma stood shakily, and leaned her back against the wall, holding the canister out in front of her, slightly lowered. It was cold to the touch, and pointed outward, ready to be sprayed. She was convinced that she was dealing with a petty criminal, and a desperate one at that. Petty criminals were stupid, not like the organized, white-collar crime that Alma knew from her family. They were more dangerous in their stupidity. She was not the sort to assume that she was just dealing with a desperate, starving child.

“What are you going to do to me?” Alma demanded, “Nobody drags someone into an unfathomably dark room just because they want to.”

The screamed and struggled, begging for Alma to let go, but this only earned him a smirk. Right—like that plea ever got the expected results when uttered by a captive to a captor. He could try, but… really? Did he think she was going to just laugh it off and let him go. Oh hell no. Not after he dropped her name like that. So casually. As if it were common knowledge. It made her insides turn.

He wriggled some, huffing and puffing, eyes rolling about after she voiced her inquiries. He still wanted her to let go, but the woman was a stubborn one. Too bad, for him.

“Well?” the young woman prompted, her tone dripping with dryness. Finally, the man spat his name. Harlan Crowe. She’d have to look into that later. He continued to pant, weighing his options before breathing the second name.

Victor Silva.

Some of the tension that limned her features relaxed. He had given her two decent answers. Were they truthful? Possibly not. But he had earned his first award. Alma tossed the knife aside. It was just out of reach, but not so far that she wouldn’t be able to dive and grab it if the situation called for it.

“Good name to drop,” Alma admonished. Victor Silva was an associate of the family’s, who occasionally ran errands for the Falcone’s when they were errands not worth running by a blood relative. In a sense, it was insulting—they hadn’t sent anyone related to her. It was also understandable, though—for all they knew, they could have been chasing a cold trail. Alma could have been in Europe, for all they knew. They trusted Mr. Silva because he worked expressly for them, and because he wasn’t really involved with the criminal scene. He was a nobody, good for nobody-worthy tasks.

“Any distinctive features about Mr. Silva?” Alma pressed on. Mr. Silva was a bearded man with chestnut-colored hair that was long enough to be tied back into a ponytail. His shrewd grey eyes stared out from behind silver-rimmed glasses. Most notable about him, however, were the enormous gauges in either ear, and the tattoo on the side of his neck, which was a tribal symbol that stretched down to his shoulder. These features, and his six-foot-tall and solid-muscle stature very difficult to forget.

“That is part one of the question. Part two—what about the Sanctuary drew you in? What about this humble little homeless shelter for mutants struck your fancy?”

Alma nodded her head as Locke echoed her, a smile twitching on her face.

“They’re good people,” she admonished breathily. After her mother had passed, when her father had been struggling to care for her, she’d had a few encounters with social workers. At the time, the young Elizondo had a distaste for them, but in retrospect she’d grown fond of them. They had only been trying to help.

Locke seemed to take an affront to Alma’s commentary, despite her hasty attempt to revise what she’d said.

“When we talked about genetics in high school, they talked about mutations… not the kinds that give you powers, but… you know…” Alma trailed, her tone almost apologetic.

Right about then, the professor brought up Mendels’ experiments. Alma quirked a smile—they would, undoubtedly, cover genetics. At which point, the issue of mutations would likely arise once again.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way, is all. I'm not narrow-minded, in regards to them. I just think it's stupid that we don't talk about such a sizable portion of the population... it's like not talking about people with blonde hair or people with pinkies that turn inward, because you're biased against them."

Said the woman who saw things that were only visible fifty percent of the time. Alma leaned forward, slouching slightly as she half-listened to the professor. Locke murmured something to her, and the young woman shifted her gaze towards him.

“You think that, in this entire lecture hall, there isn’t one other person who was thinking the very same thing?” Alma countered, arching her eyebrows at him and smiling, “He’ll get a partner. Who is just as bad as he is.”

If they got partners, that is.

Alma had the hood of her red pea coat drawn over her ears, her breath coming out in small puffs as she walked. A scarf that was here-and-there inflected with iridescent colors was drawn over her nose, hazel eyes squinting between bangs or hair and scarf. The thick heel of her boots clicked sharply against the pavement as jean-clad legs strolled elegantly over the sidewalk. It had been a few weeks since the private investigator had found her, and her nerves were still a touch frayed. She couldn’t seem to sit still in the Sanctuary, and yet she didn’t want to leave—eventually, her restlessness grew so powerful that she was forced into action. She now ventured down unfamiliar streets (which weren’t too difficult to find in a city as immense as this one) with bodachs trailing behind her like ducklings.

The street was quiet—seemingly unoccupied, which was a rare occurrence, quite frankly. The city was so fast-paced and loud, that the desolation was unheard-of. Even for a small-town girl, it was unnerving. Alma quickened her pace, but the bodachs remained behind. One paused, and let out a delighted shriek. Others paused to look to see what he had seen.

On the other side of the street, the bodachs saw a glimmering in the window of a storefront. It was a large sparkly thing, entrapped by the store—and Alma would certainly like such a large sparkly thing for herself.

“Oooooh,” a few of the smaller creatures cooed, before another chirped, “Hey!” and stumbled into the leg of a larger one.

The human-sized bodach stopped, uttering a faint, inquiring huff, and looking across the way towards the storefront. It, too, spied the sparkly thing, and it began to meander across the unoccupied street. A chorus of “hey!” arose from each, individual smaller bodach, and they soon gave chase, their little legs consuming the ground beneath them as they pursued the larger bodach that was now about to claim their boon. The other big ones soon followed, crossing the street in a mass-migration.

Alma became acutely aware of the fact that the rustling that generally followed her was changing directions and moving away, and she glanced back to see the exodus of bodachs going towards the other side of the street.

“Hey, where are you going?!” Alma hollered after them, turning to follow. Before she, too, could cross the street, the first ones slid through the grates over the door, and through the gaps between the door and the door frame, entering the store where the monster was on the prowl.

“Excuse me, don’t you even think abo… hey! Come back here!” Alma hollered again. But, it was too late. The bodachs were slipping under the door, converging upon their boon.

After Alma offered her ultimatum, she went into motion.

“Ten… … nine… …” Alma began to count. She turned the camera off and flicked open the bottom of it, fingers finding the memory card and clicking it out of place, “Eight… …”

She pulled the memory card free, rolled onto her knees, and tucked the card into her back pocket. Alma then closed the bottom of the camera, making sure to muffle the click with the palm of her hand.

“Seven… …” Alma opened the cabinet under the sink, tucking the rather expensive-looking camera behind the cleaning supplies. “Six… …” She quietly closed the cabinet, “Five… … four…”

The head finally spoke-up outside the door, his voice noticeably closer. Alma quietly slid open the drawer, searching for something plastic that she could snap, to get the guy off of her case… and maybe a weapon. She didn’t trust him in the least. All he said was to not do it, and she saw the doorknob turn slightly. He then stammered that he wasn’t a creep.

A not-creep wouldn’t try opening the locked door of a bathroom, genius.

“It’s locked,” Alma announced loudly, her tone accusatory. Her hands were fumbling around the drawers and finding nothing but bobbins and hair ties. What was she going to do, snap a rubber band on his forehead until he had a big, red welt? She was better off with just her hands. There was always the lid that covered the toilet tank, but she didn’t want a homicide on her hands… even if her family could help her hide the evidence. Alma shook that thought away. After this ordeal, she’d make note to get some mace and/or a Taser to put in her bedroom or bathroom. At least then, she’d be slightly more prepared.

So, eliminating the lid that covered the toilet, Alma was left with a plunger—perhaps she could plunger the man’s face, and hope he got some sort of a disease from the germs? Alma sighed. She was so doomed.

The man continued to hesitantly explain himself. That he was looking for someone. He just didn’t know what this young “man or woman” looked like. He then revised that to “a man and a woman” who had allegedly had kidnapped a baby. This bore a smacking of a lie. Though, the man did confess that he was a private investigator… Alma listened quietly to the story, her eyes thinning as she edged silently closer to the door. It was all very touching, but the woman didn’t believe him for a moment.

“I haven’t seen a baby,” Alma muttered, her tone half-believing but entirely misleading. She didn’t buy his story for a moment, but perhaps it was for the best that he thought she did. Alma listened to the remainder of his story, her breaths steady, “Okay…”

She began to reach for the door, to peek out and fix the man with the glare, but then he said it. The final utterance, the last nail in the coffin—he breathed her name. Funny, Alma didn’t recall introductions.

Alma did as she was told, pulling the door open so that it swung in a violent arc. The sudden head bobbed forward unsuspectingly, with the door no longer there to support him. Rather than recoil, Alma lunged forward, grabbing the man roughly by his hair. As soon as she captured him, her eyes searched the room for the hands. She’d bumped one with her hip out of the way on the way out of the bathroom, and the other… there, by the ceiling! Alma crossed the room, towards the bed, where she flung open the bedside table and pulled out a pocket knife. Bodachs stumbled aside dumbly, uncertain of how to react to their mistress’s blind fury. The dark-haired woman roughly pinned the head to the carpeted floor, never once untangling her fingers from his hair.

“Out, NOW!” Alma yelled, looking over her shoulder. Her tone was unyielding, and it sent the bodachs surging towards the door. A larger one fumbled with the door handle, and once it was open, they spilled into the hall, before the door was shut tightly behind them. Now it was Alma, and the disembodied, sentient body parts. She sat with her back towards the wall, facing the rest of the room—so that even if she wasn’t watching the hands, they were in her periphery. She fixed her gaze on the head, her lips thinning.

“I was wondering how long it would be until someone began to look,” Alma said tersely, flicking the knife open with her free hand, and holding it just below the head’s left eye. Her face was dark, her hazel eyes flinty. It would seem that the alarm of seeing a disembodied head had worn off. The “flight” reflex had shifted directions and given way to the “fight”, much to the misfortune of the pinned, disembodied head.

“Let’s try this again, Private Eye. I’m going to give you a question or two at a time, and you’re going to answer me honestly,” Alma said firmly, pressing the flat side of the knife into the man’s cheek, “If I have the faintest inkling that you’re lying to me, Heaven forbid… Well, why make promises when I can demonstrate, hm?”

She turned the knife slightly, knicking the head’s cheek. It wasn’t much worse than a knick one would get from shaving. It didn’t take big cuts to get points across, though.

“Get where I’m going with this?” Alma demanded drolly. She readjusted the knife, so that the man could see it once again, “Lie to me, and you will be punished. Tell me the truth, and you will get rewarded. I might even give your camera back to you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

The young woman flicked her hair back, cracking a wry smile—it was funny how, contrary to her reservations about violence and her family’s eagerness to use it, how she would resort to it so readily when she felt threatened.

“Since you seem to know who I am, it would only be fair to tell me who you are,” Alma growled, “First set of questions, Private Eye—who are you, and who’s looking for me? And this time, make it convincing.”

Her heart was hammering steadily, but there was no flicker of uncertainty in her expression—variable upon who was looking for her, though, could mean life or death for the investigator. She doubted her friends were organized enough to hire someone to hunt her down, or if they even knew that she was still alive. Her family had the resources and could use them—a rival gang would also have such resources. Alma would either have to kill the man and flee that night, or she'd have to come out of hiding.