Log Entry 4

“About time you got here, Hanson,” the lieutenant growled. “Tell me, please please please tell me you brought Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator in.”

“No,” I answered. “I got those dirty bikers that were trying to kill him, though. They’re cooling in a holding cell right now.”

“And you just let Jon go?” he growled some more. “Please tell me why. Please make it a good one because I haven’t read Ziggy yet today.”

“Well, I determined that he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong,” I shrugged. “I just finished all the paperwork, do you want to see it?”

“No, I do not want to see any paperwork.” He threw himself up out of his seat and gripped the table with his two hands like it was the only thing keeping him from strangling the life out of me. After a moment, he pulled a sheet out of a manila folder. “I want to see this guy.”

I looked at the sheet. “Is he a wanted man?”

“No, he must have gotten this taken at Six Flags or something,” LT replied with a growl. “He’s not wanted, he’s a presidential candidate.”

“Presidential candidate?” I asked. “No, he couldn’t be, he’s too much of an idiot.”

“I don’t care if he’s the biggest, dumbest thing to come down the pipe since…” chief threw his hands up trying to think. “Since, I don’t know. Word came all the way down from the top of the flagpole and we need to get him and keep him safe and sound and out of trouble. We can’t have a presidential candidate falling out of a building to his death can we? Wouldn’t look good.”

“Yeah, but he took off,” I said. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Lucky for you, we triangulated the signal coming from the Chester A. Arthur Memorial Clock with an E-3 Sentry and the Homeland Security Commsat.”

“Commsat,” I nodded with a chuckle. “Right.”

We both took a moment to laugh about the “communications satellite.”

“We also tracked an unidentified aircraft heading the same place,” chief added. “You’ll be lucky if that’s Jon in that aircraft.”

“Yeah, but what about the Sylar case?” I asked. “We still haven’t caught him yet.”

“Sylar case has gone cold. We haven’t heard a peep out of him in what, three months? You save this gladiator guy’s butt, then you can get back to work on the Sylar case.”

“You got it, chief,” I saluted and marched out the door.

“And don’t call me chief!” he yelled back.

The chief and I get along great. Most people might be intimidated by his blustering and howling, but he and I understand each other. I know he has to do that sometimes and he knows that I get the job done.

And I’ve got a new job to do now. North Dakota, here I come.

Log Entry 3

Civilians. I’ll never understand some civilians.

Take today, for instance. There I was enjoying my day at our nation’s capital and taking a little break from the Sylar case when I look up and see some stupid clown hanging off the Chester A. Arthur Memorial Clock.

What do I do? I head up to arrest him, of course. It’s against the law in Washington DC to deface public property.

I bust into the room and command him to freeze and the perp’s packing! Something is definitely up in this room and it’s my job to get to the bottom of it, so I order him to drop the weapon and put his hands up.

“Don’t arrest me, please,” he said. “I’m Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator and one of the good guys. Let me show you.”

I let the guy slowly and carefully take out his badge and do you want to guess what it is? A freaking Junior G-Man badge! And to top it off, he says that he got it for helping out the President with something.

I tell you, if the President made this guy an official junior agent, then that has to be his worst decision ever.

After a little internal debate, I decide to let him go. He seemed pretty desperate but harmless plus he had three greasy bikers unconscious and lying on the floor there and he said that I should take them in. Well, it’s not the biggest bust I’ve ever had, but they’ll do.

So the one guy takes off like a rabbit out of its hole and is gone and I’m stuck with his stupid mess and the mountain of paperwork that comes with it.

Good thing I like paperwork.

Log Entry 2

Stupid Patriots.

I can’t believe they lost.

I can’t believe I had a bet that they’d win. Of course I was cheering for the Patriots, I like all things Patriot: Patriot Missiles, that Mel Gibson movie, the Patriot Act. You put Patriot in the name and you know it’s good.

I thought that the unstoppable combination of that chisel chinned Tom Brady and Randy Moss would be too much for the Giants defense. And Wes Welker, too. Is he hot or what? Who’s with me on that, girls?

So I made a little bet and I’m not saying who I made the bet with but I’ll give you a hint: He (yes he) is in the Sylar Mansion with me.

Yes, I know that betting is illegal here and what kind of an FBI agent would I be if I flouted the law like this? But it was just a friendly little wager with no money on the line. No big deal, right?

What did we bet? Underpants.

So now this perv has my bra and panties. Who knows what he’s doing with them right now.

The sicko.

Log Entry 1

My name is Audrey Hanson. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to be an agent for the FBI. You know, we always called each other feds. Like, you'd say to somebody: "You're gonna like this guy; he's all right. He's a fed. He's one of us." You understand? We were agents, one of the good guys.

Little did I know that as I worked my way up the FBI food chain, I find myself up to my frigging neck in the most gruesome, brain-eating serial killer case that I have ever laid eyes on.

No matter, I won't stop until Sylar is caught.