India. Mohinder tells his mother about his dream, and confronts her about the "her" that Mohinder could never live up to, and she admits that Mohinder had an older sister, Shanti, who died when she was five and he was two. Chandra and Mrs. Suresh never told Mohinder about Shanti because it was too painful: "Especially for your father. He loved her so much he was afraid you would compare his love." Translation: "If you ever heard your dad talk about how awesome Shanti was, you would realize that he kind of thinks you suck." I mean, what? Okay, Mohinder does kind of suck, but your parents aren't supposed to think that! Anyway, surprise surprise, Chandra "was convinced that [Shanti] was special. And she was special." Too special to have something so pedestrian as a cause of death, apparently.
Texas. Bennet quizzes Isaac about his predictive paintings, eventually pointing out the various cheerleader depictions and identifying her as his daughter: "My Claire." Isaac leans forward. Bennet crosses toward a painting of a creepy looming figure and declares, "This man here goes by the name of Sylar. He's going to kill her tomorrow night at her homecoming game." "Why?" asks Isaac, not sounding particularly surprised or alarmed to hear this. "Because she's special," says Bennet. "Like you. And that makes her a target." "Like me," repeats Isaac, still without affect.
Bennet perches on the arm of a nearby chair, folds his hands, and explains, "You're not the only one with special abilities, Isaac. There are others. Sylar is killing them, one at a time." Isaac: "If you know who he is, then why can't you stop him?" Yes, Isaac, all it takes to apprehend a criminal is to identify him -- hence the FBI's infamous Most Incarcerated List. "Because nobody knows where he is," says Bennet urgently. "I need your help. I need you to paint this painting!" Then draw this drawing, sculpt this sculpture, and dance this dance. Isaac apologizes, saying he's been trying, but that he can't. That's okay, Isaac. It happens to all guys eventually. Bennet's like, "Well, I have your artistic Viagra," putting a hand into his pants pocket and pulling out a dainty little parcel of heroin gear, unsnapping it, and rolling out the contents onto a table. Seriously, this little bundle is so ingenious that if someone saw it in your purse, they might assume it was a manicure set. Can you buy that at Sephora? "I promise we will help you use your abilities without this," says Bennet, "but right now there just isn't time." "I'm fighting to get my life back and you want me to just throw it away?" grits Isaac. He shoves the table with the paraphernalia spread out on it, but unfortunately, the table is on wheels and just rolls away, which is not as dramatic as having it fall over so he could then kick it and smash the needle under his heel or some damn thing. Bennet meaningfully takes off his glasses to narrate, "You know, for many years now, a number of us have been tracking, locating, monitoring people like you. Sometimes the process goes smoothly, as in your case; and other times...well, let's just say some people misinterpret our motives and then it can go very wrong. Fourteen years ago, there was just such a case, which, sadly, ended in death. The woman left behind a baby girl who had no one to take care of her. My wife and I had been having a hard time conceiving a child of our own at the time. And it was like God had reached down and given us a miracle. Isaac. This is my daughter we're talking about. I'm begging you." Isaac looks moved by this tale of self-interest, and after taking one last look at the painting of the cheerleader up close, reaching out a hand toward the edge of the canvas, he asks, "Let me try one more time. Without it." Bennet's like, "See you after you totally fail, Scott Weiland," but doesn't insist on a China White drip just yet.