"Everyone is necessarily the hero of his own life story." -- John Barth
Chapter 1: Gray Awakenings
Sylar awoke quite abruptly. The first thing he realized was that his bed was very uncomfortable. It felt as hard as –
"A rock?", he thought to himself, "where am I?"
Getting his bearings, he sat up and looked about. He was, though inexplicably to him, on a stone bench in a park.
It was early in the day – likely 5:00 - 6:00 am – and the day was already showing signs of cloudiness and gray. A cold chill whistled through the October trees, and Sylar realized just how cold it was this particular morning. Pulling his knees up to himself, he began running over the situation in his head.
He remembered New York, Ted Sprague, Peter Petrelli, and the bomb.
"Boom", Sylar muttered in mock reminiscence.
The blinding flare of crimson fiery flashed in his memory. He remembered the beauty of the searing mushroom cloud; the soft, low rumbling of the explosion as it leapt along its destructive path. And then, as if a roll of film had reached its end, Sylar's memory reached a void. His next memory was that of five minutes prior.
He didn't understand. One minute he was bearing witness to the great explosion, and the next he was waking up on a public bench like (to his supreme disgust) a homeless person.
The wind picked up again, and Sylar noticed that, though the sun was rising, the sky was overcast with a somber, gray hue. It looked to be the start of a cold and dreary day.
"How fitting", Sylar thought to himself, as he turned away from the increasing wind and huddled even tighter to the cold, stone bench.
He breathed deeply and let out a sigh before he found himself nodding off to sleep; eventually succumbing to the darkness of slumber. A facade of a homeless man would suit him for now.
He next awoke to the annoying sounds of giggling children and a no longer idle park. The wind was milder now, though it was definitely a cold day nonetheless.
Sylar realized that, for whatever reason he was here, he need to get out of here and back to his own apartment; he'd figure the rest out from there.
He rose from the bench and looked around. Nothing looked inherently familiar, and he had no idea which way to embark. As several kids ran by, an idea came to his mind. Seeing his chance, Sylar seized the opportunity.
Grabbing one of the passing children, he ordered, in a mild harshness, "Point to the exit, brat."
The poor boy, obviously frightened, shrieked and pointed to the east.
"Thanks squirt," Sylar replied insincerely as he released the child, who promptly ran back to his friends screaming.
Sylar then proceeded, hands in his pockets, toward the exit of the park, and hopefully toward some answers.
