Chapter 1: Prologue

Night had fallen over the borough of Fort Lee, New Jersey, a district named after General Charles Lee, an Englishman, who fought for George Washington's Continental Army during the American Revolution. It is said that it was Washington's retreat from this area which inspired Thomas Paine to compose "The American Crisis", a series of pamphlets which harangued the colonists to rise against their British overlords.

Who could have guessed that another revolution would take place there this very night?

A jet black Mercedes-Benz F 200 Imagination drove silently along an empty, narrow road leading away from the town. It's 6.0 L V12 engine had been converted to turn its imperious roar into an eerie whirr. With its darkened paint job and dazzling headlights, this coupe glided ghostlike over the shadowy tarmac.

The car turned a sharp corner and stationed itself on the side of the road. The driver turned off the ignition and undid his seatbelt. His passenger chugged down the last of his take-away coffee and tossed the lukewarm cup over the dashboard. The butterfly doors of the Mercedes opened extravagantly as the two men got out. They sauntered over to the building complex standing a hundred metres or so in front of them. An illuminated sign welcomed them as they drew near. On it, next to its horizontal helix logo, read:

PINEHEARST

Both men wore long auburn coats which dropped to their ankles. They each had a grey scarf wrapped around their necks and arranged in such a way as to conceal the bottom-half of their faces. The driver, a tall and muscular man with swirls of long brown hair, dug into his pockets and produced a folded photo of a sixty-something man with thick eyebrows.

'We're here,' declared the driver in a deep, sombre voice, 'can you see where he is?'

The passenger, an Asian man with intimidating slits for eyes, stopped his gait and took a deep breath.

'Hold on,' he answered.

The passenger looked down at the ground and shut his eyes. When he lifted his head again his eyelids flashed open to reveal a set of lime green irises with an empty, shrunken pupil in its centre. He scanned the whole building and was astonished at what he saw.

'What's wrong?' asked the driver, noticing his partner's reaction.

'Well,' smiled the passenger, 'it looks like we've been beaten to the hunt.'

'What do you mean?' asked the driver quizzically.

'Most of their guards have been whacked…' the passenger pointed towards the upper floors, '…and it seems our target's already taken care of.'

'Impossible,' scoffed the driver, 'we're talking about Arthur Petrelli here,'

'The Arthur Petrelli is on the floor with a bullet in his head! And the culprit looks like-'

Before the passenger could finish, the top floor of the building erupted in an intense amber flame. The force of the blast had both men staggering a few steps backwards. As the driver adjusted himself, he noticed something flying away from the eruption.

'What's that?' he asked, pointing at the getaways.

'That was the culprit-' replied the passenger, shielding his eyes from the glare of the fire, '-Arthur's son, Peter Petrelli. I saw him jab himself with a syringe before he flew out. It's hard to tell, but I think he's taken Nathan Petrelli with him.'

The driver looked at his partner as if he was a madman, 'That sponge defeated Arthur? I thought he lost his powers...'

The passenger raised a hand to indicate silence. Hs eyes began to spin wickedly in all directions like a chameleon.

'I think the Haitian was holding Arthur's powers when the Sponge shot him,' he explained, 'That baldy's run off somewhere and I can't find him while his power's on.'

The driver pinched the bridge of his nose and lost himself in deep thought. As panicked voices began to echo inside the burning building, he came to a decision.

'Arthur's definitely dead then?' he asked.

The passenger scanned the floors again, 'Definitely. He hasn't moved an inch since the explosion. If that bullet didn't kill him then the fire will.'

The driver turned away from the burning mess and walked back towards their car, 'Then we can go. We'll say that our mission was completed by an outside party. If we leave now we'll avoid the authorities.'

The passenger shut his eyes again and returned them to their original state, 'Whatever you say…'

As the pair of them headed down the road, an angry bark from behind made both of them stop in their tracks. The driver turned around and saw his partner being held at the neck by an unknown assailant. He was breathing heavily and beads of sweat dappled his hairless scalp. His clothes were charred and were barely hanging on to his body. He emitted a fierce, blue flame from his free hand which was aimed at the passenger's face.

'Gimme your car,' demanded the assailant, 'or your friend's gonna be barbecued!'

The assailant was puzzled by both men's reactions. None of them seemed remotely concerned by the current situation. His hostage was deathly calm, and he seemed so unmoved by his threats that he almost looked bored. His partner's face remained impassive and his cool composure seemed to mock the assailant's rush of urgency.

The assailant hesitated, 'Somethin' wrong with your hearin' aid? Gimme the keys now or your friend's gonna fry!'

The driver gave him a sudden, intense glare which shook the assailant's system to the core. His heart skipped beats and his whole body shivered. He had never seen such intense eyes. When his rush of fear cooled, he noticed embarrassingly that the flames from his hand had gone out. Irritated, he shoved his hostage away and ignited both hands.

'I'm done askin'…' he sneered.

The driver calmly placed his right hand over his left shoulder with his palm horizontally flat. The passenger cursed at this gesture and dived hastily to one side.

The assailant watched the passenger's reaction and sniggered, 'I dunno what's wrong with'ya…' light-blue fireballs formed in his hands, '…but I'm not playin' around!'

Before the assailant could release the fireballs, the driver swung his hand outwards in front of his body in one swift motion. In perfect unison with the hand movement, the head of the assailant flew off his body with no resistance, as if it had been sliced cleanly by an invisible axe. The passenger got up and glanced wincingly at the decapitated body.

'Did you really have to kill him?' coughed the passenger, 'You know blood's not my thing.'

'He was a pyrokinetic,' replied the driver, 'you know how troublesome they can get.'

'Yeah…whatever…' grumbled the passenger, 'let's go already. I don't wanna miss the game tonight…''

With Pinehearst aflame and the Mercedes in retreat, the trumpets were sounded and the guns were drawn. The revolution had begun.