The man who had been calling himself Sylar woke up blearily on the cold, stony floor he had been thrown onto, the sound of a metal door slamming echoing in his ears. He had a weird metallic taste in his mouth in addition to the tang of his own blood. He jerked upright, blinking his eyes open as quickly as possible. The room spun badly and he listed to one side, catching himself. The scuff of a chair caught his attention and he looked up at the other occupant of his cell. And it did indeed appear to be a cell, perhaps even an underground bunker. A single glance gave him plain grey concrete walls for three sides, with the fourth wall featuring a large glass window into an equally austere concrete hallway, next to the security door he'd already heard closing behind those who had dragged him here. Getting his bearings, he rose.

His cell mate was outfitted as he was in a thin, white cotton t-shirt and drawstring pants. No socks, he noticed, which was the first thing that pinged in his mind that they were on a similar footing, so to speak. This was not his captor. The second thing he noticed was the copious amounts of blood matted around the man's ear and in his dark hair. He was pale and looked like warmed over death, not dissimilar to how Sylar felt. The man had started to rise when Sylar had sat up too quickly and almost fell, but now he had settled back down and was trying very hard to keep an eye on Sylar while pretending to ignore him. The guy looked vaguely familiar.

Sylar gave him a more thorough once-over. He was white-ish, in his 20s, sitting in one of two metal chairs next to a small wooden table. He had his elbows up on the table, resting his forehead against his raised, joined hands, fingers interlaced. It made his face hard to see. He was sitting with his feet just a little drawn up, so they weren't on the chilly concrete floor. Blood was caked along the top and side of one foot. Sylar's mind finally placed him – this was the guy he'd thrown off the stadium and landed on before he'd fled into the woods.

He narrowed his eyes at the man briefly, then hobbled over to look out the viewport of their little jail cell. He was stiff, sore, and felt fragile, both physically and emotionally. The landing had been rough, as he recalled, but the details eluded him about what had happened after he'd limped his way from the scene of the crime. Outside the glass, there was no visible jailer, but he could see a camera set into the wall with a tiny red light under it to indicate it was working. There was nothing else to see of interest, so he turned back to the man. "Didn't I kill you?"

The man shot him a look from over his hands that let Sylar know he was just as unhappy to be in here as Sylar. "Didn't take," he said with a slight sneer, before directing his eyes elsewhere.

Sylar tilted his head. "You're like I am." That earned him another second-long glance, to which Sylar elaborated, "Special."

The other man blew a little air from his nose and said nothing.

That was annoying. Enough of being polite. Sylar twisted his wrist, flexed his fingers and tried to reach out with his ability to seize the man and fling him against the far wall. Nothing happened. He raised his hand and looked at it as though it were the source of the malfunction. "My powers - they're gone!"

That got the other man's attention, who regarded him for several seconds this time before saying, "I don't have them."

It was a ridiculous statement and Sylar snorted at it. "Of course you don't. Only I can do that."

The other man shrugged slightly with such nonchalance that Sylar immediately realized the man thought it was possible. Sylar's brows pulled together and he reexamined him. Whoever this was, he definitely had a power. Sylar had crushed him hard when they came off the stadium, sure he had broken every major bone in the man's body, yet here he was looking ... well, he didn't look healthy, but despite the blood and the pallor, he didn't look like anything was broken. Sylar considered the lingering chemical taste in his mouth and the odd ringing in his ears. It seemed likely there was a drug obstructing his abilities. Given the violent nature of their previous interaction, he had to hope it was having the same effect on the other.

He stared out the viewport for another long minute, wondering who was on the other end of that camera and what conditions would bring them running. He reexamined the room: two flimsy mattress pads resting on shelves that were fixed to the walls (they made the single bed in his old apartment look lavish), the chairs and table already claimed by the other resident, a porcelain sink, and a hole in the floor that he supposed was to be used as a toilet - no toilet paper. The other man watched his circuit discreetly and silently. Sylar ended on the other side of the table, gripping the back of the other chair. It was heavy enough to be used against the window, but the glass looked very thick and it might not be glass even. No reason to tip his hand quite yet. He pulled the chair out and sat down, putting his elbows on the table and matching the other man's position. They stared at each other from across the table.

"My name is Sylar," he said in a challenging tone.

"Peter," the other said, clipped and simple.

"No last name?"

A tiny shrug with one shoulder, and a glance over his still-entwined hands. "You didn't give one."

The corners of Sylar's mouth curled up. He liked the guy. He had chutzpah. "What are you in for?"

"Littering." Peter put his hands down and leaned back in the chair. Sylar admired how painless the motion appeared for him. Peter went on, "I dropped some trash off the top of the stadium."

Sylar blinked, instantly reconsidering 'liking' this person. "We're in here alone," Sylar said, low and quiet. "Just the two of us. Play nice."

"Or what? There will only be one of us? I've seen how you move. You're busted up inside." Peter looked unimpressed. "You went to that place to kill a … a teenager. What is she, fifteen? Fourteen? She's just a sad little kid, Sylar, and you hunted her down!"

"She has an ability she doesn't deserve," Sylar growled. He got to his feet, considering his options. Clearly, the cell wasn't big enough for both of them and Peter still harbored a grudge about the high school scene. The best line of attack looked to be whipping out the chair and bashing Peter with it. The other man was sitting. It would be nearly impossible for him to respond quickly enough to save his life.

"And what makes-" Peter cut himself off. In the distance, a metal door banged. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Peter stared out the viewport from where he sat, having straightened himself and lifted his chin to look. Sylar waited. There was no reason to turn – he could hear them coming well enough. He counted five people, all heavy. Four wore thick, rubber-soled work boots or heavy shoes. Another was in dress shoes – leather-soled. Sylar turned in a leisurely manner when they arrived. As he'd expected – four grunts and one manager. None were familiar.

Peter was still sitting when the door opened and the first pair walked in. Apparently he saw the same warning signs Sylar did in their body language, because Peter got out of the chair faster than Sylar would have thought he could, saying, "Whoa!"

It didn't matter. The two grabbed Peter one on either arm. Roughly, he was dragged and jerked to the other side of the room where he was pressed against the wall and pinned there. Peter complained during this and resisted half-heartedly. Sylar watched dispassionately, quietly pleased that his cell mate was taking the brunt of it, while feeling a small pang of disappointment that he didn't get to try to dash the disrespectful lout's brains out with the chair. One of the other guards pulled out a syringe and prepped it. Sylar looked from her to Peter, wondering what she was going to inject the guy with, and why. Then he realized he'd been wrong about things, distracted by the assault on Peter. He'd stood there as an amused spectator, but now they were leaving one burly grunt to keep Peter against the wall while the other three turned on the more unruly subject – Sylar. The manager, in his charcoal grey suit and horn-rimmed glasses, stood in the doorway out, watching with an infuriating smirk on his face.

The two men came at Sylar fast enough that he had no chance to get the chair out. There was no escape, so he swung his fist hard at the closer one, tagging him solidly on the cheek. The man ran into him anyway. They both went down in a tangle. Sylar lashed out, kicking, but one of the men had his arm and the other was starting to recover from the blow to his face and grab at him more purposefully.

Then there was a pause, because on the other side of the room, Peter had begun to fight. He was yelling, too: "Stop it! What are you doing to him? Let him go! This is illegal! I'll sue you!"

For a second it looked like the noisy young man might shake off the bigger guard holding him. The manager stepped in, grabbed the back of Peter's head, and bounced Peter's face off the wall. The other three guards resumed their efforts with Sylar, ignoring Peter's protesting noises and yelp of pain. Sylar fought, but was no good. They got him down, one man sprawled on his chest holding an arm, while another laid over his legs. The woman slid the needle into his thigh. Whatever she gave him burned like acid. Unable to fight back, he used what air he had to howl in pain. The needle went away. Both men went to scramble off of him. Sylar grabbed one by the collar. His swing never connected though. He was kicked solidly in the gut by the woman with the needle, who stomped on his side then kicked his ass when Sylar curled defensively and rolled to the fetal position. They didn't stick around, though. A few seconds later, they were gone. Sylar raised his head after the door clanged shut. He could hear them leaving, but the room was too quiet. They'd taken Peter with them.