Not One Step Back
Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.
Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.
Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural
Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.
Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.
Author's Notes: This story is the result of what happens when your friends get you into a really kick-ass T.V. show right as it finishes its first season.
I've now seen episodes 1-19 and the finale as of this chapter. And, as what often happens with me, ideas and random thoughts began invading my head until, soon enough, I just had to go and make a story out of them.
My buddy, Silent Dre, currently has a Heroes story with a weird Latin name in the making right now. Some of you may have already read it. If you haven't, there is a direct link to it on my favorite's page. It's the only Heroes one up there.
OK, now with all of that out of the way: this is one of the few stories in which the characters are entirely fictional. I mean, usually, I have one character (mainly me) that's actually a person I know and has allowed me to put them in a story. In this one, all of them are made up…minus Sylar, cause… NBC owns him...yeah.
However, that doesn't mean they aren't based off of a particular person or two. Just not having anything in regards to their real personas… if that makes any sense.
I am going to try my hardest to make up my own original storyline, but I'm afraid that this will stray into certain elements of the 1st season storyline. As the above summery tells, this is after the New York bomb…thingy, but it is not canon with anything that happens after that.
Um…I think that's about it.
So…enjoy.
The town was, for the most part, dead.
This is an interesting way to begin a story. But then again, this is an interesting story to begin. If someone were to tell you this was a normal story, if someone were too say to you that this was all fluff, no angst or adventure or horror, or even any supernatural mysteries…then, my friend, someone deceived you into opening this book and gazing upon its word-filled pages.
Are you sure you wish to continue? I should warn you beforehand: the story you are about to read is NOT for the faint of heart.
If you so do, then sit back. Relax. Put your reading glasses on. Maybe make yourself a cup of tea.
Just remember: in this story, everything you thought you knew, everything you believed impossible…all of that is a lie.
For what's possible sometimes goes places man really shouldn't go to.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
The town was, for the most part, dead.
True, it was New York City. The city that never did and never would truly sleep. And it was only 8:00 in the evening, so by no means was everyone asleep. There was at least one light on in every apartment building and hotel. Most small businesses were still open, for at least another hour or more. The nighttime places were booming, with men and women, just getting off from work, going there, to enjoy a drink or to drown in their own merriment.
And yet, it was quiet. Cars were on the road, but it wasn't the normal hellish nightmare that was normally endured. There were literally no joggers on the sidewalks. No pedestrians crossing the streets, narrowly avoiding a screeching car. No walkers in the park, save for the occasional star-crossed lovers walking hand in hand, their eyes met in that look that all-too-well says all the things that words and long-overused clichés can not.
No, for once, the city was quite quiet. Almost as if it had been abandoned.
And yet, something was brewing. As silent as it was, there was a storm approaching that very few could see. For there was a secret to this city that very few knew about, and even fewer were still alive to know of it. It was a secret that had once almost destroyed the city, had it not been for the few people that had been there to stop it.
But history was about to repeat itself.
And this time, the carnage that would be left in its wake would be the most catastrophic the world had ever seen.
Somewhere, deep in the sewers of the city, a dim light shone through the darkness. And, if one were to follow it, they were to find themselves in a small, circular room, with an old man standing over another, younger man, the latter lying unconscious on a small, flat cot.
The old man was small and frail, with tufts of gray hair and a smile that, when it popped up, took over his entire face. He was very feeble, yet had enough energy to power a battle tank. The younger man was different. He was probably near his middle ages, and his beard, which had been a little scrubble at first, was now full and took over his entire face. Maybe once, he had been one who got a lot of exercise, maybe even partook in dangerous events, but that was many a year ago. If he were ever to wake up, it was doubted he could do all of that again.
He stood over this poor wretch of a creature, with a look of sympathy on his face. He hadn't budged, hadn't blinked, once since he had found him, that day, ten years ago. Back then, he was a mess. He looked like he had been beaten badly, maybe even at one point been smacked around with a heavy lead pipe. And that awful gut-wound; a sword or some damn thing had cut clear right through his stomach. Whatever the hell this guy had gone through, it must've been pretty intense.
That was ten years ago. The gut had healed, and the bruises were gone. But he was still out of it. Ten years, and still nothing but a faint heartbeat. The old man sighed and went over to his little stove.
He had lived down here for a very long time. For what reason was his own, thank you very much, but it meant little to him, since he enjoyed his privacy. He had not come into distinct contact with a human being in many a year, and preferred to keep it that way, but this man intrigued him. There was something about him; something that made him believe in something that he hadn't believed in since he were a boy.
He went back over to him, sitting down at his chair, coffee mug in his hand. This was pretty much his routine for the last decade, watch this man. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He was almost eighty years old; it wasn't like he could do anything important with his life anymore.
He smiled. Then he reached forward, just to pat the man's head-
Suddenly, the man jerked awake in time to grab the old one's arm. The old man cried out as he fell backwards to the ground with the once-comatose stranger on top of him, his hands now stationed at the eighty-year-old's neck, about to strangle him.
Now that he was awake, the old man could see him as more than just a poor, unconscious thirty-something-year-old man. Now he could officially add deranged and even possibly homicidal to the list. His eyes…those eyes were so intense, had obviously seen so much. Despite the grave situation, he laughed.
"Meant no harm, friend," he said, in his wheezy little Southern voice. "After all these years, hell, I almost thought you were dead."
It was then that the man began to realize he was somewhere different than where he had originally remembered himself. Slowly, he released the grip he had on the man and looked around. The dimly lit passage, the small, yet almost homely little room they were currently in…
"Where am I?" he asked, and he became surprised by the hoarseness in his own voice; it sounded as though it had not been used in years.
"Yer safe," was the answer. "I dunno who ya were running from, but they don't have a snowball's chance in Hell of finding yeh down here, that's for sure."
Now he turned to look at this man. He didn't believe he had ever seen somebody look so old, so frail. He looked like he would fall apart at any moment. And yet, he had saved him. He frowned.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Friends call me Soapy," the old man replied, giving a little bow and a miniature salute, a giant grin taking over his small face. "Well, if any of 'em was still alive, anyway. And who are you, good sir?"
The young man didn't answer at first. He just continued to look around at his surroundings, transfixed by the simple little shelter that had kept him alive.
"Sylar," he finally answered; a short, curt response.
"Well, Mr. Sylar, it's a pleasure to finally get to talk to yeh," Soapy sat back down in his chair, bringing the coffee mug off its rest and to his lips. "I can't tell yeh how long I've been sittin' here, waitin' for you to wake up. Yer a fighter, I admire that."
Sylar continued to look around. And then, suddenly, something hit him. A memory.
"Petrelli…" That smug, pompous brat… When he found him, Sylar was gonna make him wish he had never been born. "I gotta find Petrelli."
He began walking out when Soapy called out to him.
"The Petrelli Brothers?" he asked, alarmed. "You mean Nathan and Peter?"
Sylar stopped, turned, and nodded a quick nod.
"Hell, son, that was ten years ago!" Now the old man was amazed. "Did you know them?"
Another nod. Soapy bit his lip.
"Hate to tell yeh, friend, but…neither of 'em survived," he told him despondently, hating to be the one to give his guest bad news. "Most bizarre thing in the world- explodin' over New York, accordin' to the eyewitnesses. Damn shame, too…Nathan had just won the election and all that. Their mother was just heartbroken over it, or so I've come to hear-"
But Sylar wasn't really paying attention to the rest. His mind focused on two thoughts: that Petrelli and his brother were dead finally- which, to him, was a relief- and the other thing the old man had told him.
"What did you say today's date was?" he asked.
Soapy stopped mid-sentence.
"I didn't, but it's November, 2017. Why?"
The younger man was frozen. He looked down, lost in his own thoughts and emotions.
"Ten years…"
Had it really been that long? Had he really been asleep for an entire decade? The last thing he remembered was that little Asian stabbing him through the chest with the samurai sword and then him trying to escape through the sewers. And then… he looked down at his stomach. The wound was gone entirely. He then looked into the mirror, and his gaunt, bearded face stared back at him.
It was true. Ten years had really passed.
"Sorry," Soapy got back up and put his hand on Sylar's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you to grasp, but-"
But the man shrugged away. He looked down at his hands; the hands that, one decade ago, had caused so much death and destruction. With just a swift flick of his finger, he could slice open a human's skull- take their brain and add their powers to his own. He hadn't used any of his powers in so long…
He had to make sure they still worked.
He looked at the old man, a kind of hungry look in his eyes. Not the best brain in the world, but it would be a good place to start. Soapy inched back nervously, his hand clutching the chair to keep him up.
"What?" he asked.
Sylar stopped. No, he thought, not yet. The old man might still be useful, in his own way. And having some company around might not be so much of a bad thing.
"Nothing," he said. Soapy relaxed more.
Sylar looked around the room, looking for anything he could use to experiment. His eyes fell upon the coffee mug on the chair. A good start. He stretched out his arm and focused all of his thought on it. He could see, in his minds eye, the object picking itself up, moving across the room, and placing itself gently on the table.
Slowly, but surely, the mug began to lift itself up into the air. Where his hand went, it did too, with a bit of a delay. Sylar smiled evilly, as he waved his hand to the counter and brought it down. The mug followed these movements and sat on the surface as if it had been placed there by an actual hand.
Soapy's eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped.
"Well, I'll be damned…" he said, his voice a mere whisper. He looked away from the mug and back to Sylar. "I knew there was somethin' special 'bout you, boy," he said, glee taking over his voice, "but God DAMN, is this somethin'!"
Sylar nodded. He still had the basic power. Now for the other ones.
He closed his eyes and focused. The next step: try to see the future. The ability that the painter Mendez had had. He had used it before; now time to see what would happen next.
Except…nothing was happening. He couldn't access the state of mind that Isaac had had. Sylar tried again and again, but he could do nothing. He opened his eyes again, turning to face Soapy, an alarmed expression on his face.
The old man frowned.
"What?" he asked again, less fearful now. "Can you do anything else?"
Sylar tried to access his other abilities- the radioactivity, the sonic-hearing, the molecular manipulation, any of them- and each and every time he tried, he came up empty. Finally, he gave up. Slamming his fist on the table, he cursed.
"Damn it…" Everything he had been through, all the powers he had gathered…now it was all for nothing. Everything he had gone through had been for nothing.
"So what're you gonna do now, friend?" asked Soapy, drinking from his coffee- after he picked it up and examined it thoroughly.
"My other powers are gone…" Sylar turned back to the old man, shaking his head. All of this seemed so impossible… one minute, he was escaping from an exploding human, and the next, it was ten years later, his powers minus his telepathy were gone, and he was in the sewers stuck with a crazy old man. The world as he had shaped it was over.
Or…was it? Petrelli was dead, so there was no more threat of him. All those others that had stood in his way had to be gone by now. And there would be new "special" people…Suresh had said there were millions of them, all over the country, the world.
And he would find them. All of them.
He smiled again.
"I think it's time I got them back…"
The town was, for the most part, dead. But in one apartment flat, one man was sitting in his dark room, his mind scanning over the events that had transpired. That were about to transpire.
Mikhail Grigorovich sat in a chair by his desk, twiddling his cane in his hands. Around him stood ideas for his many stories: A girl who could move objects with her mind. A man who could get flashes of the future. A woman who could create a non-physical image of herself. A man who could shoot fire out of his hands. He had written all of those plots, all of those ideas. And he couldn't see them with his own eyes.
He couldn't see anything with his own eyes.
His fingers creeped under his dark glasses and rubbed his useless eyeballs with a tired feeling. At his feet rested another idea, a scrapped one: A man, returned from the dead, trying to regain his former strength. It was this idea that was keeping the sixty-year-old Russian man from sleep this current moment. It was an idea that came from the event of ten years ago.
"Sylar…" he whispered to himself, in a thick Russian accent.
He knew everything about this man. He knew his past, his present, his future. All of it was known to him, without research, without a glance at an old photo album of the man. And he also knew what would happen if this man were to get his way again.
Catastrophe. Enraged, wild catastrophe, without remorse or pity.
And this was one future he did not wish to see happen.
He reached over and picked up one of the brainstorms on his desk. He examined it with his mind's eye. He smiled, his rotten teeth gleaming yellow.
"I believe it is time I began recruiting the new heroes…"
Yeah, that's how it begins.
If you want to, review. In fact, I highly recommend it. If you do, kudos. If not, your business. If you wanna read more, but don't review, well, then, buckle your seatbelts, because thy will be done.
So, 'til next time, see ya.