HOW IT WORKS

PROLOGUE

Every story has a beginning. Every story has a middle. And of course, every story has an end. But what happens when a story stops and resets? Is it possible that if given the choice, a person could become greater than what they were in their "past life?" If you were given the choice, would you do it differently?

"No one noticed." he said to himself as he carefully slipped down the ladder of the sewer pipe. "Guess they weren't that worried, if no one noticed…" His chest was killing him.

Talking to himself was the only thing keeping Sylar conscious. He had lost too much blood already and the world was spinning around him. He kept talking to himself hoping it would keep him awake long enough to get him to safety… and help. But, while talking to himself he wasn't watching his footing. His right foot slipped on a wet ladder rung and he lost his grip. Suddenly, talking to himself became screaming for anyone who could hear, as he crashed to the floor of the sewers, bleeding, slowly losing consciousness, and in so much pain. Then there was nothing but black.

"Rise and shine, Mr. Gray." His eyes blinked and then instinctively started darting around the room to figure out where he was. A bedroom. A nice bedroom. It was decorated in a Victorian style with beautiful drapes that traveled to the floor, dark wood furniture that shown in the sunlight, and a large bed with a canopy dressed in off-white silk. Sylar was in this bed.

"I said, rise and shine." The voice was coming from an older woman sitting next to his bed.

"Who are you?" He said with a bit of distain in his voice. As he spoke he tried to get up, but the sudden flash of heat and pain in his chest reminded him of the small Japanese man who had decided to shove a Samurai sword through him.

"Don't move." Said the woman. "You still have a large amount of healing to do." There was no affection in the woman's voice. No caring. He had heard this tone of voice before. Dr. Mohinder Shuresh had the same tone while keeping Sylar duct taped to a chair. Sylar knew he wasn't here to be helped. He was here because he was needed.

"I guess I'll ask again." Said Sylar, this time a bit more forceful, still trying to get up. "Who are you?"

"My name is Angela Petrelli. I'm sure you've met my son, Peter?" Sylar just gave the old woman a decently scary look. He remembered Peter. He had the cheerleader's ability...

'That was supposed to be my ability…' he thought. His face distorted into a look of disdain and he flashed it toward the cold-voiced woman. Mrs. Petrelli was taken aback by it, but did not show it.

"Do not try to intimidate me, young man." Her voice was still cold and now slightly bitter. Almost condescending. This summoned a different memory. His mother. She always talked down to him. He hated her for that.

Her words meant nothing, but her tone... Sylar pictured her body hurling itself against the wall, raised his hand and flicked his wrist. That was when Sylar found himself pointing two fingers at the Petrelli's mother and looking incredibly foolish… mainly because she didn't move.

"Your abilities don't work here." She said flatly. "I've taken steps to insure that I could talk to you while keeping my brain fully intact, thank you very much."

Sylar was angry. He was also in pain, but his anger won out. He flung himself towards the woman with all his strength, arms and hands out to throttle her throat. A tall African-looking man stepped out of the shadows where he had remained unnoticed until now. Sylar was not a physically strong man and the Haitian used that to his advantage. He grabbed Sylar by the wrist and threw him back onto the bed with very little effort. It was like a schoolyard bully had just flung the local nerd. Now Sylar was angry and humiliated.

"You have a choice, Mr. Gray." She began speaking to him again as if nothing ever happened. As if he did not just tried to kill her. Twice. The ice that dripped of every word just made Sylar angrier. Calling him 'Mr. Gray' was not helping either.

"My companion here," she continued, " has the ability to erase your memory. It is your choice. Not to sound too cliché, but we can do this the easy way or the difficult way." She said this calmly, as if there was no choice.

There was no choice.

Sylar fought as much as he could against the grip of the Haitian man, but it was no use. He barely saw the needle before all there was… was darkness…