The clocks had all stopped ticking. The streets were bare. The world was desolate. The heroes were all long gone.
Sylar walked the streets, not fearing the Shanti virus. He'd been immune to it ever since he killed the indestructible man in the diner, all those years ago. Your skin is the first line of defense against disease - and Sylar's skin was impenetrable.
New York city was a graveyard of broken hopes and dreams. It had shattered his aspirations, long ago. It had made him into a killer. And now he wandered the mass graveyard.
The city would've died by a nuclear man, or a psychopathic killer, if not a pandemic. It had always been inevitable.
Shouting came from behind him. It was far off in the distance, but he could hear the voices clearly. Crisply. He stopped.
"HEY! It's another survivor!" they called out to their friends. But they were wrong. Sylar wasn't a survivor. Sylar had perished along with the death of Hiro Nakamura, and Claire Bennett. He was now only another casualty.
Another on a long, long list of casualties.
"ARE YOU INFECTED!?" They called from a distance. No reply. The rescue team looked from one to the other. This was creepy. They approached the man, standing perfectly still in the center of the street. Quarantine flyers fluttered in the breeze. Everything had a nightmarish feel to it. The sun was even hidden by clouds, casting the city in gray.
"Hey, buddy. Are you infected?" one of them asked as they approached the man. He had a crooked smile on his face, and he stared off in the distance. The men assumed shock.
They took hold of the man's shoulders, and began to drag him back to their van. They expected him to put up a fight. He didn't.
They were right. It was shock.
This was five years after the outbreak.