Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. If I did, would I be writing fanfiction? No. It would all be official and I'd actually make money off of it.

Author's Notes: This is story was written in a different style than what I normally use. This was an experiment to see if I could write present tense well and if the use of so many run-on sentences would make me cry before I was finished (I didn't). So yeah. I hope the rampant incorrect grammar doesn't kill someone dead.

Also, I'd just like to say that I tried to make this as exact as possible to that awesome rooftop falling/crash scene in Distractions. The only difference is two words of dialogue, and I just added them just to make the story work the way I wanted it to.

liana


Peter has had enough of Claude's pessimism. The other man has done nothing but trample on his idealism all day and try to convince him that everyone and everything he cares about is just holding him back, that he will explode because he can't let go of them. Peter doesn't even attempt to keep his anger in check as he yells, "I'm tired of you telling me what I have to do! I don't have to do anything!"

"Except fly."

And with that nonchalant response and a grin from Claude, Peter is suddenly thrown from the top of the building.

Peter begins to plummet down the long thirty story drop, and he can't focus on anything but the sheer terror of falling. It is nothing like when he jumped off the roof those many weeks ago, there is no Nathan to catch him like he always does, and there are no powers to mimic.

C'mon, fly! he tells himself, trying to take Claude's advice and summon the power that lies within him, but he doesn't know how. His thoughts are a panicked blur of emotion and images of him splattering on the ground below. There's a car down there, too, a yellow taxi cab that he is definitely going to hit, but that information is irrelevant in the face of his certain demise and his mind simply files it away under "Not Important."

Even through the overpowering fear he retains some hope that he is going to make it. Why else would Claude push Peter unless he had faith in him? Try as he might, though, flight still eludes him, and he has no idea exactly how he is supposed to tap into his gift. A panicked thought flashes through his mind.

Oh God, I am going to die.

Peter does not take this news calmly. Others might, in the faces of their inevitable deaths, but Peter wants to live. That is why he was with Claude in the first place, so that he could learn how to control his power and not kill everyone he knows and loves.

As he desperately tries to save himself, he suddenly remembers Claire, the cheerleader from Texas he had saved, the one who the whole fate of the world was riding on. He briefly wonders if this is how she felt when she was chased by that killer, this pure, unadulterated feeling of sheer terror. Oddly enough, a flash of protectiveness sparks through him while he falls and cuts through the panic, and as he thinks of her, it almost feels like some sort of… connection has been made and —

CRASH.

Peter hits the car.

The metal underneath him buckles from the impact and all the windows crack and shatter. Some shards of glass spray out, sending a shower of the sharp, clear fragments away from the taxi. The echo of the collision reverberates briefly through the empty alleyway before it becomes dead silent again.

Peter doesn't notice any of this. Agony blazes through him and temporarily overloads his system. He can't see, he can't hear, he can't even smell, but he can taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth, and there is certainly an overabundance of feel burning its way through him, especially in his upper body. It feels like he's dying, it feels like he's dead, but it hurts too much and suddenly realization strikes him.

I'm alive.

Sight abruptly returns to him, and what he can see disturbs him. A piece of metal has punched straight through his chest, pinning him to the ruined cab. A very quiet, very sarcastic "Fantastic" from Claude floats down from above, and Peter realizes he can hear again. The pain begins to retreat, the fires in his body extinguishing themselves as his shattered bones knit back together and his numerous cuts heal. Only the area where the metal sticks out hurts, but even that is nothing but a smoldering shadow of what it once was. He doesn't know how, he doesn't know why, but he is alive.

Peter is shocked and he has to take a moment to collect himself before attempting to get up. He has to raise himself off the metal in his torso, but the piece in him is cruel and jagged. As he moves up inch by excruciating inch, he feels the sharp edges catch and shred inside him and he screams from the pain, but giving up is not exactly an option right now so he keeps going. After what feels like a lifetime he finally extricates himself from the wreckage. The hole in his chest heals right up, and if it weren't for the tears on his clothes and the blood spattered all over him you would never guess he had just been tossed from the top of a thirty story building.

He slowly crawls off the taxi and staggers unsteadily to his feet, spitting out the blood in his mouth. His dark eyes trail upwards to the spot he had been thrown from. Thirty stories. Peter fell thirty stories and survived.

His voice is hoarse and no one is around to hear him, but Peter says it anyway.

"That son of a bitch."