Peter stood on the roof of his apartment building, staring into nothingness. The city moved along as usual, nothing especially different.
The clouds made it hard to tell that the sun had begun to set, the darkness seemed to appear out of nowhere. It didn't matter, though. None of it mattered.
"...Nathan." Peter muttered; barely even a whisper. When did life become so meaningless? The people of New York scurrying around below him, constantly on the move to whatever they had planned next, never stopping to think; never stopping to care. Which was exactly the sort of attitude that Peter had adopted, not caring.
His eyes sunk to the ground and he for just a moment, but that was all he needed. He didn't even notice the dark figure looming behind him. He took a deep breath, and dived off the edge.
Exhilaration, freedom in it's purest form and perhaps even peace. These were one of several feelings that rushed through the man as he plummeted towards the cold, harsh pavement.
Crack.
The next thing he was aware of was a woman screaming, closely followed by the realisation of his own stupidity. Sweet Jesus, that was painful. Not that he didn't know all along that he'd regenerate, be unmercifully dragged back to life and all of it's petty amusements.
He stumbled to his feet and instinct told him to turn invisible, which only made the small group of people gathering around him become even more confused and scared. He needed to get the hell out of there, and fast. If one person – just one – opened their mouth about what they'd seen, the company would be on his ass like a lion and it's prey.
Then there was Sylar, that bastard was probably hot on his trail. Less than a few days ago, he had wrongly believed that the man was dead, killed by Hiro at Kirby Plaza. Now, thanks to a message left on his answer phone from none other than Mohinder Suresh, he knew that the good ol' bogeyman was back, and stronger than ever.
His apartment was unchanged. He was meaning to redecorate the place, but the time was never quite right and to be brutally honest, he couldn't bare the thought of moving the photographs, the memories, of the brother he lost – no, had taken from him. Many sleepless nights made him come to the realization that in some ways, his brother's assassination was most likely a good thing, in the sense that telling the world about their 'special abilities' would cause chaos and outrage. Fear.
But surely there were other ways to stop them other than murder, surely. At first he was determined to find out who killed Nathan, and tear them apart, piece by piece.
But he already knew who was responsible. The company. But the thing about that nasty bunch, they always have a backup plan. Be it black mail, threats or simply going in to hiding. Considering that they were currently performing all three acts, Peter had come to accept that he was simply out of luck.
Besides, would taking down the company actually do him any good? Would it bring his brother back? He already knew the unfortunate answer to that one. The company seemed to know what they were doing, so why not let them take control, if not just for a little while. Among other things, Peter needed time.
Time to do what?
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He wondered what would happen if he overdosed. Would his body fight the drugs, or would he die? Perhaps his self healing abilities only applied when he received physical blows, rather than self-inflicted junkie treatment.
He was dragged out of his 500mph line of thought when he heard something. The creaking of floorboards. So quiet, yet so close.
He sprung up in bed, glaring into the darkness that surrounded him.
"Who's there?" He attempted to growl, but sounded more afraid than anything else.
He suddenly appeared on the bed beside him. Though the shadows hid his face, Peter knew exactly who it was. That calm, hypnotizing and deadly voice. The scent, that all too familiar smell. Strong and masculine, safe yet dangerous, alluring but deadly.
He raised his hand to form an attack, planning to use the voltage ability he learned from Elle, but he grabbed the hand... gently. Lowering it. His behavior was unusual and unexpected and it scared him.
'You don't want to do that.' He could hear those words in his head but were not spoken aloud, which could only mean one thing, the death of a friend. Matt, that mind-reading cop. Shit. The hand resting on his was moved and placed on his forehead, and he honestly didn't know why he let this display continue. Curiosity, perhaps? 'you should sleep'. The voice was soothing, and those words, just those three words, he found himself feeling hazy... sleepy. His eyes dropped and his body swayed until he fell back. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that seemed to come out was incoherent babble.
"S... Sylar..." He spat, using every bit of will power to keep his eyes open. The other man lay beside him, lazily propping himself up with his arm and placing his other finger over Peter's lips. He grinned, teeth seeming to glimmer.
"Sh – sh – sh."