They didn't want him to hear them. It wasn't a problem. He didn't want to hear them either. He didn't want to be here. He didn't even want to be. He was sitting on a bucket, face in his hands, trying to make sense of it - of himself, of them, of anything. He felt like he'd just woken from a long, deeply unsettling nightmare. He was having trouble thinking, feeling and understanding. He had the sense that the best thing he could do was to sit quietly and let them sort it out. Various parts of himself rebelled strongly at the idea of anyone other than himself charting the course of his life, but the feeling that he should remain quiet was very clear. Even if it was not, the threatening-looking man a few strides away, with the very large gun and the heavily-rimmed glasses, reinforced the idea.
He looked up at that man, who was gazing at him steadily and professionally. The gun was generally aimed in his direction, but no one could maintain a shooting stance for as long as they'd already been there. The man had relaxed his stance somewhat, remaining ready and alert. He was watching hands especially. The confused man on the bucket knew him, somehow. He was familiar. "N…" Nick? Neil? Nathan? Wait… Nathan… No, that man wasn't named Nathan, but the man realized he, himself, was named that. Or might be. It seemed right, but somehow not. Maybe it was just a name he'd gone by for a while.
The man with the horn-rimmed glasses tilted his head slightly at Nathan's continued scrutiny. He broke the stare and looked past him at the three gathered there, talking quietly to one another. One had straight, dark hair and was wearing a jacket over a torn paramedic's uniform. He spent most of the conversation looking back at Nathan with a haunted look on his face. From time to time he clutched his hands like he wanted to be doing something violent. Peter Petrelli. The name came to his mind easily. He knew this man very well, like a brother. He tried to think of how, exactly, he knew him. A hundred memories seemed to flash before his eyes with an intense swirl of mixed emotions, but he could bring nothing into focus.
The second man was heavier in build and wearing a policeman's uniform. This was Matt Parkman, another man he knew inside and out. Nathan felt an unreasoning hatred and fear of him at that moment. Matt had done something to him, recently and quite profoundly. He was speaking rapidly and gesturing energetically to emphasize his words. Nathan could hear a few snatches of what he had to say. It didn't make sense, but the tone was angry. So was his face. He pointed at Nathan several times without looking at him, then made a decisive chopping motion with his hand. He seemed to be trying to convince the last member of the trio of something. This other man was a dread-locked black man who stood very still and only occasionally spoke. Nathan didn't think he knew him.
Am I Nathan? Why am I here? What's going on? He looked at the man with the gun. Very slowly, as if he was pulling a heavy weight from deep water, he managed to dredge up the man's name: Noah, Noah Bennet. He smiled slightly at the unexpected joy from getting his mind to do something useful instead of running in circles like a hamster in an exercise wheel. Noah frowned at him and shifted very slightly, tightening his grip on the gun at Nathan's smile. Nathan dropped his eyes and let his face fall. He didn't want to cause a problem. Or did he? Mayhem seemed like an unaccountably attractive thought.
In fact… he needed to die. He needed them to kill him. That seemed very important. He needed to kill them and they needed to kill him. He pondered this thought. Why did he need to die? Clearly in his mind's eye, he saw a woman he knew to be his mother, staggering back from him and clutching her chest. A pair of scissors protruded and he knew he'd put them there. He'd killed his mother. He'd… cut the top of her head off? That too? He couldn't tell for sure how she'd died at the end. A half dozen other memories, faint and confused, came to mind of cutting the tops of people's heads off. That was very important… for some reason. Why had he done that? Why had he killed his mother?
He was sure he'd killed her. For some reason, it seemed like a shock. He remembered raising his hand and beginning the cut. He remembered her screaming. Peter Petrelli had been there. Why hadn't Peter stopped him? There she was, in his mind, his dark-haired, elegant mother, backing away from him, clutching the scissors in her chest. He covered his face with his hands, wishing he could block out the memory. Why had he killed her? A tear slid down his face. Sylar doesn't cry. It was a voice in his own head. He hated it instantly and entirely.
"I AM NOT SYLAR!" he shouted into the air. Matt Parkman fell silent. If Nathan had been looking, he'd have seen Bennet's gun pointed directly at his head again, but he wasn't looking past his own hands. They were shaking, badly. He told them, more quietly, "I am not Sylar," and balled them into fists. He pressed them against his forehead and rocked his head back and forth. He pressed them into his eyes and wished he didn't exist. His wish did not come true, but he heard the three men speaking to one another more animatedly. Maybe they would decide to end him. It seemed to be what they were discussing. He could hear that Peter's voice had entered the fray.
If he wasn't Sylar and he wasn't really Nathan, then who was he? He tried to remember. He had remembered Noah's name. Surely he could remember his own past? He could pull up images and facts, disconnected and some contradictory. Nearly all of them were foreign to him. It was like looking through a stranger's photo album. He'd killed people, he'd flown, he'd loved, he'd hated, he had family, children even, but he was alone. He felt hated and feared and disgusted with people. He didn't like what he was. He put his fists on his knees and snapped his head up towards Bennet. He had a sudden urge to throw himself at the man and make him shoot him. He tensed to do it just as Peter walked up next to Noah, a syringe in hand. It gave him pause.
Peter exchanged a glance with Bennet, then walked on, making sure not to block the other man's shot line. Nathan watched him walk over cautiously and stop beside him. Peter put a tentative hand on his shoulder. He started to move the syringe in and Nathan pulled back slightly, looking uncertain.
Peter's eyes were very sad. He was genuinely moved by Nathan's distress. "It won't hurt much. Just hold still." Peter gripped his shoulder more firmly.
Nathan thought he could trust him. He didn't know why, but that was what he felt. He held himself still as Peter applied the syringe to his throat with practiced ease and a gentle touch. Peter had done this before to him - he was sure of it. He tried to remember, but failed to get anything except a feeling of surprise and dashed hopes, seeing some unknown black man sitting before him, shaking or holding his hand. Peter waited, hand on his brother's shoulder, as the powerful drug took effect. At the last second, it occurred to Nathan that he might not wake up from this. It would be for the best, he thought.
