"Bethany?"
The word echoed around her. It was distorted, as though the sound waves were traveling through miles of cold, furious water before reaching Bethany's ears. She couldn't focus on them. There was no point; they weren't real. There was nothing real.
"Bethany?" This was louder. More clear. Edged with panic and worry.
Bethany opened her eyes, then squinted as light assaulted her senses.
The therapist smiled at her. It was a reassuring smile; or it was meant to be. Bethany blinked slowly.
"Any new insights?" She asked. Her voice was too calm. Too collected. Too sanitized and clinical.
"None." The word tumbled through Bethany's lips without her permission. "May I go now?"
"Of course. You may go any time you like. The question is, will you?"
Bethany sighed. These sessions were not her idea. They were given to her, the woman who survived the explosion, because the world was worried for her. The politicians needed to do something for her; if only to boost morale of their voters. Bethany, on the other hand, was far past caring.
"I'll stay." She responded carefully.
"That's good. It shows you want help."
Bethany sighed again. Everything was good. But nothing was. These sessions were pointless. She didn't matter. All that mattered were those who had lost their lives, and those in mourning over their death. She didn't know who she lost. She didn't want the focus on her. She wanted it on everyone else. On those who had died.
She didn't realize she had stood up, her hand clenched into a fist, until the therapist asked, "Is there something wrong?"
Bethany looked at her unbelievingly. The world seemed unreal. As though it was her imagination. As though she was a bystander, watching her life unfold but unable to touch it, to alter it.
She stared at her fist, concentrating on opening her hand. Her fingers did not want to comply. They stayed there, clenched in fury, shaking with effort.
Slowly, one by one, her fingers moved, opening the fist.
She felt the wetness on her cheek and moved her fingers there. When she removed them from her face, they were damp. Her fingers trembled, as though that single tear was heavier than anything else ever could be.
"I… I don't think you could do anything for me, doc." She whispered. "I have to go."
The therapist protested, but her cries fell on deaf ears. Bethany heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing.
She stumbled out into the streets and collapsed to her knees as the world came back into color and life once more. Ash and dust littered the streets. The air was tainted with ash, forcing each breath she took to be rejected in a cough. Wave upon wave of heat played across her skin. Pools of melted asphalt were everywhere, shimmering heat lines rising up from them.
And people were screaming! Thousands were dead or dying in the streets. She heard their coughing, their wheezing as the air poisoned their lungs with the radioactive ash.
And she heard that scream again. That blood-curdling, piercing shriek. She searched for the source of the sound, but she could not find it. She could not find the woman, that broken woman, mourning, calling out in agony, crying to the sky, pleading against the reality before her.
Bethany saw it all unfold. Watched it happen again.
She clutched her head as sharp, hot pain lanced through it.
She opened her eyes again, without ever seeming to have closed them. The world came towards her, swimming out of focus. It was not the real world. The real world was burning. The real world was on fire.
"What's wrong with her?" The words were under water again.
"I don't know! She's having some kind of fit! Or maybe…"
Bethany struggled as hands held her down against the cold concrete. This world could not be real; in the real world, there was no more concept of 'cold'. It was all burning, it was all on fire!
"The sky!" She shouted. "The sky is bleeding!" Pain and tears chocked off her words in a strangled cry. She twisted in the grip of the hands, tried to get away from the reassuring words.
"You're going to be ok… listen to me, stay with me, Bethany! You're safe! You're going to be ok!"
I'm burning. She thought. I'm burning with the rest of them. Leave me here, leave me to die! I don't want your illusion!
She let out a long, drawn-out moan. Blood splattered her lips as she coughed.
And then the darkness came to claim her.
She embraced the darkness like the old friend it was; it was more real then either world, and it was an escape from both.
Time melted and color faded, draining from the world around her. Sound blurred even further, until she was unable to make sense of anything, even if she had tried.
There was no pain in the darkness. There was nothing.
Adrian placed his hand on the window of the car. It passed through easily, the glass seeming to shy away from his touch as though it was a lethal poison.
He popped the lock and opened the door, climbing into the front seat. His hands were quick and agile across the wires; within seconds, it was running.
He allowed himself a quick grin, then gestured out the window.
A figure raced across the parking lot, so fast it was barely a blur. Adrian heard the car door open and close within the time span of a second, then turned to the young girl in the back seat.
"You comfy back there, sis?"
The girl nodded, and he turned back to the car.
"All right. Let's see what this baby can do."
His foot slammed into the gas pedal, and the car took off, the tires squealing in protest.
He executed a sharp left turn and asked, "All right. Where's the next assignment?"
"New York." She replied without hesitation.
"New York?" He repeated, surprised. "People still live there?'
"A few." She was unfazed by his skepticism. "Bethany Haze, Gabriel Gray, also known as Sylar, Peter Petrelli, Claire Bennet, Angie White, Terrence Elden…"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Sylar, Peter, the political pawn, and all the goons." Adrian rolled his eyes. "Guy's got a freakin' palace. And we're supposed to rob it?"
"No. We're supposed to kill Bethany."
Adrian slammed on the brakes, swerving into a perfect parking position.
"Are you kidding me?" Adrian demanded, turning in his seat to face his sister, unbuckling his seat belt in one swift, fluid movement. "We're supposed to kill Bethany? Bethany? What is he thinking?"
She shrugged. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just repeating what he said."
"Is he out of his mind?" Adrian continued as though he hadn't heard her. "Has he gone off his flippin' nut? We'll be killed if we go within twenty miles of that place!"
She shrugged again. "Like I said. No shooting the messenger."
"Oh, I'll shoot something all right." He muttered, but he turned back to face the wheel, buckling his seat belt once more.
Claire coughed as the dust filled her lungs. She groaned and stretched her legs, allowing them to extend instead of keeping her arms locked around them.
"I thought he'd never leave." She growled.
Peter nodded in agreement. "He's persistent." He whispered. His throat was sore from lack of use, and he was certain that his sense of smell had been off since he'd exploded. His ears were still ringing with Sylar's taunts.
Claire shook out her arms, trying to return circulation to her fingers. "How much longer is he going to keep this up?" She complained.
"He hasn't stopped in two years. I highly doubt he'll stop now."
Claire groaned and popped her neck. "How long are we going to keep up the 'silent' routine?"
"As long as it takes." He replied simply.
"Wonderful."
Peter sighed and kept looking out the window. He was only half listening to her complaints; keeping focused only when an answer was required. "He'll grow tired of us some day. Until then, we say nothing."
Sylar twisted the pencil slowly in his hand. The sketchpad on his desk was opened to a blank page. Its plain, boring, white surface mocked him. It taunted him.
His eyes clouded over for a second, hovering on the edge of white, before clearing up once more. It was no use. The future wouldn't come to him. The faint glimpses he usually caught were now eluding his grasp.
He placed his pencil on the paper and absentmindedly traced a faint line. Followed by another. And another. And another.
None of them formed a picture. None of them changed into an identifiable shape. The scribbles that formed as a result could have easily belonged to a child. They were nothing. They meant nothing.
"A brilliant work of art, sir." The shaky voice came from behind him. Sylar heard the man's sweat splash to the floor.
Sylar whirled and threw the pen at the man, who ducked as the pen embedded itself in the wall. "It's a piece of shit, Terrence."
"Y-Yes sir." Terrence's hands trembled as he looked at the pen in the wall. Black ink oozed down from it, dripping to the floor. "Understood, sir."
Sylar rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair. "You'd better have a good reason to be here."
"Yes sir. Border patrol picked up two unknowns."
"That's border patrol's problem. Not mine." He snorted. "You'd better have a really good reason for being here."
Terrence swallowed. "Yes sir. They were put through the system. The computer flagged them. Two hostiles."
"Then deal with it, Terrence. Isn't that your job?"
"With respect, sir, they're… they're on your list."
Terrence handed Sylar a file. Sylar snatched it from his hands and rifled through the pictures quickly. "Who am I looking at?"
"Adrian and Kim Transe, sir."
"Never heard of them."
"The name has been changed. They were once known as Adrian and Kim Ress."
Sylar stiffened. "Ress?"
"Yes, sir."
Sylar let out a deep sigh, focusing on the pictures more closely. Yes, there it was. The family resemblance.
"He won't stay dead, will he?" He muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He sighed and spoke up, "Very well. I'll deal with it."
Terrence nodded. "Yes sir."
He walked out as quickly as he could without seeming as though he was trying to get out. However, Sylar was no longer concerned with Terrence. His focus was on the two pictures. On the pale brown eyes that he recognized, though he had only seen them on the face of another.
"Ah, James." He mused. "You just can't let go, can you?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips as a new idea came to him…