A/N: Hello again to Flyingporridge! Welcome back!
Chapter 4- People Who Need People
"At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality. Perhaps it is one of the great dramas of the leader that he or she must combine a passionate spirit with a cold intelligence and make painful decisions without flinching." –Che Guevara
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It was way too soon and everyone knew it, but no one dared try to talk him out of it for fear he might make them a target of his focused attention- and the possibility that he just might succeed. Sylar stood half leaning against the table that had been his bed for support, clearly in pain and favoring his injured side judging by the way his shoulders slumped and the guarded, tense expression etched on his face. Even Peter knew better than to challenge him when he was like that, it would be like taunting a wounded badger- probably not the best idea unless you thought it was a good day to die. Mohinder and Maria tried to focus on their work so as not to gawk, but they sometimes stole curious glances in his direction, knowing he wouldn't want an audience but unable to ignore the anticipation.
Sylar took as deep a breath as he could to prepare himself. His side burned and he tried his best to ignore the sharp ache that shot from the wound every time he stretched too far or moved the wrong way. He knew all he had to do was ask Peter to give him something for the pain and he would, but he decided he wanted to stick it out. He didn't care for the zoned out feeling of the Vicodin he had before and if there was any left, he thought it best be saved for someone who couldn't heal like he could- even if it was going at a snail's pace. Even though the pain at times took his breath away, he reminded himself it was only temporary. He had been through worse before and he would survive this as well, it was just a matter of determination and grace.
His eyes rested on the empty glass flask that sat on the counter in front of him with quiet resolve. It was only a span of no more than six feet and it was a relatively light object, but he wasn't sure how much of his ability was lost to the lucky shot of S2 and he was a little apprehensive. He had been completely powerless before, thanks to the Shanti virus Noah had knowingly infected him with, random eclipses, and most recently a combination of an electronic shock collar and a drug formulated by the very woman that now was attempting to thwart her own efforts by giving him his abilities back…again. He wasn't entirely lacking in ability this time, but he was a man who operated on precision, and for that he had to test the limits of what remained. Slowly, and with absolute concentration, he lifted his hand toward the flask and twitched his long fingers in a come-hither gesture to coax the glass to him the way he always did- and it almost worked.
Maria closed her eyes and quietly sighed. The sound of shattering glass on the lab floor may as well have been her hopes that he would steadily improve without further intervention. She assumed that the longer his healing ability worked, the stronger it would get and with it would come a natural restoration of his arsenal of powers, but that didn't appear to be the case and she didn't have the heart to turn to look at him. She could imagine how disappointed he must have been- or angry. From Mohinder's perspective he didn't appear to be either, but then again he was notoriously hard to decipher. Rather than hang his head in shame or perhaps mutter a curse under his breath, he seemed almost fascinated by his failure and his wide eyes wandered over the shards of broken glass as though he were trying to put them all back together in his mind. Mohinder sucked in a deep breath and returned to his microscope because it was almost frightening to behold the inner workings of Sylar's brain. It made him feel so….helpless in the face of such relentlessly methodical logic.
Peter, having the misfortune of being at Sylar's back and not seeing the way he intensely studied the fragments glittering on the floor like diamonds, had the temerity to ask, "What happened?"
Defying everyone's expectations, Sylar didn't spin around and attempt to slice his head open for his insolence. Rather, in a very detached observational tone he responded, "I let go too soon. The velocity was much less than something of similar weight used to be." He blinked almost as if he were waking from a dream. "My timing is off. I can still use my telekinesis, just not with the force I once had." He glanced down at his upturned hand and noted the blue energy that danced in his palm lacked the same intensity and vigor it used to have. If he had to guess, he would have estimated that his net ability stood at about 20% of what it was and that was far below even what Peter had. To think that the emo was now stronger irritated him.
Peter himself wasn't keeping score- he never did. His concern wasn't which of the two were more dominant or who would get the best of who because as far as he was concerned, they were both on the same side. What mattered was getting him better and offering as much non-threatening support as he could tolerate until Maria or Mohinder cracked the case. He knew Sylar well enough to anticipate that the most vital thing to him was his sense of control. If anything put him in a position where he felt he didn't have a choice or he felt less than, there would be trouble. He had to figure out a way to keep him involved in the war effort to make him feel as though he were still needed and relevant while he recuperated. Sylar was not one to sit in front of a TV vegetating until he was fully recovered, if anything, keeping him in the lab much longer would take an act of God in and of itself. "Hey man," Peter said just loud enough for Sylar to hear, "keep trying. You need to practice because I need a break."
Sylar slowly shuffled in a convoluted circle to face him and suspiciously asked, "What's that supposed to mean?" He didn't appreciate being pandered to in the slightest. He didn't need anyone's pity.
"It means I need help." Peter said flatly. He wanted Sylar to know it wasn't at all difficult for him to ask another person for assistance even if his former nemesis found it nearly impossible. "I'm getting my ass kicked every time I go out there because I can't defend myself and the person I'm trying to help all while treating them too. If I had someone to watch my back while I worked, it would make things easier."
"You want me to be your partner?" He almost laughed incredulously. "Peter, you know how I work, and I know you can't tolerate the things I do. I don't think it would work."
Peter held his gaze unflinchingly. "I was there when you took down Jessup, remember? Did I try to stop you then or tell you to do it differently? I didn't like it, but it was your business and I respected that. I did it then and I can do it now." Sylar looked almost dumbstruck as though he had forgotten that fact. "Look, I don't think that fighting is the best way to solve this whole mess, but I also know that like it or not that's what we have to deal with. War is messy and we have to do what we can to end it. I can do that by helping others and you can do what you feel is right, but we can do it together."
Sylar winced slightly as another jolt of sharp pain ripped through his side when he tried to stand up straight. True enough, Peter didn't interfere even though it was probably all he could do to stand by and watch while he exacted his revenge, but he did it just the same. Although he hated the idea of working with anyone, he was chomping at the bit to get back in the game if for no other reason than to get out of the lab. "Fine." He growled. "But only until I get my full abilities back."
"We're working on it, my friend." Mohinder said wearily as he rubbed his tired eyes. "At least on this occasion, we want the same thing you do."
Sylar glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "I thought you weren't going to help me anymore."
"I personally have no desire to." He replied darkly. "I would just as soon never see you again, but it appears that fate has once more chained us together and either I help you pick the lock or we both drown. It isn't much of a choice, really."
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It was late and it was probably not a great idea, but Damian walked quickly through the dark streets of his neighborhood, past abandoned lots and vacant buildings on his way to the store to buy some aspirin. Due to his incredibly low pay as an intern, he didn't have much money to buy food. During the week it wasn't so bad because there was a steady supply of leftovers like doughnuts or bagels from the never ending list of meetings his boss hosted, and he could have all the free coffee he could drink in the office, so he didn't usually pack a lunch. Of course, this bounty wasn't always guaranteed, so there were days when he subsisted on coffee alone, but it didn't happen often. The weekends, however, were a different story. He couldn't afford to buy good food and he didn't have dishes to prepare it with anyway, so his diet consisted of ready to eat meals and fruit if he could manage to find a few pieces that looked like they weren't well on their way to rotting in the store. The lack of proper nutrition and the stress of his job made him prone to headaches, and he had what amounted to a migraine. He seemed to be getting a lot of those lately.
He lay on his futon for hours with a sick feeling churning in his stomach while the pounding in his head intensified, debating if he should just try to go to sleep or risk going out so late to buy more. His neighborhood was beset by crime and was more or less run by local gangs who were constantly fighting over territory to sell drugs or prostitutes, or….whatever else they could think of, so it wasn't really safe to be out after dark. But he had to go to work in the morning, and he couldn't afford to be up all night in misery while he listened to the screaming and intermittent gunfire taking place outside his window, so he chose to venture out into the night in search of pain relief. He tried to walk in the street to stay in the areas lit by the overhead lamps, but he just had a nagging feeling that it was all a bad idea.
"Hey, homey!" A voice called mockingly from the front porch of a rundown house. "You got a cigarette?" It was cold outside, but it didn't seem to prevent groups of people from loitering late at night.
"Sorry, I don't smoke." He replied while he kept walking. There was something menacing in the man's voice and he looked like he had a few friends with him.
"Where you going?" He continued, laughing as he and his friends jumped down off the porch to follow. "Hey man, who you roll with?" Damian walked faster as his heart pounded in his chest. He knew he didn't exactly fit in the neighborhood, but he did live in Brooklyn so he was street smart- enough to know that the men were part of a gang and were probably going to attack him no matter what he said. "Get back here!" The man yelled. "Don't dis me like that, punk!"
And so it began. Initially, Damian's first instinct was to run and he did- his feet pounded the pavement and he exhaled huge amounts of air that evaporated in the cold night like a steam engine, but he couldn't outrun fate. One of the men pulled a gun and fired rapidly in his direction, not really caring if he hit him or not- life had become cheap in some parts of the city and he held his reputation in higher regard than the frightened man's life that was running from him. He couldn't look weak in front of his friends.
He collapsed to the ground and rolled for some distance under his own momentum, his left shoulder and knee burning like fire until he came to an abrupt stop against the wheel of a rusted out, parked car. The men easily caught up to him and rather than be satisfied that they had sufficiently taught him a lesson in respect, they continued to taunt him. "What you running from, boy?" One man laughed before turning to his friend. "Looks like Clark Kent here ain't faster than a bullet after all!"
Damian was in agony, and he was frightened. He lay there on the dirty pavement, panting and bleeding and trying desperately to think of a way out of the situation. "Please," he gasped still out of breath, "I'm sorry. Take whatever you want, just don't kill me."
His tormentor took exception to his request. "You callin' me a thief?" He yelled in anger. "You think you're better than me, punk?"
"No..I.." Was all he could say before he reflexively covered his head to ward off the kick that was fast approaching. Like a pack of animals, the men joined in the assault, punching and kicking and hurling insults while he curled into a tight ball in a futile effort to defend himself. From under his arm, he could see them laughing and smiling- they enjoyed hurting him like it was some sort of game or he deserved it and that's when things started to get strange.
He felt dizzy and he attributed it to his preexisting migraine, the blows he took to the head, or perhaps shock, but the space around each man that he could see started to almost shimmer like a haze. He was certain he was going to lose consciousness at any moment and he closed his eyes, praying he wouldn't die like a dog in the street that night. His family would be distraught, but they were too far away to help him. In the distance he heard a siren and he hoped someone had enough courage to call the police, but the last thing he heard was the strange sound of silence. The men were no longer laughing.
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Nathan sat in his office, mostly in the dark. He had a nice apartment in Georgetown, but he didn't feel at home there. His home was in New York, or at least it used to be. When he thought of the Petrelli mansion now, it felt just as cold and lonely as his apartment- like an abandoned scene of a crime haunted by the ghosts of the past. His mother, perhaps dreaming of the future that they were all now living, had flown to Paris well before the chip program even started. It was with her that Claire initially stayed after Maria helped her escape to Canada, but he knew she wouldn't be happy there. He was never really happy around her, so he couldn't expect his daughter to tolerate it.
His daughter. It still seemed so unreal that a part of him was out there walking around in the world. He had missed so much of her life that she seemed like a stranger sometimes, but he also saw shades of himself in her: her quiet determinism, the way she bravely smiled even when she was upset. They had a rough relationship, that was for sure, but when Claire made up her mind to do something, there was no talking her out of it and he had to admire her for that. When word of the resistance got around, she was among the first to volunteer perhaps knowing better than anyone what that might entail. Of course he was apprehensive, as any father would be, but he knew that it would be a waste of time trying to persuade her to stay on the sidelines. She had been doing that all along and she was tired of it. What he felt most guilty about was the fact that he couldn't really protect her as he had before. He wasn't really in a position to protect anyone- not even himself.
His first victim may have been his own little brother and it ate at him nearly every day. Peter had done more than his fair share to play scapegoat during his first election when it became too inconvenient to have a brother who was convinced he could fly. The rational thing to do was to say he was suicidal and depressed, even though anyone who knew Peter remembered him for his warm and friendly nature. He never forgot the look of utter shock and hurt in his brother's eyes, as though he had physically torn his heart from his chest, but he ultimately forgave him for his betrayal- he always did. Lately he had to once again sweep him under the rug so the chip project could go forward. It killed him to essentially out and then enslave his own brother in a system he knew would be brutal, but the alternative was McCaskey's annihilation plan and that seemed infinitely worse. He just hoped that someday Peter would understand.
He hadn't spoken to him since, so he didn't exactly know where the two of them stood, but he tried his best to make it right by asking Maria to take him and try to keep his true potential a secret. McCaskey's intern nearly jeopardized his entire effort by snooping in the database, but it paid to have friends in all the right places. Noah Bennet was worth his weight in gold. It was hard to tell if the intern was just engaged in stupidity or if it was some kind of intelligence gathering operation, but either way it had to be dealt with swiftly, and it was. The two men agreed that Peter, and by extension Maria, had to be kept secret at all cost. A midnight bag and tag by Bennet and a signed rendition order later by Nathan solved the problem. It probably wasn't good politics to kidnap another senator's intern and have him disappear down a deep, dark hole never to be found again, but when it came to Peter, you didn't mess with Senator Petrelli and he had no regrets.
Many times he wanted to find a reason to visit Maria as a pretense to see his brother again, but he couldn't think of any business the two had that would warrant a personal visit. While being popular had its advantages in terms of power and privilege, it also carried with it the liability of a posse of Secret Service bodyguards and closer scrutiny by detractors. He couldn't bring potential trouble like that to her doorstep, so he was forced to stay away and simply wonder how Peter was faring- especially since the rebellion broke out and even more so now that S2 was being tested. He knew he wasn't a fighter, but despite this he often found himself square in the middle of the action just as he did at Kirby Plaza to take on Sylar- a freakishly powerful, seemingly unstoppable force- and he ended up exploding for his efforts. What precious little information he did have came from Noah's involvement with Maria. Peter had gone off the grid shortly before the rebellion began, removing his own chip after his powers were restored so he couldn't be traced. Nathan was glad that he had his abilities back, but he did wonder why then he never teleported to Washington to see him once. After much deliberation, he decided that perhaps Peter finally had enough of his scheming and chose to never speak to him again. It wasn't like him, but maybe he finally took his advice to stop trying to save the world and look out for himself for once.
He laid his head back in his plush, leather chair and sighed deeply. He was so tired of living a double life. In order to do what was best for all, he had to sacrifice those that were closest to him and he was left with nothing but many long hours alone with nowhere to go. Political necessity dictated that he distance himself from those he loved most and he was surrounded by courtiers and power brokers, all trying to swindle or flatter their way to the top. Maybe that's why he took an interest in Damian. Kelly was one of the manipulators in training and he was convinced she would do just fine in politics, but Damian reminded him of Peter: he refused to play the game in favor of an honest and sincere approach to change even if it hampered his own success. He was sure a psychoanalyst would have a field day, suggesting that Damian was serving as a proxy for his lost relationship with Peter, and he couldn't exactly disagree. Perhaps his relationship with Peter was irreparably damaged, he didn't know. But while he couldn't go back and be the moral compass he should have been, he could try to right the wrongs of his past by encouraging the next generation that would take his place.
He had made many mistakes and hurtful decisions in his time, but all were necessary. He made the tough choices when he had to so no one else would have to live with the consequences in order to quietly shape the future and advert disaster for specials everywhere, even if they would never know it. But the world had too many sharks like him when what it needed was more people like Peter and Damian who could compromise and pick up the pieces after the fighting was over to forge a new society of tolerance and healing.