For all his years of living in New York, Peter never went to Times Square for New Year's Eve. With his brother dead and other relatives not answering his calls, he had no plans for the evening, and he was not about to mope the night away. As the afternoon faded into twilight, Peter descended the stairs for the roof of the Deveaux building and braved the crowds as he pushed toward Times Square.
Upon arrival, Peter discovered the square was already three quarters full. A nameless band droned on right in front of where the ball would land. Closing his eyes, Peter drowned in the hyper beats and melancholy melodies. A part of him marveled that he was even alive and able to be a part of the celebratory swarm. This led him to remembering his last visit to Mohinder's apartment. He faced Sylar in the Telekinetic Olympics, but Sylar brought him down with a shard of glass. The next thing he knew, he was in Nathan's house, and Claire had removed the shard from his skull. All the while, Peter realized that he had no clue what happened between these two moments.
"Five six one," a voice whispered in his head.
"Huh?" he mumbled, his own response breaking his reverie.
"Five six one," the voice repeated, "seven two two..."
After two repetitions of all the numbers, Peter figured out their connection. The empath darted out of the pack and found a small t-shirt shop still open. He made his way to the counter and asked to use the phone. The clerk dialed the number and handed Peter the receiver. Peter waited through five rings, all the while hearing the same voice mention something about Mohinder or someone else answering.
"Hello, you have reached the residence of Shawn LeLand," the voice on the other end chirped. "I am unable to answer the phone at this time, so please leave you name, your number and a message. I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you."
"Hello," Peter sputtered. "Mohinder? Are you there? It's Peter Petrelli. I'm alive, and I'm in New York. I have no phone of my own, so I'll try to call you again when I can. I guess...we'll talk later."
With that, he passed the receiver back to the clerk. After writing down the number dictated into his subconscious, Peter left the shop and rejoined the cavorting throng crowding the square. People hollered and blew into noisemakers as the Jumbotrons displayed the seconds ticking away. As the crowd counted down the final ten seconds, tears leaked out of Peter's orbs. He shut his eyes, peeking through thick lashes to see the ball hit the bottom. When he saw the number 2007 in lights, he lowered his head, allowing the tears to flow free.
"Happy New Year's," he choked.
Much to his surprise, the crowd dispersed in a half hour. Not ready to retreat to the rooftop, he wandered through the city. Most of the bars and night clubs were packed with post-New Year's partiers, but he stumbled across what looked like an underground club with no line snaking from the entrance. He made himself invisible before descending the stairs.
After strolling past the bouncer, Peter surveyed the club. Most of the walls were painted black with the exception of some toward the back of the hall. Three white walls provided the backdrop for flooding halogen lights and cramped stages. Men clad in black leather and liquid latex struck poses on one stage, and a couple were held in place by stainless steel shackles. Looking behind him, Peter spotted the long, curved bar dotted with maroon and silver streaked pendant lights. Numerous leather couches in maroon and black dotted the club, and he spotted two circular platforms a couple yards away from the bar.
Peter walked over to a coffee table between the bar and the circular platforms. On it rested a half full rocks glass. He picked it up and sniffed the contents, surprised to find it only contained water. Downing what was left in the glass, Peter set it back before walking off to rematerialize. With a greater concentration of people in this area, he refocused his energy on trying not to think for a change. Finding an empty chair near to one of the circular platforms, Peter plopped in it, happy to be off his feet. Just as he sat down, the deejay cut the music.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are enjoying 2007 so far," the deejay cooed through the crackling sound system. "It might be one AM, but the party is just getting started here. In fifteen minutes, you can catch the Dynamic Duo playing Doctor on Stage One for a special one hour performance."
Peter leaned back in the chair and brushed at the silver studs adorning the arms.
"Then at one thirty, the Six Star Sextet will be performing an encore of their Leatherbound Ritual," the deejay continued. "But right now, Circular One is opening up for the New Year's exhibition of crowd favorite Morally Grey."
At that, Peter noticed people swarmed the area near where he sat.
"So get your drinks from Mitch the Mixo and enjoy your show of choice. Thank you for making The Iron Gate your stop for New Year's Eve 2006."
Peter tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. The halogens above him flickered on, prompting him to shield his eyes from the whitewash of light. He caught a glimpse of two doors in the ceiling opening, and he saw the shadowed mass lowered to the stage. As coarse industrial rock thudded off the walls of the club, Peter followed the travels of the form only to find a familiar face tilted back in his direction.
Sylar only knew he was hovering a foot from the stage from the roar of the crowd. The drugs coursing through his system kept him from fully opening his eyes. Even if he could open his eyes, he knew the lights would prevent him from seeing the crowd. While grateful to the owner of the club for letting him stay here, he didn't enjoy the way in which he had to repay the debt. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the manager ordered him to not incorporate Sylar into his stage name. Getting a feel for the pulsating techno music, he listened for the right beat before splaying his legs into a V shape. As the crowd's cheering trilled into his eardrums, he decided that there could be worse things than being a piece of living art.
Peter stared at the commotion before his eyes, but he paid no attention to it. A voice drifting through his head jolted him out of his semi-vegetative state.
"They won't let him use Sylar as part of his stage name?" Peter mumbled. "Wait. Sylar? What the fuck?"
He bolted to an upright sitting position. Looking at the shirtless performer, he knew exactly who was in those pants and chains.
"I thought you were dead," he hissed.
With that, Peter sprung out of the chair and dashed to the sparsely populated bar. Slamming into the edge, he lowered himself onto a stool. A short man with slicked back hair approached and slid a Skyy coaster in front of the empath.
"Mitch the Mixo at your service," he said. "What can I get for you?"
"Absolut on the rocks," Peter mumbled, setting a twenty on the bar. "I also need a little info, if you have it."
Mitch placed Peter's drink on the coaster and pocketed the twenty. "Depends. What is it you want to know?"
"That man at the circular stage-"
"Mister Morally Grey. What about him? I will say he's off limits for private meetings. Owner's orders."
Peter scowled at Mitch's statement. "He's not my type. How long has he been here?"
"Almost two months. He was originally a janitor, but then those suits started hanging around."
The empath cocked his head, trying to understand what Mitch told him.
"Suits," Mitch continued. "Agents. People looking to capture other people, mainly those with special abilities."
"Abilities, huh?" Peter muttered.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Actually, I think I do. Some jackasses in business wear hounded me at my brother's funeral.
Mitch's eyebrows flew to the top of his forehead as he gripped the rail. "Really. What do you know about people with abilities?"
"I'm one, and so is...Morally Grey, but that's not his real name. Did you know that?"
Mitch stared at Peter and shook his head a bit.
"His name is Sylar," Peter continued in a whisper, "and he can move things with his mind."
"That's probably why the suits want him."
Peter shrugged. "Probably. They want me, too."
"Why? What can you do?"
With that, Peter took his empty glass and turned it upside down. He put his hand on the top of the upturned object and pressed down. The glass cracked and splintered under his hand. The more he pressed, the smaller the glass pieces got, and they lodged themselves into his palm. Peter lifted his hand and plucked out each shard. Mitch could only stand there with his jaw hanging open as he watched the skin heal from the glass wounds.
"No wonder they want you," he gasped. "Nobody should be naturally able to crush that glass just with their bare hands...or hand, for that matter."
"Or heal," Peter muttered.
Mitch opened his mouth but stopped short. He looked out at the stage and spotted two gentlemen in suits loiter near Stage One.
"What's up?" Peter asked.
"Suits," was the response he got.
"Damnit I've spent the past month-"
"Shut it. They could be after Morally Grey or you or anybody here, for that matter. There are a shit load of them around."
"Who?"
"Both."
"How do you know all of this?"
Mitch adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo shirt. "I used to be one of them. A suit. Now shut up and stay facing the bar."
Peter complied and gestured to the surface of the bar. Mitch nodded and prepared another glass. He kept his eye on the agents while helping other customers, watching them leave the cluster near Stage One. While sipping his liquor, Peter heard one of them comment about heading to the back of the club, prompting him to nearly choke on his vodka. Mitch heard his sputtering from the other end of the bar and shot a look at the empath. His eyes widened, and he mouthed something.
"What?" Peter asked.
"Behind you!" Mitch shouted.
Peter turned to find an agent mere inches away from his face. Without thinking, he threw his fist, his knuckles digging into the agent's eye. The agent stumbled back before landing on his tail bone. Peter glanced to his right and saw two chiseled men in all black clothes marching through the club. One headed to the circular stages, and the second stopped in front of the agent lying on the floor, whose eye had morphed into a pool of greens and blues. The man in black kicked the agent's shoulder but got no response. Moments later, the second man joined the small cluster near the bar, holding the other agent in his clutches. The agent writhed in the man's arms and then locked eyes with Peter.
"Him!" the agent shouted.
"Shut your trap, you little pissant," his captor hissed.
"He did it!"
Ignoring the agent's outbursts, the captor looked at his compatriot. "What happened to the other one?"
"He's out like a busted light bulb," the other man answered before glancing at Peter. "Maybe he did do it."
"I swear he did it!" the agent yelled as he continued to twist and fight the flesh and bone restraints cutting off circulation in his arms.
"Well, he was going to abduct me!" Peter finally retorted.
"How the hell would you know that?" the man asked.
"I-I-I've seen him before! At my brother's funeral."
"We were after the one called Morally Grey," the agent mumbled, "but if you're here...let me at him."
"Oh, no, you don't," his captor growled as he dragged the agent to the exit.
"All the same, you're out of here as well," the other man said while grabbing Peter's shoulder.
Peter fell off the stool as the man dragged him along. He heard Mitch call out about something being on the house, but nothing registered until the man dropped him on the sidewalk right next to the stairwell. Dazed, Peter shook his head and scrambled to his feet. Next to him was the agent who yelled at him earlier.
"Nice evening, isn't it, Mister Petrelli?" the agent asked.
Without a word, Peter turned and began running. He heard the agent on his heels, his footfalls and mental taunts coursing through the empath's brain. The agent both concentrated on capturing the empath and laughing inside over said subject's outburst about why he punched the other agent. Feeling the agent gaining ground, Peter stopped and faced him. The agent smirked just before Peter tossed him down the sidewalk with a single nod of his head.
"Stay the fuck away from me!" he yelled at the agent, who was lying on his back on the concrete.
With that, Peter took flight and headed back to the rooftop.
Mira lounged in the sitting area reading profiles of the subjects the group previously studied or intended to study. Since efforts to bring Peter and Sylar to Kirby Plaza had been fruitless, she devoted some time to learning about the abilities they had been able to study. The hours spent reading enlightened Mira, and she began to understand why the Suresh men devoted their lives to learning as much as they could about these people. A knock interrupted her reading. She answered the door and found her agents standing in the threshold.
"Morning, gentlemen," she said. "What happened to you?"
"We found Peter Petrelli in SoHo," the agent with the black eye mumbled. "It did not go so well."
"Really. Come in so we can discuss this."
The agents stepped into the suite and settled in the chairs.
"Would either of you like anything?" she continued.
"I'll take an ice pack," the injured agent piped up, gesturing to his eye.
Mira stopped and looked at him. "How did you get that?"
"Like I said, we found Peter Petrelli. He's got one hell of a punch."
"Not to mention his flight, his ability to move things with his mind and potentially the ability to read minds," the other agent added.
"So he has a minimum of four abilities," Mira said. "We'll have to adjust our strategy a bit. Now let me see about an ice pack."
With that, Mira ventured to her bedroom. She opened the mini-fridge and checked the ice tray. After tossing some ice in a plastic shopping bag, she grabbed some water and rejoined the agents in the sitting area. Upon arrival, she spotted them flipping throuhg the profiles, although the one agent kept squinting at the paper in his hands.
"Glad to see you're comfortable," she said while handing the ice pack over. "Anything else on Petrelli? Where did you find him, anyway?"
"At The Iron Gate," the uninjured agent replied. "We were there tracking down Sylar."
"Any luck with Sylar?"
The agents shook their heads.
"Someone at the club is protecting Sylar," the injured agent stated. "We got kicked out of the club."
"It seems as if they know our type," his compatriot added. "We might have to go undercover if we plan to capture Sylar."
"How about Peter?" Mira asked.
"With him, we might just get lucky. It depends on what abilities he decides to use...or not use, for that matter."
Mira nodded. "Well, you guys should get some sleep after the long night you had. I have the day off, but I'm going to see if there's a way we can capture either of these men. Let's meet tonight for dinner.
The agents nodded and left the room. After they left, she scuttled back to the bedroom to get dressed. New Year's Day or not, she was going to track down these specials if it was the last thing she'd ever do.
Shawn thanked providence for the light traffic on the Turnpike as she pulled into her driveway. After getting in the house and tossing her bag on the futon, she pressed a button on her answering machine.
"You have two messages," the machine droned.
"Oh goody," she grumbled. "If it's work, I'm calling in dead. I've had enough surgery for one day."
She changed into her pajamas while someone form the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office reminded her to not drink and drive on New Year's Eve. The surgeon rolled her eyes at the reminder. The night's numerous car crash injuries provided enough reminders, especially when they came in the form of seven broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a brain bleed all in one person. Shawn cursed the Bacardi corporation while trying to push that particular patient out of her mind. The second message diverted her attention.
"Hello," a male voice sputtered. "Mohinder? Are you there? It's Peter Petrelli."
As Peter continued rambling, Shawn smiled a bit. She picked up the nearby cordless phone and sifted through the caller ID. Though the name Petrelli appeared nowhere in the list of calls, she spotted a call from T.J.'s T-Shirts made at 11 the previous night. Too tired to tap or make any phone calls herself, she retreated to her bedroom. Eyeing the calendar, she counted down the days in her head until Mohinder returned from his trip. She couldn't wait to see his face when she played Peter's message for him.