Chapter Six

"Mark of the Beast"

In Washington D.C., Nathan Petrelli paced the Oval Office, brow furrowed in worry. The past twenty-four hours had been a living hell. All of that time was spent examining the crime scene, which they oddly got nothing out of, and on top of that, Nathan had yet to hear anything about that patrol he ordered from Elisa Thayer. Granted, things like that took time to get set up, but couldn't they work a little faster to get his Claire home safe and his former brother sent to the chair?

Elisa stormed through the doors, and for once in his life, Nathan was actually happy to see her.

"We have a lead on the location of Claire," she announced once all the secret servicemen left the room.

Nathan's knees almost went weak. "Where?"

"Boston," Thayer nodded. "We did a search to see if Mary Whetsill used her credit card at any time, and surprisingly, she did. Claire's card showed up at a Hot Spur in Boston."

"If she rented a car, then she could be anywhere," Nathan's bright expression slumped.

"All those cars have trackers in them nowadays in case they get stolen," Elisa informed him. "I've sent the agents up to Boston to interview the employees and track the car. It'll lead us right to her."

"I'm going to accompany you," Nathan stated firmly, and Agent Thayer bit back a scoff.

"Not possible." She stared a death match into his hazel eyes. "It's too dangerous, and I'm not about to lug around six Secret Service men to make sure the leader of our country doesn't get any papercuts."

Nathan wasn't going down so easily. Having lived around Angela Petrelli for the past forty-two years, he knew how to hold his own. "This is my daughter we're talking about," he seethed.

"And thisis my mission," Elisa retorted back. "As head of it, I forbid you come along." She leaned in, glaring. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. President?"

"My child is not a bargaining chip," Nathan glared, still not backing off. "Not anymore."

"Oh really?" Thayer chuckled cruelly. "You know, that bar-coding room is just up the hall from where she works. Wouldn't it be a shame if she stumbled inside and the branders mistook her for what she really is?"

Nathan silently fumed.

"Besides…won't you be far too busy with another bill to pass? Doesn't sound like something that should be abandoned just because Claire's gone MIA." She winked and nudged her head towards the manila folder on Nathan's desk labeled The Mutant Purification Act. The final bill of its sort. The one that required all individuals with abilities to be executed.

"And after you pass that law," continued Thayer, circling Nathan like a vulture ready to dive into a pile of dead meat, "it would be even more heartbreaking if someone discovered the truth about Claire. Sent to the gas chambers by her own father. What a legacy."

Nathan exercised his right to remain silent, having a million things to say, but knowing his place in these matters. All he could do was stare daggers at Elisa's devious chiseled features and pin straight red hair. He should have seen it coming, really. Nothing good ever came out of a devious red-headed woman. Mary, Queen of Scots. Lizzie Borden. And now, Agent Elisa Thayer.

xxx

"We have a problem," quipped the familiar voice of Linderman on the other line. Twenty minutes later, Elisa was clip-clopping down the hall with a cell in her ear, searching for privacy. "And?"

"Someone has broken into the vault, and they saw the schematics. Before we could intercept him, he teleported away."

Elisa nearly screeched in shocked fury right in the middle of the hall, before ducking into a corner and quietly continuing her conversation.

"He teleported?" stopped Thayer, immediately thinking of her current case. "Like Peter Petrelli…"

"Petrelli can teleport too?" Linderman's brow furrowed. "We'll have to see. The intruder was marked before he left, so if we see a burn on the side of Peter's face, we'll know it was him."

"If we can find him. He's kidnapped Claire, and Nathan's having a cow. We're looking for her as I speak."

"Abandon that," Linderman ordered. "If the thief got an eyeful of those papers, he could bring the whole plan down. Especially if it was Peter Petrelli."

"We need to find Claire," Elisa snapped back. "Without her, we have no power over Nathan, and we've lost millions in FBI dollars without her ability."

"I'm sure he has other weaknesses, Elisa. We just need to push the right buttons. And find another indestructible agent if you're so worried about funding. Heavens, child, don't you think?"

Elisa stayed silent for a few seconds, shaking her head in contemplation. "So what now? I've already sent the team after the girl."

Now Linderman paused, pondering Elisa's previous statements. "You say that Peter kidnapped Claire?"

"Yes," Thayer replied impatiently. "So it would be more convenient to do as Nathan says, rescue the girl, and bring in Petrelli with her."

"It would kill two birds with one stone," Linderman admitted, hmming. "Then it's settled. If Peter has the scar, then kill him immediately. He's too dangerous to be kept alive. If he is unmarked, then follow through with Nathan's agenda, and find a way to bring him to me personally. He could be…useful."

"Understood," Elisa answered. "I'll call you back when I've intercepted them."

"Well chosen, dear." Sophia Linderman's voice softened with a spark of affection. "And be careful, Elisa."

The widow and her daughter hung up the phone at the same time

xxx

It wasn't the first time in his life that Peter Petrelli arrived back in Boston with bloodcurdling screams.

His cries of distress reverberated off the cathedral ceilings of the brothel, drawing the attentions of Sylar, Claire, and Hiro. The three clambered up, all leaving from separate parts of the house and joining together in the living room, where Peter writhed on the floor in pain.

Claire kneeled down beside him, trying to pry Peter's hands off his face. They wouldn't budge; he had the left side so clutched in his grasp the Claire suspected there would be nail marks in his skin soon. Which drew up the strange question of why there wasn't a drop of blood in sight. Something so painful must have drawn blood, shouldn't it?

Peter opened his eyes, teeth still gritted, and he relaxed a little upon sight of the brunette girl. She was living proof that he was home again, and in the light, as opposed to the fiery darkness that engulfed him in the vault. It didn't ease the foreign agony pressed under his palms, but it did sooth the soul.

Make it stop, Claire, oh God…it hurts so much. Claire, Claire…help me…

"Shh, shh, what happened?" Claire whispered, impulsively going to brush back his hair. Her small fingers stopped at the verge of the black locks, however. Peter didn't have hair fit for stroking anymore, no sleek strips of shining ebony that fell evenly back from his forehead. His hair today reminded Claire of a thick mass atop his skull.

Peter was two inches away from cracking a tooth his jaw was clenched so tight. "I dunno," he managed to croak, a sharp sting shooting up his cheek as he moved his facial muscles.

"Get his hands off his face," Sylar instructed, squatting down and pinning Peter's legs to the floor with all his strength. Peter's lower half stopped squirming in the stronghold as Claire peeled off Peter's hands rather easily. His power and tolerance now drained, he simply watched through bleary eyes as Claire's face transformed into one of bewildered shock.

"Oh my…" She couldn't even finish a coherent sentence to express the ten thousand thoughts whizzing though her mind. Claire felt dizzy, unstable. The sight before her was that incomprehendable.

Peter passed out, his head lolling to the right to give her an even better view of the ugly crimson burn that streaked from his temple down to his jaw. A burn. Claire had walked through fire several times in her life, even getting roasted from head to toe in some cases, and she always came out good as new. Why was Peter still retaining a single wound? Did his power not work anymore? Could her power no longer save him?

Sylar and Hiro exchanged looks over Claire's head of the same nature.

"This seems like something Mohinder should see," Hiro suggested, digging in his pocket for his cell with the non-slinged hand.

Sylar nodded mutely and turned back to his brother. He let up the hold on Peter's legs and crossed to the other side, facing Claire with Peter's body between them.

"I don't understand," she whispered, running a finger down the mark that was still warm with invisible flame. "How could this happen?"

Sylar stared at her, shaking his head, as he grimly replied, "There's always a bigger fish."

xxx

"I simply have no way to explain it," Mohinder sighed, pulling himself away from Peter's bed and leaning against the vanity. The young man lay on his mattress, ice packs masking the mark on his face as he slept with even breaths. Mohinder and Molly rushed over as fast as they could after Hiro called, and now all five companions gathered upstairs to discuss their latest catastrophe.

Mohinder paced, continuing. "As far as I can see, it's a terrible burn, but I can't fathom why he's not healing. I know it's not his regeneration to blame; I cut his shoulder to test it and that wound fixed itself. Even the skin around the burn is spotless, while to wound itself remains. I just…it's impossible…"

"I guess not," Claire gritted out in a harsher tone than she meant. "Somebody did this to him, and they knew how to overcome our ability."

"But Peter didn't run into anyone," Sylar pointed out from his spot against the wall. "We were listening to him to whole time. He was alone. And even if he did, some of the people we've met have no clue of their potential. Peter may've scared someone and their instincts flared up."

"How could they have given him a wound that won't heal?!" exploded Claire, earning four loud shushes from the people around her. Peter groaned and twitched in his slumber, but did not wake. Claire gazed at him sympathetically before turning back to the group and lowering her voice. "I've never found anything that can hurt me. Anything. Metal poles, fire, bullets, knives…I heal from everything that hurts me."

"It's like I said, though," insisted Sylar. "Mohinder describes this whole process as an act of evolution. But God is a violent and random creator! Who's to say that a being wasn't created to supersede the abilities of another? It's possibly a step forward in the evolutionary development. A stronger power than any other naturally created to be better, perhaps even evil. Because there always has to be that balance. Without evil, the definition of good disappears."

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Molly asked in a small voice as she sat beside Peter on the bed, not taking her eyes off him. "Peter needs to rest."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Hiro, Sylar, and Mohinder filed out of the door. Claire turned back and watched as Molly planted a chaste kiss to Peter's forehead before following them. Molly's action stirred up nostalgia in Claire. The sweet sixteen, weepy-eyed teenager that was a little bit in love with Peter Petrelli. Of course, Molly was allowed to dream such thoughts. Claire, on the other hand, was forced to let those feelings wither and smolder until they slipped through her fingers as a fine grey sand.

Just like all the warmth and care that Peter used to emit, corroded away by a hard life. And now, there was finally a scar to prove it.

xxx

It was night by the time Peter awoke, and the icepacks on his face now contained a cool slush of melted contents. He came to without a sound, slowly slipping into consciousness without a movement until the creak of his door startled him.

Claire flipped the light switch and he groaned, sitting up and letting the bags of water slide off his face. The girl smiled and shut the door before padding over to his bed.

"How does it feel?" she asked softly, helping Peter sit up.

He pressed a couple fingers onto the mark, wincing. "Still stings."

"Then don't touch it," Claire smirked good-naturedly, earning a half-hearted smile back from Peter.

"How bad does it look?" he said seriously, not sure if he had the courage enough to look in the mirror himself. And by the solemness that Claire's expression sank into, Peter suspected that it was pretty awful.

"Um…it's not in a bad place," she remarked, attempting optimism. It fell flat.

Peter took a deep breath and looked to his right, seeing himself, his now scarred self, staring back from the mirror. The ghastly red abrasion scraped all the way down his face, obliterating any attractiveness he may have worn before. Now, people would be much too distracted by the hideous scarrage to see his lovely grey-brown eyes, cute crooked smile, or soft, coal-colored locks.

"If it's any consolation," Claire said quietly, with a timid touch to Peter's shoulder. "You got the sword back."

Peter let a gloomy chuckle escape his lips. "Mission accomplished."

Throwing all politeness and acquaintanceship to the wind, Claire leaned forward and sat next to him on the bed. "Look, Peter, it might not be permanent-,"

"Claire," he cut her off, staring at his lap emotionlessly. "Just…go, alright?"

He asked as politely as he could, considering the circumstances, so Claire didn't wait to be told twice. If Peter wanted some alone time, she'd grant it. Pressing the issue would only start another stupid, pointless fight, and even though she suspected it was probably more caring to stay and comfort him, both of them were much too tired to follow any code of manners.

"You sure?" She unconsciously rubbed his shoulder, a gesture he used to console her with whenever a boy would break her heart, or she'd flunk an exam. Yet those were the years when it counted. Petty problems that didn't need to be fixed, but they'd be a shoulder to cry on for each other anyway. A teenaged Claire would always push her best friend Peter away for a few minutes, just to be dramatic, when all she really wanted was to sob all over him. And of course, he'd see right through her teen angst, and talk her down from it, and the next day it'd be no biggie. But today, with the real problems, the troubled ones truly wanted to be left alone.

Peter didn't blink, or even make a movement that he felt her ministration. "Yeah," he rasped.

"Okay," Claire replied simply, letting go and heading towards the door. She turned back to look at him, right before leaving, and parted her lips to say something. The words got stuck in her throat though, like her vocal box got dipped in tar, and she closed her mouth.

The next thing she closed was the door.

It took Peter a few moments to gather himself once Claire went downstairs. He picked his lazy body up off the bed and stumbled to the vanity, taking a hard look at his marred reflection.

He needed to get plastered. Disgustingly plastered. The yearning for a hard drink on his tongue had never been so great, and even a boxful of lemon PEZ couldn't come close to fulfilling this craving.

Sylar made sure that the house had no alcohol of any sort, even the isopropyl kind, as to keep Peter from smashing himself. However, there was a little pocket of secrecy that the harlots left behind: an old time safe box in the back of the closet, where the broads kept all of their profits.

Peter found it more useful as his stash.

He ran to the other side of the room, ripping clothes off of hangers to get to that box in the back. At last, he slid the wall panel over and found it, stock full of various alcoholic beverages. Anything from beer to vodka. Tonight, however, Peter plucked a healthy sized bottle of whisky from the back, breaking the glass neck in half with his bare hands. The drink burned his throat, but he welcomed that tingle. It was the only thing in his life that could really comfort him these days.

He vaguely regretted this, with Claire and Molly in the house, and he knew he would hate himself later for it, but weakness blinded his morals. Pleasure was now, and it was good, and that's all that mattered.

xxx

"Mohinder, it's a stronger being!" Sylar argued with his friend, while the Indian man shook his head hotly.

"That's ridiculous," Mohinder retorted. "If evolution just took a leap forward, why would it take another so soon after? Evolution is a slow process that takes millions of years to show it's development."

"Aren't there some sorts of…" Sylar waved his arms around, looking for the words, but only coming up with a lame "…mini evolution?"

"Some creatures adapt in different ways, yes, but I'm certain nature intended the metahumans all to be on the same plane. Why would it create life forms just to destroy the new ones?"

"Maybe nature realized it made a mistake," Sylar gravely put forth. "Molly and Shanti had a disease that only attacked people like us. Why? The same reason this has emerged, Mohinder. Nature messed up!"

"It's a mutation," Mohinder disagreed. "They are incredibly random and there's bound to be mistakes."

"Break up the science talk," sighed Claire, coming down the stairs. "Not-so-smart brains are present."

Mohinder shot her a mildly dirty look, and cocked his head towards Molly. His sixteen-year-old daughter, after the time she'd spent with him, probably knew more about DNA and Darwin than Mohinder himself.

"Okay," Claire amended. "Not-so-smart brain."

"How's Peter?" Sylar asked, voice saturated with sincere concern for his brother. Claire sat down next to him on the couch.

"I dunno. He wanted to be alone."

"He's awake?" Hiro sat up suddenly, the clank of his sword sounding in motion with his body.

"Oh, yeah, he is. Really depressed though. I don't know what to do. I mean, how do you deal with someone that's just had his world rocked like that?"

"His left side's a bit rugged," Sylar replied sullenly. "It's not good, but it's hardly the end of the world."

Claire frowned at him. "Vanity aside," she replied back with a voice like thin ice, "this totally shatters any faith we have in our abilities. You probably don't understand much, but it scares me, guys. To think that there's stuff out there that could hurt me and Peter…" She looked hopefully from Hiro, to Mohinder, to Sylar, but all of them failed to return her look of passion. Claire sighed and pursed her lips, realizing that there was no way to make them relate to this, no matter how sympathetic they were.

xxx

The next half-hour was silent except for the sounds of Hiro sharpening his sword and music overheard from Molly's headphones. Sylar, sick of it, headed to the tech room to shut off his equipment.

The room was easily ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house, humming and alive with all of the machinery. Sylar wiped a small bead of sweat off his forehead before searching for the main power grid.

Just as he was finishing up, a loud crash erupted in the distance, and his ears perked up. Moments later, Claire rushed into the room with her brown hair rippling behind her.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered.

"Yes," Sylar replied monotonously. "Stay down here, and tell the others to leave. I'll go upstairs and see what's the matter."

"But-,"

Sylar peered down, his lanky frame towering over her by more than a foot in height. The expression that lined his face, aging it's youthful skin, told her not to argue.

"Trust me," he muttered darkly. "If it is what I think it is, then you don't want to see it. And neither does he want you to."

A sneaking suspicion and all common sense told him that it would occur at some point, but maybe Sylar just trusted people too much. He trusted Peter to keep himself under control, and was that really such a crime? Peter was a grown man. He knew better.

Yes, as Sylar trudged up the stairs to go face his nightmare once again, he knew exactly what was coming. Which, though it gave him time to brace himself, it's still a rotten thing for a cow to know it's headed towards the slaughterhouse. It was his worst fear, the absolute finest dread in his heart to experience this side of Peter, which now laid just on the other side of the door.

Sylar abandoned manners and didn't bother to knock.

Peter didn't even flinch when his sibling entered, for he was much too enraptured by the broken glass bottle held in his weak digits. Crimson mixed with spilled liquor pooled on his palms for a few seconds before his regeneration powers kicked in, and the liquid life trickled back into his body.

"Why won't it heal?" he mumbled, and Sylar wasn't sure if Peter was talking to him or the wall.

"Peter?" he slowly asked, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Peter turned bloodshot eyes onto his brother, only half-recognizing him. "Sy?"

"Yes."

"Where's Claire? Everyone?"

"I sent them home. As for Claire, I told her to stay downstairs. I didn't think you'd want any of them to-,"

"See me like this," Peter finished coldly.

Sylar sat next to him on the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements. He always made himself keep two eyes open around his intoxicated brother. For even though Peter had never been an angry drunk, the type of drunk he was had almost worst symptoms.

Peter caught his own reflection again in the mirror, that hideous burn on the side of his face, and he let made a noise, a mix between a snort and a sob. Oh, God. This was what Sylar had been afraid of.

From several occasions of the same nature, Sylar happened to learn that Peter Petrelli was a very overemotional drunk. Lots of angst. Lots of dry weeping. And even worse, some suicidal tendencies as well. Not exactly something your average Joe would have anticipated, but after all those late nights of holding his brother's sobbing, alcohol laced frame, Sylar knew it to be the bona fide truth.

"What am I gonna do?" Peter spat, half-garbled. "I can't go out …like….this!"

He halfheartedly threw the remains of the split bottle at his vanity mirror, but even that was enough to crack the poorly made glass, and then he collapsed to his knees in weakness. Sylar's eyes filled with a mix of anger and pity, and however much he detested Peter for giving into this addiction, he was still kin. They shared blood, a womb, and for the past three years, a life. No matter what he'd done before his amnesia, that had been a constant all along.

"Come on," Sylar gently sighed, wrapping his arms around Peter. He managed to guide his flesh and blood to the bed, where he laid Peter down. Turns out, brother was more like mother in events like this.

"Sylar, I can't-,"

"Shh. Try to get some sleep."

Peter clutched his throbbing head, still gritting his teeth. There was always just enough of Peter's real personality in his drunken alter ego, enough to hate the weakness that alcohol brought out in him. He despised being emotional, and had too much pride to let anyone see. However, his body and conscience were disconnected by the drink, and the quiet whines came anyhow. Sylar once tore into him about it, demanding why he'd want to take something to make him hate himself in the morning. Why?

Because I need to feel SOMETHING.

There was nothing to live for anymore. All Peter's family was gone, save for Sylar. He had Hiro, but his best friend was always off on some mission. He had no love; just a bunch of women to keep him busy. But lust of all things was still an incredibly strong emotion, and it remained to be the best quick fix for him.

It was always so empty at the end of the day,though. Peter's heart was designed to be empathetic and caring, and this life was beginning to take its toll. Little did he know, emotions, and other people were like soup for the soul. Take them away, and there was nothing left, really.

Peter'd spent the last three years trying to be a hero, trying to save the world, trying to fight against this hopeless cause and always coming back with slugs in him, or a limb missing. What was worth it? WHAT was he even fighting for? He didn't know these people he saved. They could all be reckless buffoons that deserved their fates.

All these things….the promiscuity, the alcohol……they were games of make-believe. They took him out of his actual self and placed him into an avatar, a man that had no problems. Some hotshot that didn't care what other people thought, and did what he wanted.

Peter tried to be like that, be the rouge. But man, it didn't feel right.

"Don't…Sylar…," breathed Peter, shuddering on the bed, and his brother held him still with two strong hands.

"Take a deep breath. Everything's going to be fine."

"No it's not," Peter cried. "It's…I don't even…God…"

He was talking nonsense now, trains of thought that he was far too inebriated to put into words. Sylar quietly shushed him some more, eventually getting Peter to lay exhausted and panting. The absentminded rivers on the shorter man's face slowed to a calm, and after a few more minutes of serene consolations and comfort, sleep took pity on Peter.

That went…well. For a drunken fit, it was actually rather tame. Oh, had Sylar walked in on some doozies before. When Peter first started drinking, Sylar once opened the door to his brother's room to find a delta of blood flowing out and soaking the hem of his pants. Peter spilled enough of it out of his veins to wade through, yet Claire's essence still came and made it all better.

Except this time. Perhaps that's why Peter was so torn up about it. Claire couldn't help him now.

Peter's room was a wreck after his rampage for drinks, a danger zone. Sylar inwardly cursed the angel on his shoulder as he picked up his heavy brother and carried him to the next room over, getting him out of that disaster area. Peter was now in an alcohol induced slumber, and a freight train wouldn't arouse him.

Sylar unceremoniously dropped Peter on the twin bed, wincing at the thud of a body hitting a hockey puck of a mattress.

"It's for your own good," he said wisely, before leaning down and brushing his lips across his brother's forehead in a chaste kiss goodnight. Sylar wasn't normally a compassionate person, but he still felt compelled to be so in this instance. Pity and love were two sides of the same coin.

xxx

The Hot Spurs on Green Street, Prim Lane, and Mall Drive were all spared walk-in visits from the FBI. The Hot Spur on Reed Boulevard wasn't so fortunate.

Agent Marcus Ferguson led the team of seven, dressed proper but indiscreet. Too good for the FBI, but not quite nice enough for the CIA. He instructed his comrades to wait in the car, save for one attractive looking female agent, and headed into the rental place.

For some reason, beauty was a good intimidator. It gave Marcus and his current lady accomplice an edge before they even started.

"Can I help you?" piped a sales clerk at the front desk. His white, oval name tag read Chad.

"Sure Chad," smiled Marcus, already reaching into his breast pocket to pull out his badge. The college-aged clerk had eyes as big as Area 51 UFOs when he set eyes upon the gold leafed hall pass.

"There's a girl we're looking for. Her name is Mary Whetsill," expounded the woman, Jeanne Alberta. "She rented a car about a day ago, and we need to see the tracker on it."

It was against Hot Spur's policy to do such a thing. All the tracking devices were kept under lock and key, lest someone tried to steal their merchandise. But these were agents, and the human mind naturally had a thing about shiny badges and instructions: see the shiny badge and you better follow those instructions.

"Right this way," stammered Chad, leading them behind the bar and into the back room.

It was all done using GPS, of course. A single computer that could map out the location of every car. New technology never ceased to amaze Marcus Ferguson.

"We've got a Versa in the hands of a Mary Whetsill right now," announced Chad, scrolling through the database. "Give me a second to bring up the map."

"We can be patient," Alberta said impassively.

Chad made no move to strike up a conversation with the two looming characters. In fact, the young blonde was shaking in his figurative boots. He'd seen movies where this stuff happens. Two shifty agents walk in, act casual, then BLAM! Anonymous employees with their brains splattered on the wall.

Ferguson minored in Psychology in college, and he had several years of training to boot. Chad's fears were evident to him as if they'd come up, unraveled themselves, and did the polka.

"Calm down, son," Marcus rolled his eyes. "We're not here to kill you. We just need the info."

Which was now up. Chad hastily zoomed into the Versa's location. It was parked, only had been driven a little in fact, and now rested fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Boston.

"Excellent," nodded Ferguson, memorizing the address. "Thank you for your time, Chad."

The student turned around to reply, but all he saw were their shadows racing along the wall as they left the rental shop.

The boys back at the frat house would never believe this.

xxx