Tongues of Fire

by FieryEclipse

The future is precarious. Abilities have been revealed. In the wake of their five year nightmare, Peter and Sylar are hunted, considered too dangerous to be free. Cast out by everyone they know, together the two vigilantes must navigate a brave new world that not only condemns the depth of their power, but their forbidden bond as well. (Violence, angst, danger, love, post-series)

10. Something to Lose

Something to Lose

Peter's heart was pounding in symphony with the unseen machinery whirring behind every wall. This whole place was rumbling, shifting, alive in its own right and somehow heavy with an impossible knowing... as if it were aware of what was yet to come. Aware of intruders in its midst.

Just act like you belong here, and no one will question it – that was what Sylar had insisted. Peter was trying, he really was, but he just didn't have it in him to compete with the man who had infiltrated a high security government facility unnoticed (at the time being their number one priority target) armed with no more disguise than a lifted ID badge, a $4 tie and a West Baltimore accent. Subterfuge and evasion came naturally to Sylar, but Peter, who had always had a problem with dishonesty, just couldn't get past the guilt and nerves that accompanied deception.

He fidgeted with his disguise yet again, uncomfortable in the borrowed (not stolen) clothes of a stranger. Sure, it was better than himself and Sylar blatantly plodding around splattered in blood and bullet holes, but even as much as slipping into a storeroom to help themselves to two dark coats that didn't belong to them was enough to push Peter's already anxious nerves right to the edge. Sylar had expertly fallen into an effortless guise, striding tall and not at all conspicuously, but Peter only felt even more out of place in a costume that couldn't help but remind him of the Hiro Nakamura he'd once met from the future. It was worth the discomfort though. Of course it was. The journey to the goal didn't have to be stylish or pleasant, just as long as it was effective.

The interior of the rig had, so far, been seemingly deserted, void of workers or obstacles, or even the person they'd come all this way to stop. Some might have thought this inspiring, but Peter was unable to shake the expectation that they'd get caught at every turn, confronted by their opposition or some other, worse, unknown issue. What if he got separated from Sylar? What if they got lost on the way and wasted precious seconds that could have changed everything? What if the assailant destroyed the rig anyway along with everything, everyone, inside it before Peter and Sylar could even hope to make their mark on the situation...?!

He was panicking a little, here. Well, more than a little. Despite feeling the ultimately perfect ability for this scenario humming reassuringly under his skin, Peter Petrelli had never exactly strolled into battle with a clear head and his confidence intact, and he wasn't about to start now.

The duo made their way determinedly through the iron labyrinth: they crossed under artificial lighting painting everything a metallic orangey yellow; followed a metal staircase and a narrow tunnel with indiscernible instructions and blueprints bolted to the walls; dodged past gears and wheels spotted sporadically along the way... Peter purposely didn't think of how they'd ever be able to get out in a hurry. Every particle of the rig had its purpose, every one of the many pipes and wires trailing the ceiling fed life for a reason, every box, cabinet or hatch held something important Peter was sure, but none of it made any sense to him. All he could see was a giant deathtrap filled with dangers, a deathtrap that could be minutes away from going off. But not if he had a say in it.

"How do you do it, Peter?"

The unexpected question startled him, and he glanced back over his shoulder in question. "Do what?"

"Run into danger over and over, knowing you have no control over the outcome."

The lighting made it slightly hazy to discern Sylar's features, but Peter didn't even need to see him to recognise his friend's emotion. He, too, was afraid but masking it better than Peter knew he was himself. Sylar was afraid they'd fail this mission for the sake of innocent lives, and that was a fear that resonated fully through the empath. He wished he could say that it's easy, that it always works out and that the brave ones are rewarded for their efforts, but sadly that just wasn't the way of it. He didn't have a rosy reply that would put every query to rest or a promise that everything would be okay in the end.

Peter breathed out wistfully, then had to watch where he was going as he almost tripped over a loose wire. Sylar's question was a good one, one Peter had asked himself many times over the years. More often than not, whenever he ran into danger having no control over the outcome, he ended up dead or close to it. Yet as terrifying as it was each time, he wouldn't stop. He believed in his answer too much.

( )

"Because trying is better than doing nothing at all."

Sylar wanted this to encourage him, after all, he couldn't doubt the passion in those words and he did agree to an extent. But this was only his second ever mission as a wannabe-good-guy and his very first experience meddling with time, and he just couldn't easily look past how much he had to juggle here. Trespassing where he shouldn't be and bullshitting his way out of getting caught was the easy part, but taking on so much responsibility for so many innocents was a totally different ball game. Every piece called into play in this game was fragile, and the more the board was shaken the more damage would be caused. Sylar worried that he'd accidentally lose his grip, and when he next looked over all the players would be scattered and broken across the ground.

As an immortal man himself, sometimes Sylar forgot how vulnerable the normal human body was. Sometimes, due to his morbid past, he intended to forget that fact for good. Back in the day, Sylar had delighted in manipulating events to unfold in his favour, then watching as the little heroes all scrambled around madly while he was in control at the head of it all. With nothing to be used against him, no loose links in his chains, he had been untouchable. Now, it was so much harder to manoeuvre past the awaiting traps unscathed when he had more than just himself to look out for. It was terrifying having people that he might let down. Terrifying enough that he already felt like he'd been put through the ringer a few times over... but at the same time, it was thrilling in a way that holding the most power in the world had never been.

No wonder Peter adrenaline-junkie, leap-from-rooftops-without-flight and work-until-he-collapses Petrelli did this all the time. Sylar couldn't help but smile at the back of his friend's head as the guy narrowly avoided catching his foot in yet another loose wire. Yes, Sylar decided, it really was quite amazing having something to lose for once in his life.

( )

A door opening further ahead stopped both men in their tracks. While Peter's heart leapt into his throat as he readied to confront their first obstacle, Sylar smoothly stepped in front of him, his face obscuring Peter's view of the oblivious crew member. It took a second to realise this was to feign a conversation that would, probably, look a lot less suspicious than two people standing guiltily side by side here for no reason.

"What're you doing? We need to warn them!" Peter hissed.

Sylar shook his head. "Not here. We need a bigger audience."

The pair waited huddled together for agonizing seconds, listening. Thank God one of them had his head screwed on straight. Peter could tell that he was already too far gone for the little amount they'd done so far and the so much more still to come. He hadto get a handle on himself for such a delicate mission, one that held so many variables and hundreds of lives in the balance. Freaking out and screwing up was never going to help anything... but that didn't make it any easier to dismiss.

"We're going to save them, Peter."

Sylar's eyes roamed over his face, watching silently and catching every drop of apprehension that Peter tried and failed to hide. How could he look so calm on the outside? Peter was aware that Sylar's expressions and emotions often refused to coincide, but the fact was that the man could easily waltz in here and keep his cool whereas Peter wouldn't have felt more obvious or impatient if there had been a flashing neon sign above his head stating 'Desperate!'. He did have to admit though, it was a comfort to be forced out of his spinning thoughts where he was reminded that he wasn't in this alone. And that he couldn't have chosen a better partner for the job.

...'Trust me'...

Back at the Sullivan Brother's carnival, Sylar had said a similar thing. He'd been as strong and encouraging then in the face of danger as he was now, he'd promised to help and had more than followed through on his word, overcoming every hurdle to do so. Then, Peter had wanted so badly to believe him, going on hope and dreams alone. This time he had that past experience, a successful endeavour to draw courage from. Sylar had been right before when he'd said they'd manage to stop Samuel Sullivan burying Central Park and killing thousands of people. Now, Peter could only trust that he'd be right again. They would save everyone. Together.

He nodded wordlessly, gratefully acknowledging Sylar's efforts to comfort him. While the worker's distant footsteps faded, Peter took these wasted seconds to fight for composure, needily drinking in the confidence that Sylar was feeding him through dark chocolate coloured eyes. When no more sound filled the space other than two sets of lungs breathing and the hidden mechanical workings of the rig, Peter forced himself to resume the quest on a more ardent note.

"...I think it's this way." He cleared his throat and brushed past Sylar, taking a left into an adjoining corridor and feeling the watchmaker follow loyally at his heels. It wouldn't do to admit that while Peter had assured he could find his way back to the heart of the explosion, the path that he'd discovered while here on shift looked so different when it wasn't a smoking pile of rubble. But Peter had faith, as he always did. Enough faith to keep his head high and that trusty gut feeling churning away steadily inside.

The saturated taste of adventure, danger and change was consuming Peter's senses, increasing his heartbeat and tickling his body like fingers, just the same as it had on a particularly monumental night back in Odessa. Like just now, he'd been terrified and outmatched but had trusted in destiny to keep him right; he'd hurried to Union Wells High School with no real plan and no idea who his enemy was; had no clue what to expect or what to do if he came across the man who was intent on murder; he'd just raced against the clock on hope and good intentions alone... and had happened to luck out in the end. Although, yes, he had died for his troubles, he had gained his niece, his friend, from it. And of course that had also been the night he'd first met Sylar.

Danger and change didn't have to be a bad thing. It was this thought that kept Peter marching onwards, gave him strength and stopped his knees from buckling.

( )

Their silent trekking was shattered by another third party noise coming from behind an open door up ahead, causing Sylar to almost bump into Peter when he stopped so suddenly. Voices. It must be a work station of some kind, Sylar discerned. At a guess, a dozen or so people were in there.

If they were to venture into that room, some real difference would be put into motion: the first off-beat of a butterfly's wing, so to speak. Things would spiral out from here, this moment, this decision, and wipe the previous path from existence. Everything would change.

And so here was a ruthless test: hold off and go straight to the source of the destruction, maybe fail and everyone dies; or address these few innocents, guarantee their safety, and possibly fail later on...? Sylar's heart started to race faster, his legs lost feeling and that hot dog was now rattling uncomfortably around an otherwise empty torso, but before he could even hope to whisper to Peter to think things over – of course the paramedic was already racing ahead and bursting into the room without even taking a second to consider his options.

Typical. Sylar followed, a bit more sensibly he might add, and from the doorway quickly assessed the surroundings. Yes, it was a work station: with control panels lining the walls and floor in neat, geometric design; there were windows in here, startling Sylar briefly when he caught sight of daylight outside (it was so easy to forget it wasn't night anymore while wandering these compressed halls); and around ten crew members were poised at their stations, their previous conversation torn off at a raw end and their shocked faces turned to the strange little man who was standing before them raving enthusiastically about danger and evacuation.

...Perhaps they ought to have talked strategies first?

( )

"You need to get outta here!" Peter insisted once more, incensed with purpose and fear.

He could do it! He could change the future, starting right here...! If only these people weren't all staring at him as if he were a hideous clown that had just jumped out of a surprise birthday cake. What was the matter? Didn't they hear him?!

Looking around all the confused, shocked and dubious faces, Peter's blind purpose started to ebb away in favour of humility. Okay... maybe he could have made a better entrance than that. All at once, he became extremely aware that he was the centre of attention, and not the good kind. He'd always shied from the spotlight in life, and as Nathan had been more than willing to step up for it, was never pushed too far out of that comfort zone. But now too many people had stopped in their duties to look at the madman who had randomly appeared from nowhere, unannounced and unwanted.

Trying not to show his inner insecurity, Peter focused instead on the task at hand. It didn't matter if these people thought he was crazy as long as they listened to him. "Hurry up! Get out!" He repeated, unable to process how they could possibly be so calm when most of them had already died today. Once again haunted by the memories of the charred bodies, Peter stepped closer to the still silent, watchful crowd, completely failing to hide his desperation from his voice... or perhaps to re-think his rather unfortunate wording.

"Look: something bad is about to happen! And if you don't evacuate now then lots of people are gonna get hurt!"

Thank god! That seemed to have done it. A ripple ran through the workers and they began to shift, murmuring and breaking out of their unaffected stupor. Relieved, Peter hurried to the nearest worker and reached for her to aid in her escape.

"No!" She shrieked, writhing away from him in alarm. Jarred by this, Peter raised both hands and again addressed the crowd at large.

"Listen to me -"

"Uh, Peter -"

"You can't be here!" Peter shouted over Sylar's attempt to stop him. He didn't understand – they looked suitably freaked out by the news, yet everyone was frozen to the spot instead of running away! "If you don't get out now, you're gonna die." Peter said strongly, measuredly, making sure to get the point across as simply as possible.

However, yet again, the workers failed to do anything other than tense up, pale, whimper a little and survey him with with a look that only now rang true to Peter. Now he'd placed it, it was unmistakeable: the look of staring an attacker in the face. Oh.

"Wait... no!" He corrected, too late. Okay, now he realised, thinking back, that he perhaps should have been more careful in what he'd said, been a bit clearer in his distinction to help, but there just wasn't enough time to think everything through before acting on instinct! It unfortunately seemed that Peter's instinct was sorely lacking after going so long untested. He could almost hear all the spinning plates dropping and shattering into a million pieces around him.

( )

"Peter..." Sylar injected again, yet the other man ignored him a second time. Sylar watched with a mixture of pity, embarrassment and a little bit of mirth as Peter lifted his hands higher in a gesture of peace and badly attempted to salvage the situation he had so foolishly, so innocently, crafted for himself.

"It's not me! Alright, someone else is gonna hurt you!" The fear and distrust only amplified exponentially throughout the workers. Sylar knew this dance all too well. "Wait! No! No one's gonna hurt you! Not if you evacuate now! Okay? Wait! Please -"

As amusing as it was to watch this misunderstanding unfold, and as much as Sylar was tempted to stock up on this embarrassing story for later teasing, unfortunately the current circumstances were much too pressing to let this continue. No doubt Peter would get nowhere if left to his own devices, the workers also didn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon, and there was still an explosion to prevent... time was of the essence here. So although it pained Sylar to willingly embrace his old mantle, he knew it would be the quickest way to get things moving.

Stepping roughly in front of Peter, he punched a hand above his head and sent lashes of white blue dazzling light cracking into the air. "Everyone out! NOW!"

It wasn't pleasant to be regarded that way, with fear, the only way he'd known for so long. It was nastily familiar, almost as if it hadn't been over eight years since Sylar had last terrorized someone. But he withstood it for the greater good. At least this act was fuelled by a better reason than in the old days.

( )

It certainly worked, anyway. They'd changed the future, one way or another. As Peter stood stupidly in the middle of the floor, watching Sylar loom tall and menacing with a fist full of electricity, the workers finally began fleeing their posts and skirting around the two assailants to get to the door.

He tried not to focus on how useless he felt for his pathetic attempt at rescuing these people, and instead chose to be grateful for Sylar's moral sacrifice and quick thinking. Now the crew members' fear was deserved, however Peter treated them as gently and helpfully as he could while he ushered them out, instructing them to sound an alarm on their way to an escape pod. It was always difficult to help someone who was afraid of you, Peter had encountered this problem many times as an EMT, but no matter the amount of previous experience it stung each time to be regarded as a threat through scared eyes when he only ever wanted to help with everything he had to give.

"Take as many people with you as you can okay, buddy?" He spoke after his latest charge. Okay, that was almost all of them. Just a couple more and then he and Sylar could go on and –

Crack! Peter yelped as the world suddenly span. Hot pain swarmed over his cheekbone, stabbing through his entire face and skull like sharp, angry, needle thin pincers.

( )

Sylar turned from overseeing the escape just in time to catch a flailing Peter as he stumbled backwards across the control room.

"Evo scum!"

Shocked, Sylar quickly distinguished his ability to gather Peter properly into his arms. What the hell...? It only took a second for him to locate a sturdy, heavy man standing before them, with his face contorted and fist still raised in promise of another attack. Sylar was too distracted to properly register the fingers grasping his own, or the familiar warm tingle that transpired there. Instead he took a moment to check that his friend was mostly okay – just stunned and upset by the looks of him – and then let it rise, unbidden and unstoppable like smoke. An unfurling, all-possessing anger honed in on the man who had just picked the wrong guy to mess with here...

"You freaks think you can barge in 'ere and push us 'round?! Who the hell d'you think you are?!" The man squared his shoulders and firmly stood his ground. So he was willing to defend his workplace and co-workers was he? Play hero? It would have been admirable five seconds ago. If he hadn't just laid a hand on Sylar's best friend.

It was only too easily to recall the ol' deadly flame in his eyes. "Trust me..." The seasoned murderer propped Peter back on his own two feet before prowling towards the heavy man. "...You really don't want to find out..." This murderous reaction would have terrified him, convinced him that he was reverting back to how he'd used to be, if he wasn't intelligent enough to realise that this was what defending a friend felt like. Honestly, it was pretty much the same as back then in that he really wanted to make this guy pay, to make him hurt until he begged for mercy and was lying lifeless and immobile on the dull, grey floor... Sylar ensured this intention showed clearly on his face. But it was only for show, he wasn't going to kill him. Just scare him. Permanently...

"Hey -" A warning grip around Sylar's wrist tugged him back. "Leave it. That's not why we're here." Sylar could easily throw Peter off and continue to teach his lesson, but Mr Tough Guy conveniently had a sudden change of heart and slipped away after his colleagues without another word. So Sylar obliged, fuming after the fucker, the last worker to exit. Who the hell did he think he was? To attack someone for being a different form of human than himself? Let alone a guy half his size? One who was doing nothing threatening at all? It spoke masses that Peter had been the target, the smaller of the two evos who wasn't armed or defensive in any way. Sylar found himself wishing that he'd been punched instead, if only so he could have retaliated telekinetically in the next instant before anyone could stop him...

He span back around to Peter, lips still thin in warning and nostrils still flaring as even more anger burned inside. "Did he hurt you?" He asked pointlessly, refraining from touching the nasty pink mark forming over the guy's left cheekbone.

"I'm fine." Peter insisted, although he looked thoroughly shaken, offended and guilty. Wait, guilty for being the subject of a racist attack? No, there was something else here. Something Sylar hadn't yet noticed. Fantastic. "But... when you caught me, I touched you and – I didn't mean to, I wasn't thinking!" Sylar waited with a sinking in his gut while Peter confessed like a petrified dog owning up to destroying the furniture. "...I lost Hiro's power."

Which meant they only had one shot to get this right. Fuck. Inside, Sylar matched the same look of hopelessness and fear on Peter's face, but he successfully managed to keep it from showing externally. What they most certainly didn't need right now was for them both to be lost and caught without a paddle in the midst of these unrelenting rapids. One of them had to stay strong.

Having lived more than one life shrouded in bravado and sharing nothing but a false mask with the outside world, Sylar was more than familiar with faking a show of competence when it was needed. And if now wasn't one of those times, he didn't know what was. "It's okay. We can still do this." Thankfully this sounded braver than he felt. And thankfully, Peter believed him. Or at least accepted his fake efforts at being brave, which was enough.

( )

"C'mon. We don't have much time." Peter regretted the word choice as soon as he'd said it, painfully reminded of the power he had just accidentally thrown away. His cheek was throbbing and his feelings were hurt, but there wasn't time to sit around and mope about it (was there ever?), so he settled on merely wincing past his tender, swelling but unbroken skin where a bruise was certainly already forming, and led Sylar deeper into the heart of the maze.

( )( )( )

Two figures hurried along a metal pathway as the newly activated alarm screeched, grating and aching in a faded background noise, a soundtrack to the impending crest of battle. Peter was grateful for the alarm – the more people who got out the better – and if the guy responsible for the explosion was scared away in the process, it wouldn't be the worst thing. The noise also happened to be a convenient distraction from the running commentary of fears racing around inside his head.

"Here! It's through here!" Peter stopped before a large, locked door with a security panel mounted to the front of it. The interiors of the rig were worryingly identical, but this location was one burned into Peter's memory as one he wished he could forget. With a quick helping of electrical encouragement, Sylar enticed the door to open for them and they hurried inside: finding themselves standing at the base of a vast, empty, cold chamber housing huge pipes that rose up for at least four stories before disappearing into the shadows above.

Peter hadn't been in here before. He'd been as close as could be, a few levels up, but at the time he'd been digging for survivors this chamber was already beyond ruined. The doors had been blasted off, the room a burning, blazing inferno of hungry flames and the deadly smoke, cloaking the core of the disaster. He shivered as he looked around, half due to the dropped temperature and half due to a sickening sense of deja vu. Peter hadn't been able to find out the exact time of the explosion, the news only reported that it had happened at approximately half past three in the afternoon.

By his watch, the current time was three twenty one.

( )

"Okay... this has gotta be it." Peter looked as agitated as Sylar felt: pacing on the spot and fidgeting relentlessly with his hair, pushing if off his face more times than was needed. "This is where it happens."

The place really didn't look so monumental. Actually, it was quite unspectacular except in scale: like the dingy underneath of a sink enlarged a hundred times over. Sylar didn't much care for plumbing, or pipes of any kind for that matter. Especially not when he was standing beside giant, monster, rumbling ones that were primed to wipe out the entire rig and almost everyone inside it.

Now that they were here, the trickiest part came into play: this called for an even fight or, preferably, one that was extremely outmatched in their favour. Sylar doubted Peter had a real plan. He was probably expecting to talk it out through peace and love with whoever was crazy enough to commit the act they were trying to prevent, or resort to a fist fight if need be. He was a formidable enemy when he wanted to be (Sylar could vouch for that one) but as there didn't seem to be any school stadiums or nail guns nearby, he doubted that Peter would really be able to outmatch his opponent effectively and quickly enough this time. Which made him a target. And Sylar couldn't bear to go through a re-run of what had just happened with Bennet back at the apartment.

Against his childish wishes not to be alone, Sylar grasped Peter's upper arm tightly enough to gather his attention away from scanning every corner of the room. The clanking and churning of machinery echoed from all angles, however he didn't need to raise his voice much to be heard. "I'll wait here, you get everyone out in case something goes wrong."

"Wh...? No -"

"Peter, please don't argue with me on this one." Sylar insisted, squeezing slightly with his fingers. "It's the smart choice: I'm stronger, I can't die, and you're the people person. I'll bet there are loads of them up there that need your help right now." Telling Peter Petrelli to back down from a fight...? Risky business. But telling him there are people who need him...? Infallible. At least, Sylar was counting on it. "Just don't go in yelling threats this time, and maybe keep your abilities on the down low." He added as an afterthought.

"But I can't just leave you here!" Peter frowned. Yet it was a worried frown, not the stubborn one that only meant Sylar's cause was lost. And that, he could work with.

"I'll be fine." His lips tugged up ever so slightly. "There's no time to fight about this, you know it's the right thing to do. And don't you dare stop doing the right thing now, Petrelli – not after all you've put me through for it!" Sylar concluded with one eyebrow raised.

He knew he'd hit the jackpot even before that resigned look flitted over Peter's face. Before the empath slipped a hand between the lapels of Sylar's stolen coat and placed it over the fuzzy, beloved and ruined sweater that he'd picked out in a store specifically with Sylar in mind. "Be careful." He commanded deeply, his palm warm on Sylar's chest. Much warmer than Hiro's had been.

Sylar smirked. "Hey, if your lot couldn't stop me after all this time, I'd like to see this guy try." He stroked Peter's shoulder in return before reluctantly pushing him away. He watched as the empath measured up a clean path ahead and threw another questioning, guilty glance back. "Don't make me chase you off." Sylar thrummed, his chuckle echoing away between the gushing pipes.

After one last, obligatory nod of confirmation, Peter kicked off from the ground and lifted into the air with such precision and poise the likes that Nathan could (and had) only ever have dreamed of. Sylar watched the man's form zoom higher and higher up the levels of walkways surrounding the space until he, too, was engulfed by the shadows. It was only then that he let his smile fade and his true nerves show on his face.

The chamber somehow seemed twice as big, twice as cold and twice as damning now that he was alone. Sylar suppressed a shiver. His deep, absorbing eyes slowly tracked their way around, scanning the darkness, examining the anticipation hovering palpably in the void. He had a job to do, and he wanted to do it! ...That didn't mean it wasn't daunting all the same. As warm and fuzzy as it made him feel to actually be trusted – alone! – at the scene of a crime, and as certain as he was that he hadn'ttouched the rig before and had no intentions of doing so now... Bennet's video footage crept up unbidden in the back of his mind.

Now that he was actually standing here waiting on his opponent to show up for battle, uncertainty was truly creeping in. The man had looked dangerous. He'd looked like Sylar. The watchmaker had no clue who he'd be facing off with in a couple of minutes and didn't much care which one of his many enemies hated him so much they'd go to all this bother just to frame him (take your pick...), just as long as he was being framed. Honestly, above all else, he'd rather face even Elle Bishop's burning-alive-inch-by-inch party trick a hundred times over than face a showdown with a past or future incarnation of himself.

It was just the nerves talking, he assured himself. The loneliness whispering in his ear, the gaping spaces in the dark prickling the hair on the back of his neck. It was participating in his first fight in almost a decade, and the inner doubts he had over his capabilities that were making him paranoid. Wouldn't that just be perfect poetic justice? If he had to prove himself a hero against no other than... himself? Sylar suppressed a snort. Fate would never be so obtuse.

No. Instead these thoughts just served in drawing his true feelings to the surface once more, seeping across like, ironically, oil over water. It was the same old thing, despised and craved at the same time, just as it always had been as far back as he could remember... Even here, having come so far from where he started, being almost unable to recognise himself from his own past life, it was no other than the fear of failing that messed him up inside. Hiro's inspiring message of his future nagged to be considered, but Sylar refrained from such petty hopes. Time travel was always dangerous, and blinding himself with someone else's empty promises was a habit he had long been fighting to outgrow.

Sylar grudgingly settled in for the long haul, forced to do nothing but watch and wait while his mind continued to orbit around him on fast forward. He couldn't help but confront himself with too many questions and queries as time ticked by, each second caught, counted, unable to slip past unnoticed, unaccounted for, by a watchmaker.

...What if, when the time came, he wasn't powerful enough? What if he wasn't brave enough? Wasn't... good enough? ...Had those shadows been quite so dark the whole time? ...Maybe eating beforehand hadn't been a good idea after all... Were the pipes always making that noise, or was that footsteps from up high? ...How was it possible to feel both sick and hungry at the same time?! ...Why wasn't the copycat showing up already? ...Was Peter getting on okay by himself?

Oh yes, Sylar thought dryly, resuming an earlier thread of thought – it certainly was thrilling to have something to lose.

( )( )( )

The blaring alarm muted the footsteps of Renautas's hand-picked agents. They swarmed through the corridors, undisturbed but for a few confused rig crew members who hastily heeded the call to evacuate once they set eyes on the heavily masked and armed team prowling along on a mission.

Dammit, Noah had hoped to get here before all hell broke loose, but unfortunately even a Renautas evo couldn't teleport a stocked helicopter full of agents to a semi submersible rig without the thing undergoing a safety check first – god forbid they breach protocol. It was at times like these that he longed after Primatech and the old ways: the leniency given to bend a few rules here and there when the situation called for it. While Renautas was by far more technologically advanced and better funded than The Company, the organization was too by-the-book for this nostalgic agent's liking. Especially when those rules put his life on the line.

"Taylor, get me eyes on Sylar." He instructed, hearing an answering, stroppy sigh filter in through his earpiece.

"Duh – what else d'you think I'm doing?"

"Taylor –"

"Yeah, yeah... just keep heading straight until you come to a door." Very helpful, Taylor! (Noah refrained from saying). "Big door, fancy lock on it, looks important. You'll know it when you see it. They went through on a lower floor, but it says here that you should come out above and can go down from the inside."

Noah bit back what he really wanted to say and led his team through yet another identical corridor, familiar like they all were from Angela's surveillance feed. Each corner presented a fresh heart attack, and a fresh mixture of both relief and impatience when the particular tall, dark-clothed figure from the video stream wasn't standing there waiting for them. Noah wasn't afraid to do what needed to be done, but he had to admit to himself that his curiosity was bothering him enough that if he got the chance, he might hold off shooting until he finally got some goddamned answers about a few things.

Over the weeks since Noah had last spoken to either Peter or Sylar, they seemed to have done nothing much out of the ordinary together. At least, the surveillance team hadn't logged anything too worrying – the very fact that there even was a "Peter and Sylar" to look out for was concerning enough as it was. Yet now here they were, plotting together to blow this place to hell?! Noah desperately wanted to get his head around this miraculous best buddies deal: what on Earth did Peter have to be thinking right now?! Noah was running on the theory that he was either not in on the whole plan, was so grief-stricken over losing Nathan that he'd lost his mind, or he was Doing An Adam all over again. For history's sake, he'd give the kid the benefit of the doubt until he knew better. As for Sylar – orders were to shoot on sight. Right between the eyes and then grab him before he recovered. Such a structured formula was a change in style for Noah Bennet, but what Renautas wanted, Renautas would get. The boss asked him to babysit her delinquent daughter? Noah would. She asked him to put years of history behind him for a quick and clean take down of the most troublesome target of Noah's entire career? Fine... ish.

He was a company man first and foremost, but no one could say Noah didn't revel in a good, old-fashioned game of cat and mouse. Adrenaline was pumping rhythmically through his veins as gas and oil did within this structure, steadying his gun hand and keeping all his senses wide and alert. The scent of danger permeating the air was an added bonus. And just to sweeten the deal, Noah fully intended on returning back to the city with the best news imaginable to replace the upset look that was still haunting him from his last glimpse of Claire at the diner. As always, she kept him going.

The team rounded yet another corridor, the path yawning out far ahead. It looked innocent enough, so unassuming, the same as all the others in every was aesthetically. Yet there was definitely something about it, just a feeling that made Noah falter half a step before picking up the pace and speeding on. On, on, on, the squad allowed the siren to carry their footsteps until they'd marched over halfway down the tunnel and Noah still hadn't seen any door that looked particularly unlike the others. Irritated, he opened his mouth to tell Taylor off for wasting valuable time –

But the teenager beat him to the punch. "Woah!" The power in her usually monotonous voice was more worrisome than the word itself. "Wait! How is that possi...? He was just back there..."

"Taylor, talk to me!" Noah snapped, his instincts flaring further.

"Bennet, the target! I was wrong – he's below you now! You need to... oh shit! OH SHI -"

Her last word was blasted apart by a deafening flurry of noise and destruction that slammed in from all around. Suddenly everything was too busy, chaos in its purest form, impossible to get a hold of or to do anything about. Noah was caught up unexpectedly by a ten ton force, lost control over everything he knew and was rendered unable to do anything more than just exist while his surroundings morphed and shattered around him in a single, disorientating blast of ravenous, white heat.

Then he couldn't feel anything at all.

( )

Peter was shepherding staff members out of the kitchens when the ground shook beneath his feet. It caught him by surprise, threw him off balance and plunged his heart through the floor all in the space of a single beat.

...Wait! He checked his watch dazedly. Three twenty couldn't have just...! It wasn't...? They were supposed to stop it!

That shake, those aftershocks that were still rumbling all around... Had it happened anyway, despite his efforts? But that meant –! Peter's chest crushed itself inwards as the truth properly got a hold on him, sinking its claws right through to his bones.

The stream of people behind him had also tumbled in the vibrations, this stranger's words suddenly so much more to them than baseless ramblings about danger and escape pods. They cried and squealed but, uncharacteristically, Peter didn't pay any attention. He didn't even notice. Rooted to the spot, unable to draw breath, he stared helplessly back the way he'd come. To where he'd left his only friend alone in the most dangerous spot in the entire rig.

( )

The distant rumble was almost difficult to hear over the rushing of precious cargo swirling through the giant pipes. However the stomach-churning tremor would be impossible to miss. Sylar grasped for the closest railing and held on, riding out the convulsions of the metalwork with his head spinning, both from the momentum and his thoughts.

No...! It didn't make sense! He couldn't have failed already! How could an explosion have gone off before he even got a chance to try anything...?! He steadily regained his footing as the worst of the shake subsided, then once more cast furtive, frantic eyes around the still pointedly whole and empty chamber. The assailant had never showed. Which meant that either Peter had been wrong about the location, and on this rare occasion Sylar actually doubted that... or that their coming back in time had changed more than the fate of innocent lives.

He stood alone in the cold, split by indecision and quickly running over as many variables as he could under the building stress. He was safe here in the deep, dark belly of the structure, an outsider to the destruction he could only imagine was going on up there. Should he stay and protect a potential next target? Or venture out to lend a helping hand elsewhere? Both options were risky and both carried sacrifices and he couldn't decide between them in the heat of the moment – the chess board had significantly been thrown across the room and all Sylar could do was hope that the damage dealt while his back had been turned wasn't too severe.

Then every function halted mid-action. And he remembered that something extremely valuable to him was out there. Something much more precious than playing his turn at guard duty.

( )

The kitchen staff helped each other to their feet, all of them muttering and whimpering and looking to their bewildered rescuer for guidance. Thankfully this lot had been much easier to deal with than the last, but Peter had just had every scrap of leadership knocked out of him by what could only have been an explosion from somewhere inside the rig.

With a growing series of clunks they were all plunged into darkness. The hairs on the back of Peter's neck rose and suddenly the alarm seemed to screech three times as loud, as if to compete with the screams and swears now rebounding from the staff. It was only when the emergency lights flickered to life one by one and kissed his face with a sickly, green glow that Peter remembered to breathe again.

He still couldn't move though, was anchored only by the pounding of his own blood, as helpless and petrified now as he had been back in his apartment with a bullet lodged in his stomach. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! It was real. It was actually happening, even after all his efforts to postpone the inevitable! All these people were in very real danger, and countless others could already be hurt or dead due to the explosion! Gasping for breath past the painful clamp of his ribcage, Peter put everything he had into praying that the alarm had given enough of a warning to get everyone out of harm's way this time, and kicked himself into gear only by a miracle of God.

Realistically, there was nothing he could do right now about every soul on this structure. But there were innocents right here, right now, depending on him. And all the while there was someone else tugging persistently at his awareness.

This corridor had been nothing more than mangled metal and ruined rooms when Peter had excavated it last time, and the memory flushed terror through his person. This terror kickstarted thought, thought encouraged action, which in turn triggered the most basic auto pilot Peter could muster to get him helping the stragglers to their feet.

"Move! Everyone move!" He croaked, failing to shout past the ringing alarm. He couldn't be sure if the rig was really wobbling or if that was just dread making him dizzy, but either way Peter only sped up his ministrations, unfortunately having to sacrifice tenderness for urgency. The sea of blurred faces retreated down the corridor in a clustered flurry of fear and dependency, and Peter helped them go until the very last crew member was on his way: a man, older, dark skinned... familiar. Like a slap across the face Peter reeled, the spark of inconsistency jarring in an otherwise frantic scurry.

"Jimmy!" He gasped, reaching for and holding the man's arm without even considering it. "You're okay?!" Jimmy, like everyone else, was flustered and scared – and, like everyone else, he was wonderfully healthy. Peter squeezed Jimmy's arm, remembering the last time he'd seen that face behind an oxygen mask on a stretcher in Mercy Heights hospital. He couldn't begin to process how it felt to feel the moment he had impacted someone's life for the better, or how desperately he'd needed this to keep him going.

"What? Yeah, I-I think so..." Jimmy stammered, too shocked to wonder why this random outsider knew his name.

"Okay! Okay, good!" Peter blurted, before looking after the retreating crowd again with context. They must've been Jimmy's friends who'd died last time. Of course... he'd been recovered around here. Shivers cascaded down the empath's spine as he was once again walloped with the realisation that he was literally experiencing the destruction he'd witnessed already. He allowed the fleeing crowd – the spared lives – to spurn him on. At least some good had come of this meddling with time.

"Listen to me, bud: I need you to be brave for me. I need you to lead everyone out as safely and quickly as possible, alright? Can you do that?" Peter asked, clapping the man's arm briefly, then his shoulder, then his cheek, re-affirming that he was real, he was here, and he was alive.

Jimmy nodded, unsure at first before graciously accepting such responsibility. "Yeah. Yes! I can do that!"

Peter closed his eyes for a moment as he physically felt that weight be lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you." He pulled in a deep breath before guiding the older man on after the others. "Go on, get outta here!" He watched after his charges as they ventured forth without him, his already fatigued heart stuttering when Jimmy took the time out of his escape specifically to call back in thanks.

Then he was suddenly very alone in the epic scale of the rig while the lights continued to spasm and the floor continued its maybe-rocking. And he couldn't possibly hold himself back any longer.

Peter Petrelli sprinted through the iron tunnels he'd already re-traced, to where he couldn't believe he'd actually left Sylar all by himself like that! He raced along without looking back, running on foot and relying only on his thundering pulse to carry him because he couldn't trust his concentration enough to fly.

( )

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. It was impossible to tell anything, actually.

Wait... he was lying on his back, he slowly realised. His ears were aching, ringing in a continuous, shrill, piercing note. He couldn't see much more than vague, out of focus shapes and colours. It was dark, like someone had turned off the light. No – a faint red, dancing glow was coming from somewhere past Noah's feet.

He groaned and twitched his limbs, all of them sore. With his cognitive functions restored to him, he realised this was a good thing as it meant he hadn't permanently lost use of any body parts. Apart from maybe his eyes, which didn't seem to be working properly.

Noah grunted and rolled over in an attempt to sit up. His hand brushed something thin and solid nearby, stumping him for a second before he recognised the handle of his famous horn rimmed glasses. One of the lenses had all but been blasted clean out, but there was enough use in them for Noah to blink dust and dryness out of his eyes, then clearly look upon the destruction in which he lay.

"No..." He moaned, fighting to his feet with difficulty. "NO!" This time he shouted, but out of all the team members who filled the ruined corridor, none were awake to hear him.

The wall had caved in on one side, blocking the space like a rockslide in an underground tunnel. The lights were off – the occasional strip trying in vain to shine a recovery beam on the scene – and flames licked around the cluttered debris pile composed of what used to be a corridor and living human beings.

Mr Bennet could barely process the sight, even as he lifted his arm to shield his face from thick smoke and painful heat. It appeared he'd pulled the luck of the draw, having just missed the chunks of rubble and fire that killed the others at his back. But he'd been too late. The place had blown up after all, just as Angela had predicted.

Then it hit, and he couldn't understand how it had taken this long to remember – Sylar. That monstrous son of a bitch had done it again! He was responsible! He had just added these young agents (agents who had been under Noah's care!) to his unlimited kill list, along with probably dozens of workers from the rig. He didn't want to believe it. They were dead, he had failed, and now he had to get out of here before the place came down around him.

"Taylor?" Noah tried, reaching to his ear. No earpiece. It must've got lost in the blast, and was beyond recovery in this mess. Which meant Noah was on his own – on his own to escape... or on his own to avenge.

For all his complaining of the rookies, he didn't want to just leave their bodies behind here. Rationally, there was no use in staying, he'd benefit no one and only doom himself, but this hardened man was suddenly consumed with guilt that these were people's babies who he'd just let down. Who that same goddamed killer had mindlessly slaughtered.

Driven by rage, by loss and shame, the experienced agent hunted down his gun and dusted off his hair and face as much as was possible when soot and smoke still rained down on the surreal scene. There was no point in searching for survivors – nobody could make it out of that. So Noah re-loaded his gun and stretched his bruised but working limbs, then prepared to storm off down the open end of the corridor, the only route out and, hopefully, to the monster responsible for this.

He was going to pay! This time, he was going to pay! Screw Renautas protocol – Noah was going to empty his entire magazine painfully into the brute's chest before even thinking of taking him in! Sylar wasn't going to get away unscathed this time, not this time! Not again...!

But before he could even get going on this promise, movement amongst the flames swarmed into Noah's peripheral vision. Perhaps a hallucination triggered from the fall? Then there it was again: there was definitely something moving through the fire. A shape. A person! Sinking into dread, Noah raised his gun when the initial, stupid thought that his foe had instead come to him flared up.

This theory was disregarded, however, when the figure got close enough to half-identify. Noah squinted through his broken glasses, stunned into compliance, as one of Renautas' agents steadily worked their way over the live fire and burning debris. They stumbled and coughed but kept going strong, ignoring the flames and burns covering over half their body as if they were nothing of importance. An evo?! Which one was an evo?! None of the team were registered as one!

Later Noah would blame the poor lighting and the fact that he'd just narrowly survived an explosion for the glacial progress of his understanding. But for now, it was only after the young agent cleared the fiery mess, ripped the mask off and revealed a severely burned and dehumanised face that it even remotely began to click into place. Slowly skin healed over, features re-grew themselves and ash floated away to reveal long, healthy, blonde hair.

No matter what state Noah Bennet was in, he would recognise that face anywhere.

"Claire...?!"

( )

It wasn't quite the defiant reveal that she had been envisaging. Claire had planned to expose her identity only once she'd single-handedly completed the mission and proved her reputable worth beyond a shadow of a doubt. Her Dad would swell with pride and apologise for ever questioning her, greet the surprise with open arms and that expression that let her know she'd surpassed expectations and he sure as hell was going to let the world know about it!

Everything had been going according to plan: the infiltration, the switch, the gathering intel through the earpiece part... until an oil rig had been dropped on her and ruined everything.

"Hi, Dad." She said softly, sadly, but not apologetically. She didn't regret her choice to follow him, even though she'd rather have missed out on the gruesome scene she was currently standing in and wouldn't have elected such a fate for anyone.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" He was mad. Very mad. Worried mad, which was the worst kind of mad considering Mr Horn Rimmed Glasses. Claire refused to flinch at the gaping transition from his kindly fatherly act back at the diner to this, even when he dragged her further from the disaster site with a bruising grip on her arm. "What the hell were you thinking?! This isn't a game, Claire!"

The teenager bristled. How could he be so narrow minded? So obtuse as to think she would really just be playing with so many lives hanging in the balance? "You think I don't know that?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes at her father's dusty, fraught face. "I didn't come here for fun! I came here to help you, and just as well I did!" Throwing an arm back at the littered bodies behind her, Claire all but shouted at her father. "Your team are dead! You almost died! You can't finish this job alone! Peter needs my help and – like it or not – so do you!"

She dared him to deny it. Was he so against spending time with her that he wouldn't even choose her company when there were literally no other options...?

( )

Now pure panic was flurrying through Noah's still recovering form. It was like one of his nightmares had ballooned into reality: his team dead, the target on the loose, and to top it all off – his precious Claire Bear was slap bang in the middle of a damaged, failing, fuming death pit and he didn't know how to save her and himself and do everything else at once!

He could no longer keep calm externally, not when time was slipping and the fire was spreading and all the team got dead on his watch. Stowing his gun, Noah grasped both his daughter's shoulders tightly to help accentuate his point. "It's too dangerous for you here, Claire! I can't take that risk!"

"Why are you the only person in the world who keeps forgetting that I can't. Get. Hurt?!"

Noah shook Claire shortly but firmly, the wick of his patience all but worn down. "This isn'topen for discussion: get back to the helicopter and wait for me there!"

The fire crawled further up the corridor, the heat was creeping after them even this far along, and Noah didn't want to think of the unstable, very flammable lifeblood that flowed through the arteries of the broken structure they were trapped inside. It could re-ignite at any second...

His hearing was still slightly muffled, his vision off focus in the lens-free eye, but he could make out enough to hear Claire's breathy exhalation and see her inch back to squint at him, affronted by his clashing opinion. "You really think I'm going to leave you here? In an oil rig that's on fire...?"

"I expect you to do what I say!" Noah demanded, boring his no-nonsense glare into her guarded eyes.

Claire huffed, parrying him the way she'd grown to do with ease. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dad – you can't just –"

"I'm not saying this as your father. I'm ordering it as your commanding officer."

Yes, it was a tactic he was intentionally putting into play. It was a gamble no matter which way it panned out, but Noah stood by that chance. He could tell it was processing when the biting reply wasn't instantaneous, when he caught the flicker of hope cross Claire's youthful, soot-covered, newly healed face.

"As you reminded me earlier: officially, I don't work for Renautas. So you can't order me to do anything." Claire raised one eyebrow, a challenge. "And I'm not leaving you."

It was strange how even in such an unpleasant circumstance, Noah could appreciate how impressed he was with her style. And how proud. And scared. Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to refuse it, the ex-cheerleader's angle was undeniable: Noah was in dire need of backup. Add to that the fact that he'd never been able to dissuade his Claire Bear from anything in her entire life, and it was only inevitable that she'd win here.

Giving in was never easy, especially when so much could go so wrong, and when all he wanted to do in the first place was spare his daughter any unnecessary pain. It was not going to be pretty when she discovered the truth behind her uncle's involvement here... who he was working with... Noah tightened his grip on Claire's shoulders and bent his knees to drop down to her eye level.

"You have to promise to do whatever I say, whenever I say it, no questions asked! Can you do that?" Dammit, even though everything was working against him here, the look on his daughter's face when she realised she'd got her way almost compensated for everything else turning to shit.

"Yes." She tipped her face up in defiance, completely unaffected by the smoke that was hanging heavily and flavouring the air Noah breathed.

"You're going to see things you won't like." He warned, half wishing she'd just give up now and spare them all this extra trouble. "You're going to hear things that will upset you. It's not going to be an easy ride and you have to be prepared, do you understand me?"

In answer, Claire stooped and recovered a battered, but still useable, assault rifle from where it had evidentially been propelled this far down the corridor in the blast. She lofted the weapon with obscene ease for a sweet girl who should have no knowledge of such things, and right then, that exact moment, was when Noah realised there was no going back to curly pigtails, chocolate milk and teddy bears from around the world. Claire Bennet was an agent now. A world icon. A young adult. And nothing Noah could do or say was going to rescind that.

"Then it's just as well I have such a good partner to look out for me." A wonderfully misplaced, proud smile played with the corner of Claire's lips. She knew exactly how to play him... and Noah couldn't hate it in the slightest.

With a hand protectively on her back, he hurried his precious daughter further from the spreading flames and disintegrating team and into the inferno of the unknown, purely hoping that he had made the right decision for all involved.

( )( )( )

Steam. Hissing loudly, billowing in clouds and consuming the vast, dim space. Heat ravaged the place, creeping through the air and soaking up all the oxygen. Rusted pipes lined every wall, every surface, casting an amber glow around the whistling, straining structure as it crumbled at the edges. The alarm wailed uselessly in the distance, a warning, a call to escape before it was too late... unanswered by the young man who ran in the opposite direction, purposely losing himself deeper inside the labyrinth.

Metal walkways and platforms criss-crossed through the chamber, climbing high up the vast height of the tower. The air only became thinner up here, so hot that it almost physically hurt to breathe, and the machinery and pipes squealed in pain as they disintegrated and broke down around the solitary figure shrouded in the midst of it all.

Peter Petrelli ran blindly, the burning fog clinging to his skin and the lights pulsing around him like a muffled heartbeat. Panting, he jogged to a stop at the base of another metal staircase, looking around hopelessly at yet another platform. His boots must have clanged on the grate, but the noise was stolen by the alarm and the gushing hiss of leaking pipes all around. At a quick glance the stripped bones and rusted framework of the walkway told Peter he must've been close to where he'd left Sylar... on a higher level of the chamber maybe?

Then why was this place still standing? He'd expected to be confronted with fire and destruction before now. Maybe he'd made a wrong turn back there...? Unless the explosion had taken place somewhere else this go-around, in which case he had no clue where to even start looking for the man responsible. Selfishly, though, finding the assailant was a goal much further down the list of priorities than simply reuniting with the recovering murderer who Peter had all but dragged along to this shit show. If he was hurt... if he was injured after so kindly indulging Peter's pathetic attempt to try and fix the past..!

Lost, tired and sweaty, Peter took a much needed moment to catch his breath. The air was too hot, moist, suffocating. It was unfulfilling for his lungs, caused perspiration to bead along his skin and his damp hair to swing with his ragged breaths. He shrugged off the borrowed coat, wiped his hair off his face and tried to recollect himself for duty: he couldn't stop here. Even if he was going the wrong way, he had to do something! He couldn't just leave his friend behind!

So, running on little oxygen and shivering at the overbearing heat, Peter hurriedly settled on his destination and started off again in his original direction.

Any step he took was progression, he couldn't possibly be more useless than if he remained here. An iron bolt shot away from the wall like a bullet, causing Peter to stumble and protect his head. Shit, the place was really coming down... Intuition alone drove him forward, steam was clouding his vision and airway and all he knew for the life of him was that he wasn't about to drag Sylar all the way here then abandon him once things starting falling apart! Literally! If only he knew where to find him...

Upon clearing another puff of wet steam, a shadow rounding the corner up ahead made Peter falter in his tracks. Sylar! Tall, slender and darkly-dressed, Peter's heart leapt at the very welcome sight of his friend stopping as he, in turn, noticed he wasn't alone.

Until that first rush of relief subsided. And fear flooded Peter's veins full-force, tainted with a hefty dose of defiance and anger that arose at the sight of the son of a bitch who'd started it all.

"I know what you did!" He barked roughly, without thinking or even caring that it might not be a very wise course of action. His voice was throaty and rough – it was a miracle it had come out at all. "I saw it! I know what you're planning and I won't let you do it again!"

It felt unreal to stand before that man in real life, the shadow from Noah's video, the grim reaper from the past. More shivers erupted over Peter's glistening skin as he fully absorbed the sight of his unknown enemy in the flesh. He was tall. Terrifying. Rippling with power (or was that just the heat?), cloaked in a long, dark coat and hiding his face beneath a black cap that hauled Peter backwards in time to a highschool corridor and flying locker doors...

The shadow didn't respond. He only stood there, fading in and out of focus behind rising bouts of steam. Peter tried to swallow and look tough, very aware that he had no defences, no weapon, and no way of winning a stand-down against this evolved human. Right then, though? That wasn't about to stop him trying.

"Who are you?!" Peter growled, planting his feet firmly on the quaking grate and balling his hands into fists. As if they could do any good anyway. "Why are you doing this?! Why would you wanna kill hundreds of innocent people?!"

Yes, the man was frightening. Yes, the rig was ripping apart at the seams, and yes, Peter was severely outmatched here. But now that he was face to face with the cretin responsible for all those deaths and burned victims that he had spent the afternoon failing to save – rage had taken over his senses and Peter couldn't dream of holding it back.

"These people have lives! Families! Do you even care what you did to them?!" He glared across the platform with all he could muster while fear was going all out to seduce him. For a second Peter wasn't sure if the shadow had even heard his words, so he took a step closer (to do God knows what)... only for everything to distort around him in a single, gut-wrenching instant.

The lurch behind his navel, the sensation of the floor being ripped away from his feet, and the winding blow of his entire body slamming into the wall should have been expected, although it caught Peter with his guards down. He gasped and mewled at the disorientation, blinking his vision back into focus while pointlessly trying to writhe free of his dreaded, familiar, telekinetic bonds.

No! Fuck! NO! He tried to fly but was anchored in place. He tried to kick but his joints were locked and he couldn't reach the key to free them. Physically trembling, Peter was unable to do anything but watch with eyes wide like saucers as his captor slowly drew closer like in his nightmares. Instinctively, his attention honed in on the man's forefinger, just waiting for it to twitch and spawn the searing pain of his skin tearing open...

It was too familiar. Too similar to a time long past. And suddenly, despite everything he knew and believed in, every day he'd endured in hell with the remorseful man who was trying so hard to change... Peter could see nothing before him but Sylar. Not Sylar His Friend, the first person to show him what it felt like to feel valued... but Sylar The Killer, the first person to show him what it felt like to lose everything.

He was going to die. He was going to be tortured by this criminal and either finished off here, strung to the wall like a worthless rag-doll, or left to burn alive when the rig collapsed along with every hope he had harboured for saving it. He wanted to close his eyes and wish it to be over, but Peter Petrelli had been born a fighter and had never yet died timidly. So he caught every movement, every step, every twitch in his direction as the shadow loomed closer until that face was almost clear enough to make out.

If he was going to end here then at the very least Peter wanted to know who was responsible for it. He refused to be disposed of as a nameless, faceless obstacle that had merely postponed this monster's rampage. He wanted answers! He wanted respect! And most of all, even if it were to be his dying wish, Peter wanted to know for sure that Sylar had not somehow been behind it all along. Please, could it be the case...?

Then a voice punctuated the space for the first time – American, indifferent, but most importantly: unfamiliar. "Don't make this worse for yourself, kid. I just need you out the way..."

Peter's pulse quickened further, if it was possible. His awareness was fraying and his hair was hanging wetly over his eye, obscuring his vision on one side, but he could hardly miss the towering form grinding to a halt only inches away.

Or the distant, smoky shape emerging from another pocket of steam behind it.

And there was Peter's answer, standing before him: his friend, a hero, a shining light of reassurance that couldn't have been more welcome.

( )

Sylar's first thought was that of course Peter had managed to get himself into more trouble. Of course he had. His second was borne of pure relief that the empath had at least survived the blast, and that they'd somehow managed to find each other inside this intricate maze. His third... his third was neither grudging irony or stunned gratitude like the others. No, Sylar's third thought upon stumbling into the scene of this attack was one of unbridled fury: that this imitative fiend would dare to accost his friend like this.

He stood from afar for an existential moment, taking in the sight of Peter Petrelli pinned to the wall and staring into his eyes just like he had when Sylar had been the one to violate him this way, once. It was stupefying to see this happen in third person, as if Sylar was intruding upon that memory and watching himself at work. Except this time the expression searing into him through those eyes wasn't helpless terror – it was hope. And that was what made him strong enough to pounce across the scalding platform and stab his hand out before him.

"I don't think so...!" He growled, allowing his target a shocked second to seek out his addresser before vaulting him roughly into the air. Sylar pushed his all into telekinesis, slamming the unknown shadow into the wall the way it had done to Peter. Said empath was freed from his bonds and dropped clumsily to the floor, gazing up in gratitude when Sylar crossed to his side. "Are you alright?" He asked, using his free hand to briefly grasp Peter's shoulder.

"Yeah. Thanks." Peter gasped, patting Sylar's ribs in a return gesture. He looked a hell of a lot worse for wear than when Sylar had last seen him. The bruise on his face was really blooming now, but he didn't even seem to notice. "What about you? When the – the explosion... I thought..."

The watchmaker shook his head to dispel any worry. "I'm fine. I never even got the chance to do anything –" With a flare of outrage, he bolted his attention to the man who was now caught beneath his invisible net, trying and failing to push free with his matching ability. "Because he never showed."

Looking upon the trapped figure, absorbing the precise details of his outfit and the cap knocked haphazardly over his face, Sylar felt an inkling not unlike the Hunger weave through him. He needed to know which of the pesky "heroes" had killed all those people in his name. To understand why they were setting him up... It was the thrill of a successful hunt, having captured his prey and knowing there was no way out unless he was merciful enough to grant one. Sylar pretended that it was only untainted curiosity (and not at all his core ability spurning him on) that made him tighten his hold on his prisoner and approach the struggling man with something less than mercy in his eyes.

Peter tensed and watched nervously from the side as Sylar batted that stupid cap away once and for all and they both feasted eager eyes on... a stranger? What? Both men froze, looking dumbly over the unfamiliar face of the person who had caused them so much trouble.

"Woah, woah! Wait!" The stranger gasped, barely a sliver of the menacing persona he'd been under the cover of mystery. If his hands hadn't been held down, he would most likely have been close to wringing them.

Sylar blinked rapidly to orient himself. It was just a guy – mid thirties, normal looking, insignificant. Was it wrong that he was more surprised by this than he would've been to have unmasked himself from a different timeline? What did that say about him...?

( )

Peter's stomach lurched again and he squinted his eyes at the stranger, struggling to process this revelation. Now that the facade was wiped clean and the theatrics were stripped away, he couldn't believe he'd ever confused this man for Sylar. Sure, he was similarly built, Caucasian, dark-haired... but so were a lot of people. It was extremely disheartening to realise they'd all been corrupted – Noah, Sylar, himself – by no more than a bruised history and the power of suggestion.

Guiltily, Peter shuffled half a step closer to Sylar as if that could work a little way towards making up for failing so spectacularly in his loyalty.

( )

"What is this?" Sylar hissed, ensuring to keep his ability concentrated and firm so that he wouldn't be overthrown. All this effort, all this pain... for what? He yearned to know, he craved the answers to the questions that had been swarming around him for what felt like so much longer than just a few hours.

The stranger grunted and wriggled before reluctantly accepting his position for the present. Sylar really didn't like the expression (although feigned) that was slapped on too late. As if this was where the assailant had planned to end up all along, as if it wasn't a big deal that he was captured inside the melting rig that he himself had destroyed, and he was trying to act like he had a card to play in this game. "It was just – a job. Just a job!"

Sylar tightened his telekinesis enough to make that expression flicker. He felt dangerously close to really hurting this imposter, even with Peter as a witness. A job? A goddamn job was responsible all along?! Was that all his years of hard-working, bleeding penitence were worth – a paycheck...?

Employing just enough of his Intuitive Aptitude to remain on the safe side, Sylar investigated his captive with more than just his eyes. The man was deluded, hopeless. A well-spoken charmer with big ambitions and no idea where to stop... "Who are you?! Who do you work for?!" Sylar demanded, dangerously increasing the power of his grip until the stranger shed his laid-back act again and had to croak his words out.

"C-Culp! My name's Francis Culp – I work for Renautas!"

( )

The painful statement tore through Peter as if he'd just swallowed dry ice. It was a truth he'd already known all along, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt to hear this speculation confirmed.

There was too much to ask, too much to find out and not enough time to do all. Steam continued to furl around them, more bolts were pinging loose every few seconds and the platform was still standing, but either Peter's balance had been severely knocked by his impact with the wall or the rig was falling apart faster.

It barley scratched the surface of what he wanted to know, but under the time limit Peter kept it as simple as possible. "Why?" He spoke up for the first time, badly repressing his anger. "Why did they want you to frame Sylar for these deaths?"

The pressure on Francis's throat visibly lifted and he swallowed. When he next spoke his voice was more strained. "I don't know any 'Sylar'. I don't know about framing anyone – even if that's true it's not the kind of thing they tell you, y'know? Renautas chose me for what I can do. I don't know why, I didn't ask. All I know was I was told to wear these clothes, keep my face out of cameras and start a fire. Easy dough."

Mind reeling, Peter dodged another whistling bolt and turned to look to Sylar for answers. He didn't know what else to do, or how to express the punch to the gut of unveiling a random guy who was clearly only a pawn in someone else's agenda. He knew it must be affecting Sylar too, maybe more: there was so much more going on behind the scenes here. They'd barely tapped into the ends of it.

( )

Sylar tried to shake his head into clarity. His feelings were spilling over and blotting his rational thinking, he was kept constantly on the edge of burning up and healing back to a manageable temperature, and above all else it wasn't exactly like they could take their merry time here.

He licked his lips and imposed a formidable tone. "Who hired you?"

Beads of sweat rolled down the imposter's temple, possibly from the rising heat, the interrogation, or both. "I... I shouldn't say."

Sylar forced a roll of his eyes, recalling how much easier it used to be to toy with people than to let them see they'd hit a nerve. "Oh, I'd suggest you re-think that strategy. Is it really worth dyingover...?" It was only intended as a threat, but perhaps it slipped out a little too easily. Sylar suspected that maybe a ghost of electricity crackled over his skin, a suspicion confirmed by the placement of Peter's pleading hand on his back and the increase of fear in the stranger's eyes.

They hadn't even arranged what the plan would be once they found the assailant. If it had come to a one on one fight then Sylar would probably have felled his opponent just short of death. This, however, wasn't a fight. It wasn't the same, and he refused to execute this man like the killer he'd once been. The cretin still deserved to pay, he still needed to be taken care of, but not at the cost of straight-out murder.

Sylar sucked in as much of a breath as he could salvage in this turgid air and tried to regain a level head. "Here's how it's going to go: you tell us what we want to know and I let you free. And you'd better hope you find your own way out of this place."

( )

While Francis stewed for too long over Sylar's generous offer, a great, creaking groan splintered through the skeleton of the chamber. It was definitely getting hotter in here, which meant that fire had to be close behind...

Peter knew Sylar wasn't done here. He wasn't done either. He would be upset, too, if he managed to find someone impersonating him and tarnishing his name – hell, he was more than upset just for Sylar's sake! But if the options were to stay, interrogate a suspect and burn in the process, or to leave now and have time to escape – Peter knew which one he was gearing towards.

"Sylar..." He murmured, stepping up closer to the taller man and tugging on his sleeve. "Let him go, we don't have time to do this."

Sylar's confused face snapped to Peter's direction. "You want to leave without finding out who's at the roots of this thing?"

"No. But we don't have a choice." He let out a sympathetic breath and hoped his reasoning showed on his face.

The former murderer's attention released fully from Francis for the first time since his unveiling, instead boring deeply into Peter as he visibly let go of his personal attachments to the mission. The empath watched those dark eyes roam over his sweaty face, linger on his smarting cheek, then expand their search to the crumbling environment before sliding closed in acquiescence. It was tough for him to let go and back down (in every aspect of his person, Peter knew too well), yet Sylar nodded and observed him with reluctant understanding.

"You're right, Peter. ...Let's go."

( )

Peter...? ...Of course! How hadn't he noticed until now? Now he saw it, now he couldn't not see it...

Maybe it was the combination of knowing his freedom was promised and wanting to assert some superiority before scurrying away to the Renautas helicopter like some twerp, but whatever it was was enough to make Francis raise a knowing eyebrow. Although he was still glued to the wall in the rather humiliating state he normally inflicted upon the loan sharks and whichever cop had the misfortune to track him down, Francis hadn't spent years acting like he knew what he was doing for nothing.

"Right!" He exclaimed. "You're the Petrelli kid, I knew you were familiar."

His surprised captors turned back to him then, seemingly so absorbed in each other's eyes that they'd even forgotten he was here. The scary one pierced him again with that glare, so Francis chose instead to smirk at the smaller one, the more pliable one. He did rather enjoy this moment of control. It wasn't as ego-stroking as the ultimate power he'd held earlier before his identity had been revealed (the badass coat had definitely had something to do with that, he suspected), but as long as he could, he would milk this rare chance to be seen as something more than a not-so-bright, failed gambler who'd happened to luck out late in life with his ability.

"What's that got to do with anything?" The pretty little man frowned defensively, worriedly. How the hell did Francis not notice the resemblance before...?

He allowed his best grin to widen and shine handsomely, a 'fuck you' through a dazzling exterior. "Yes..." He mused as if to himself, recalling an expensive, airy room and stunning, hazel eyes. "You look like her, y'know?"

The smaller man narrowed those very same eyes behind long hair, still not quite there yet, but the scary man got it. It clicked into place in time for Francis to notice and catch the warning grasp form around the other's wrist.

"If you make it out of here..." Francis drawled smugly. "Tell Mommy I demand a bonus."

( )

The chamber couldn't possibly get any hotter, yet Peter suddenly felt light-headed and drained cold. Just as well Sylar's fingers tightened on his wrist, because otherwise Peter was sure he would have finally succumbed to his wavering balance.

He opened his mouth to speak twice before his voice finally made it to the surface, small and husky. "My... my mother paid you to blow up the rig." It seemed so obvious now. So much that Peter felt he well and truly deserved an award for stupidest person on the planet. Make that stupidest, most heartbroken person on the planet.

But... Francis had said – Renautas...? Oh. He didn't even bother finishing the thought. Add another medal to his collection – he should have realised weeks ago that Angela Petrelli had a hand in her Company falling by the wayside and a newer, grander one rising from the ashes with information and skills it shouldn't possess. So Primatech hadn't died and merely passed on its legacy, after all. No. It had evolved.

( )

That fucking woman was determined to break her son. Sylar followed, his sympathy overcoming anger for the moment, as Peter backed a few steps out into the open to let this process.

"Peter..." He said gently, turning his back on Francis but making sure to hold him firmly in place. It was bizarre... Sylar had never witnessed this before (as himself in his whole, rightful mind, that was): the exact moment of Angela's betrayal on her youngest child. Of course, he'd witnessed the aftermath a few times, and it was never very pleasant, but there was something just so hopelessly raw about being an observer to such a hurtful, private moment at its initial impact. Having experienced such a pain first hand by both his "mothers", Sylar knew there was nothing he could say to soften the blow. So he just held softly onto his friend, feeling his frantic pulse beat underhand.

"She... she set you up." Peter blinked dazedly as his mind unravelled the issue, looking up at Sylar like he was suffering from a boot through the stomach. He hadn't even looked this lost or hurt back in his apartment while bleeding to death. "She wanted to... turn us against one another? To get rid of you... take you away? Away from me."

Motherfucker. Peter was most likely correct. It burned worse than the pipes lining the platform would to touch. Angela hated him so badly (okay, she did have a pretty good reason, but still) that she would sacrifice hundreds of people to justify Renautas dragging him away into some sick, torture lab – and that was if he was lucky! She would go to such lengths, and against Peter's multiple insistences, to rip them apart? When all they had wanted was to be left alone to do their part in helping the world...?

It stung like a bitch, but Sylar wouldn't let himself submerge in it here. Not when there was still the small matter of a burning rig to flee, a currently snooping bad guy to deal with and a friend to support. He couldn't break his gaze away from Peter's pained face – pained from so much more than an unwarranted punch – especially not when the deepest, darkest conclusion clunked into place inside the little man.

( )

Peter let out a stuttering gasp, suddenly blinded by a photographic slideshow of countless, burned victims speeding across his vision. "All this... this is my fault!"

"What?! Peter, don't be -"

"She killed those people because of me! Because I didn't want to lose you!" As if it wasn't difficult enough to breathe here, Peter started hyperventilating. He felt the self-explanatory sting behind his eyes and nose and perhaps he might've already been crying if the heat hadn't been soaking up all moisture.

"Peter, don't!" The hold on his wrist intensified so it was almost hurtful, but Peter craved the physical pain to draw him away from the emotional. Heaving to catch a breath, he looked between Sylar's familiar eyes, familiar in their design and purpose. "Stop." The watchmaker spoke clearly, calmly. "I know you're wound up, I know you're frightened, but you have to stay focused. We'll deal with this later, okay? Together. This was not your fault."

Peter recoiled, just barely resisting the urge to haul on the front of Sylar's coat. "How can you say that?! You know I'm right! She told me to give you up but I didn't! She can't stand the fact that I found a friend in the guy who killed her favourite son -"

A rattling inhalation. Then a new voice. "Tell me that's not true...!"

Peter was knocked into silence by the perfect cherry on top of the perfect situation. He could have passed out then and there from stress, fear and dehydration. It would certainly be the easier route than the alternative, at least. But he was no quitter. So it was with faint disbelief that he tore his gaze from Sylar's, sent it searching around the dark, smoky platform, and set eyes on no other than his armed, beloved niece and her adoptive father. Holy shit.

A/N: Please go and watch my fan trailer for this story! I don't know how to share it here because links don't work on FFN, but it's over on my AO3 account (FieryEclipse) and on YouTube ("Tongues of Fire – A Heroes Trailer") if you want to check it out! X)

Anyway: I can't BELIEVE it's taken me so long to update! 2 whole months, omg DX I'm sorry for such a delay. It was going to be longer, though, but it's taken so long to get this far and there's still more of this section to come and the chapter is already 25 pages long...! So I decided to stop here and continue it in a new one instead X)

I hope you enjoyed the update! I can tell you it's been an exhausting, long one for me to write hehe, and I hope it was worth it! So, yes. Now you know (some of) the truth of the explosion and Sylar's copycat. Let me know: surprised? Did you guess it all along? Oh, Angela, what a woman...!

P.S. Francis is a real character from Heroes Reborn who works for Renautas. They definitely tried to manipulate him in the Reborn trailer to come across as "the new Sylar", so I thought I'd see them and raise them at their own game heh heh...