When Diana began to see the colours, she was only sixteen. It was the day of the solar eclipse, and she was out with her friends studying for the finals exam. Though no one was studying, they were too awed by the eclipse to be doing much of anything. Diana was too. Perhaps she was far too more fascinated by it than her friends. She was wearing one of those welder goggles when she stared at the darkening sun in Pennsylvania. For all her life, she felt as if something was missing. And on that day, she knew that the pieces were coming together. So she turned her gaze skyward at the sun partially darkened by the moon as it passes around the Earth, awed. But then something happened afterward…

Everyone around her – her friends, the crowd outside of the library – were surrounded by a circle of colour. It overwhelmed her completely. That was the first time she passed out, and since then, the colours began to be something else. It was more like a sense of solace to her rather than a terrifying thing. She grew accustomed to the colours, welcomed it, it kept her bright and happy. But then her father became sick, the day after the solar eclipse, and since then his sickness deteriorated, his hair fell out and doctors didn't know what to do. So, Diana, always coming home to tend to him while her mother worked hard, relinquished her social life in order to keep him company.

What she didn't know was that she was becoming stronger every day. There was much more to her than colour sight-seeing. This, she didn't know. But soon enough she will. As her power shifted inside her, dormant but fighting her immune system, she gradually felt herself coming together again; waking up from deep sleep. She heard the beeping of the IV machine and heart monitor, felt the crinkle of the linen sheets underneath her, became aware to her surroundings. It was like everything was heightened and she was almost afraid of opening her eyes to see the blinding colours. But when she did, she saw nothing. When she urged to see them, they appeared. When she pushed it back down, the colours dissipated.

She sat up, and heard an audible gasp beside her. It was her mother, tear-streaked and wide-eyed. Suddenly the hoard of nurses and doctors came rushing in, checking her blood pressure, her wrist, flashing penlights in her eyes. The doctors began asking questions, "How are you feeling?" "Do you feel nauseous at all, have a headache?" She remembered how she fell on the concrete… how she killed that man. To her consternation, no one suspected it was her. She didn't get caught. They don't know anything. She felt disappointed. She wanted to die.

The doctors, marvelled at her abrupt rousing, did some testing before they left. But then she received the dreadful news of her father's sudden demise. Her mother, blonde haired and resembling nothing physically alike to Diana, told her the news, sounding plaintive. "He passed away, dear. I'm so sorry." Diana didn't cry. Nor did she feel anything.

She cleared her throat, sounding hoarse. "Are we going back home?" Diana looked away. The ambience of the room was like any usual hospital room. Everything was sterile and white.

"We will. After you are discharged… But, if it's okay, I'd like to stay in New York for a while. It's too painful to go back home in that house."

Diana turned toward her, impassive. "Okay," she said. Then, quiet and reserved, she asked as she stared at her palms, "What was his cause of death?"

Her mother, with her dirty blonde hair and dark rimmed eyes, looked pityingly at her daughter. When she spoke, she sounded repentant. "The medical examiners found that some parts of him were exposed by foreign radiation… but they weren't too sure."

When her mother stood up after that, kissed Diana's forehead, and left to get some coffee, Diana sat in her bed, empty. Drained of life. She thought, long and hard, how life would be; carrying this burden of this anomaly she was born with. How could she live, knowing she had taken a man's life?

That night, she planned to turn herself in. But as she slept, whimpering silently as her body trembled from head to toe, this aching thought crept on her. She was not alone. There were others like her. She knew this too, but her regret and pain overweighed anything rational. She allowed herself to cry for the death of her father and the innocent man on the train, even though they shared no connection. It was like this with her parents. They cared and loved her, yes, but she felt like there was no strong link between them. She felt that there was more to the world than she knew.

Peter

Peter checked up on the girl who collapsed on the floor – Diana Maddox. She was sleeping in the bed, her parents weren't there. He heard of her father passing, and felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Having been in a coma and losing her father must've hit hard on her consciousness. So he opened the door to her hospital room, and checked her clipboard to see if her vitals were fine. Her convalescence was remarkably good. She seemed to be doing okay.

He stood behind her, eyeing her with a hint of curiosity. Something so distinct seemed to be radiating off her, he didn't know what. She was pale with just a slight pink to her cheeks. She had choppy brown hair that fell about her pillow. Then he noticed her hand was sort of shaking. He spontaneously grasped them firmly but gently and at the contact with her hand, a sensation of warmth shot up his body; running up his veins. He kept his hold on her hand as a golden light erupted between their joined hands, spreading through the air around them. Peter, wide-eyed, stared at his hands. The feeling inside him was strong and was augmented by the intense heat of golden luminance that appeared between their palms.

Peter recoiled, dropped his hands and stepped back, staring at his hands in shock. Hastily, he whipped his head up, his brown eyes reflecting the amber-gold that he now saw surrounding Diana. Then it dawned on him, Diana was like him and he had just acquired her ability. At first, he thought she was like Emma. But she wasn't. She couldn't see sound with colour. She could see the colours of one's spirit. He hadn't met anyone like her. Then, he felt the turbulence of emotions that floored him – pain, regret, remorse, sorrow… that was all too potent that he fell to his knees with a gasp. It was a different kind of empathy, one he could not begin to understand. Then, it was like his body was on fire. And images began to flash before him. The painting. Of the girl with the golden aura. She was the girl in the painting.

She was still asleep while Peter's mind reeled. He stared at her. But then, selfishly, he got up and walked to the door. He turned toward her again, at her peaceful state, and began to choose the decision not to tell her what she is. It was better that way. Because it's better to believe you were crazy then to step into a world where the people you love die. Where sacrifice is the first and only option when it comes to survival. Maybe one day, she will find out of what she is. And how powerful she was. Because he felt it when he came to contact with her skin. She was far more powerful than anyone he's ever absorbed the power of. Then, he walked away from her room.

That way, she probably wouldn't be the girl in the painting, the key to the world's end. It was better that she didn't know. It was better for everyone. He thought about her as she left the hospital, seeing array of colours that lingered and surrounded everyone. At Angela's home, his mother, he was greeted in the living room by the group.

"Peter," Mohinder said. He stood up, reserved and professional.

He looked around the room. His mother stared back at him, lips pursed, dark eyes relentless. He saw the aura that surrounded her; a pale crimson. His gaze shifted to the rest of the room – Noah, a dark man in his mid-40's he didn't know, Lauren, Matt and Mohinder. Then he felt someone's presence, at the back of the room.

He stalked through the threshold, taking off his medic's jacket and throwing it carelessly on the sofa. His brown eyes were fixated on someone in particular. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Sylar, leaning against the wall, stepped forward, arms folded. "I'm just here for business, Peter. Nothing more and nothing less."

"Business my damn ass." Peter stepped in his direction but was barricaded by Noah's arm. "Don't, Peter," Noah warned. But Peter, recalcitrant, pushed him aside. "No," he said through gritted teeth. "What is he doing here? And why are we having a meeting with The Company?"

Noah sighed and sat back down, eyeing Peter through his horn-rimmed glasses. "You know why," he said. "We might know who were dealing with. These vigilantes…"

Mohinder spoke up. "My father, as you know, had records of evolved humans. We have here –" He picked up papers with identification photos on them. "Of the possible vigilantes."

"And why is he here?" Peter nodded to Sylar. Even though Peter tolerated him after Nathan's death, knowing his murderer was still alive bothered him. He would do anything to tear out his throat. But Peter knew that killing was never the answer to his problems.

"Peter, trust me, his being here bothers us too. But we need more help than we can get right now." Lauren's voice silenced the room.

"She's right," Noah added. "Take a seat, Peter. Relax and listen to what we have to say."

Peter's self-control knitted back together. He calmed his breathing but never tore his eyes away from Sylar's dead ones as he sat down. Sylar's aura was different, he noticed. It was a swirl of colours ranging from dark red to green to purple. He shook his head. He picked up the pile of papers and sifted through the faces of evolved humans, looking for someone with blue eyes and an aura so gold.

Matt, sitting across from him, searched his face. His face was contorted in effort. "You found her," Matt said abruptly, eyes speculating every inch of Peter. "The girl… the one on the painting. I see her through you. Lying on the hospital bed…" His eyes widened. Everyone listened.

Peter glanced up at him through his lashes. He decided not to lie to a telepath, so he told them about Diana Maddox, about her power and how strong it was. That he left her for her own good.

"She's not in here," Mohinder said through his pile of papers. Sylar inched forward to the crowd inquisitively, eyes narrowed. "That's strange. My father has records of every evolved human."

"Are you sure?" the dark man beside Noah said.

"Yes, I'm certain," Mohinder replied. He sat back in frustration. "I can't find her name at all."

"So what are we going to do about her?" Lauren asked.

Peter sat back in concentration. If they planned to kill her, he had to do something. The Company back in the days was hardly merciful, but given the circumstances that unfolded a few months back, they had to be. No one needed another life taken by their hand on their conscience. There was nothing to gain but darkness and pain.

"We can't –" he began. But then a flurry of voices interrupted him. Voices of everyone around him – Noah, Lauren, Angela's…

Comprise. That's what we need right now…

When does all this ever end?

This plan is going to be the end of us all.

Peter's control slipped and broke. Sweat trickled down his face. He sat up with a gasp. "Mohinder –" he began. Everyone sat up in alarm. "Something's happening to me." A wash of a familiar feeling flooded through him. Something he thought he had lost when his ability was sucked away through his father's hand. He felt it in him. He felt the feeling he had once had in him again. But how was that possible?

He looked up at everyone and brought both his palms up to his shoulders to demonstrate the impossible. Then he saw it as he called upon it, absorbing the source of the power from within. Electricity crackled between his fingers, replaced by flames of fire that licked his fingers harmlessly. A grin formed on his mouth, his eyes filled with a sense of familiarity. "I think… I think my ability is back."