We still have judgment here; that we but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
December 31st, 2023
New York City.
Peter's heart sank as he looked upon Times Square. Too often had he visited it and, too often, the visit ended in tragedy. He looked around at the throngs of people bustling past cars and bright lights, moving from one store to another, the very pulse of the city in their every step.
Everything seemed as it should be. There was only the familiar haze of sleep that reminded him that he was dreaming.
And there was Charles.
"Peter."
"Mr. Deveaux…"
"If he can't do it alone, neither can you. But you have that important difference, Peter. He can only pretend, but you, you've really got it." Charles seemed sad despite the smile he put on when Peter made eye contact with him. Before Peter could say anything else, Charles was gone.
His arm was gripped tightly by a massive hand.
He turned to face a man, whose dark eyes were widened with surprise, as if he recognized Peter and was shocked to find him here, now.
"Hey, man, what are you doing?" Those shadowy amber eyes changed, then, and turned to a deep, dark green.
"Peter Petrelli…"
"How do you…" Peter stopped as an unnatural silence fell over the city. Every car had ground to a halt and every person stood still. The pulse of the city died so suddenly that the silence that followed was deafening.
And then it was filled.
People began to turn their heads. People in their cars. People across the street. In bars and restaurants. They looked at Peter. Hundreds, thousands of emerald eyes turned to lock their gazes on him.
"Peter Petrelli…"
"Peter Petrelli…"
And then they attacked.