Your Every Secret
He can feel her. Smell her. Taste her. It doesn't matter that his shoulder is aching or that the creaky floorboards are digging into his back, because all he's aware of is this young woman attacking each one of his senses as viciously as she does everything.
Her naked skin is sweaty, electric against his, and as she moves her hair tickles his face and he can't get enough of her. Ice blue eyes illuminate the darkness, fingernails scratch at his chest and that smile shocks his heart more than her ability ever could. He's never known anything like this. He can't describe it, couldn't even imagine it before now because there is no parallel. He cries out when she swoops down upon him and bites his lower lip, hard. It hurts but she laughs and that makes it okay. It makes everything she's ever done to him okay.
Because he loves her. Because she saved him. Because she was the first person to ever see something good in him. But then all he can hear is a voice in his head telling him not to be so naïve.
You really think she loved you?
Sylar did. At the time. Then her body slips from his arms and lies burning on the tide, and he knows better than to ever have fallen for her lies. Only, it doesn't stop his heart from breaking all over again, just as vivid as it did the first time. Darkness presses down upon him and he can't bear to turn around, he covers his eyes and begs for it to stop, but his own voice only laughs at him.
Is this how you treat the people you love...?
"No!" Sylar insists although nobody can hear him. And then Elle Bishop's unseeing eyes are gone and there's no longer sand beneath his feet, but blood-soaked floorboards. He killed her. He killed her, too.
What kind of monster are you...?
They struggle but Sylar easily overpowers his frail opponent. He can feel the blades pierce her skin, pierce the heart that he's wished for but never managed to access until now. And then his mother is on the floor and Sylar is on his knees beside her, gasping, hurting. His hands are slipping in the blood as he draws, then later as he exhumes an open skull – he can't remember who's skull but that doesn't matter because there's another, and another, and another littered around him until all he can see are the countless bodies of his countless victims.
You're inhuman. You're never going to change. This is who you are.
He screams as blood runs down to his elbows. He sobs as his fingers scrawl words in closet walls. He wants to die, he wants to end it all because he has sinned, he has murdered and he liked it but forgiveness won't listen even when he begs it for help. Nobody listens. Nobody cares about the damned. Even death doesn't want him when he tries to get in, so finally he stops bothering to contain it.
Sylar watches helplessly, unable to stop it or tear his gaze away. He watches himself give up and give in and kill again as he seeks any kind of bleeding relief from the hunger that will never let go of him...
( )
"Let me go, Pete."
Peter can't do that. But he can't hold on much longer, either. Time is running out like sands in an hourglass and he can't look ahead. His hands are slipping from Nathan's, his brother is leaving him inch by inch and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
The wind is cold and the night is dark, but not enough to cloak the street far below. He can't see it, though. He can't see much through the tears in his eyes except the face that's always been there and is now asking him to do the impossible.
He can't breathe. He can't think. This is his worst nightmare, the same terror that would wake him when he was young and Nathan wasn't home. But this time it's real and he can't deny it. He can't do anything. He can only prolong the inevitable and then carry on for the both of them to fight the good fight. Pain sears at his heart as disembodied words slice him like knives.
You could have saved him...
"No! No – I tried!" He yells into the nothingness.
Here lies Peter Petrelli: he tried...
"I did everything I could!"
...Did you?
He forgets to reply because Nathan is talking again. Saying goodbye. At last the man falls away from Peter's grasp as he yells and suddenly the world is spinning and the rooftop is nowhere to be found. Instead, there's nothing but open air. Nothing above and nothing below except a city miles away and his brother's half-burned face fading into the void...
And then Peter explodes. He endangers millions of lives because he couldn't prevent the white-hot blast that was destined to corrupt him all along. He failed.
You weren't strong enough.
Fire licks at his skin, at his bones as vividly as it did the first time, it renders him nothing but pure, throbbing agony and he cries again. He cries also as flames claw into the sky from a crumbling, iron structure. People are screaming. People are dying across the water and it's all Peter's fault. He came here to save them but all he gained was more blood on his hands.
Always out of your depth...
He can't get a grip on reality. He feels tiny and worthless and nobody knows. It's a secret. He wakes up sweating and panting, unable to breathe, night after night at finding himself back in the real world. He doesn't belong here anymore and he can't tell anyone. It's too loud for him, too scary. He wishes he didn't miss that empty city but he does – he'd be better off locked up in his own head because at least that way everyone would be safe from him. He's only a liability, a bumbling idiot who can never clean up his own messes no matter how hard he tries.
A walking disaster...
Peter howls until his throat is raw but he can't make his way back to her. He abandoned her in that place, erased a human being from existence and never managed to fix it. Caitlin is dead because of him. Simone is dead because of him. How many people were snuffed out like a light simply because he couldn't save them? Because he is always the failure, always the embarrassment. He's so ashamed that he can't even gather enough strength to cry more, but he can never do anything right anyway. He's never been powerful enough, never brave enough or smart enough... he's never been good enough... never enough...
( )( )( )
"Make it fast, I-I don't know how long I can hold them."
A man's voice panted faintly down the line. Tracy was sure she recognised it, but she couldn't place the face. She could tell, however, even through the deliberately vague transfer of information, that this wasn't good news. Sitting beside her on the glossy table surface, Noah's face had suddenly drained of colour just as his eyes had suddenly drained of hospitality.
"...I'll be right there, Matt." He said without emotion. When he hung up, he simply sat in place for a second, as if he'd forgotten where he was.
The previous, almost relaxed air in the conference room had evaporated, and in its absence Tracy really realised the type of organization for which she had just signed on the dotted line. In here with a large table, a grand window and state of the art technology, it was easy to imagine a comfortable fit for her standards of work. But in truth, Renautas were about so much more than glossy meetings and complimentary cups of coffee.
Because Noah didn't move or speak, Tracy broke the silence before it could consume her. "What's happened?"
Adrenaline infiltrated the very air of the room like smoke, affecting Tracy's nerves. Somehow Bennet managed to channel a burst of pure excitement and thrill into cool-headedness when he finally found his voice. "...They're here." Between one second and the next, he was on his feet and heading for the door with a hand buried beneath his jacket.
Suddenly the interview was over, along with any pleasantries and small-talk, and Tracy found herself swept along by the tide of emergency without ever being asked for her consent.
"Noah, wait!" She snapped, rapidly clip-clopping along behind her new boss. She barely made it out the door before it could slam shut on her like a dismissal, yet the way the man kept glancing back to ensure she was following told a different story. "'They' who? Them?"
The only reply was an enthused flash of eyes over the horn rims of Noah's glasses. ...No way?
The pair weaved their way past glass-walled tech labs and through bustling corridors to nobody's attention: the older man navigating the maze with ease, and the younger woman impressively keeping up despite the new shoes she was severely regretting not breaking in before wearing. The place continued to chug along like a well-oiled machine, everyone engrossed in their own work and oblivious to the dread that was now building in Tracy's gut.
It was too soon. Far too soon. Sure, Noah had just briefed her on the outline of the mission, on the main details of the anonymous targets and what they were capable of, but Tracy was in no way ready to confront them just now! There had to be training first, right? Some implicated guidelines or safety measures at the very least?
Biting back the concern that could cost her everything she'd just won back, Tracy focused on keeping stride with Noah, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Consider this an extended interview..."
"You can't be serious?" Tracy faltered in her steps, almost scouring a gauge out of the floor tiles with a stiletto. Directly into the fire in the first half hour of employment...? "Noah – I'm not ready!"
The man spoke back over his shoulder, shoes squeaking with every hurried step and hand still hidden on his holster. "One of us, one of them. You can do this, Tracy. You're more than capable and here's your chance to prove it." She might have laughed, or even span on her heel and walked out on all this for good had his voice not held a note of seriousness that told much more than his hardened expression did. It was... nice, to receive such a note of confidence. "They're contained for now, but I need you at my back should things take an... unexpected turn."
The new partners finally cleared the tide of worker bees and approached sealed elevator doors at the end of the corridor. Noah seemed to fly inches above the ground in his haste, and it took only those few seconds for Tracy to talk herself into committing to this task with the professionalism of which she committed any.
"I don't understand – how did they even get in? Didn't you say the security in this place is impenetrable?"
"It is."
While Noah swiped his ID card and pressed the touchpad on the wall, Tracy's feet thanked her for the time out but her heart only raced further. She could feel danger approaching like a gust of wind smacking her skin and leaving goosebumps behind. She wouldn't deny that they rang of excitement as well as fear.
But then the touchpad flashed red, bleeping angrily.
"Damn!"
Without missing a beat, Noah dived instead through a nearby door labelled "stairs". Tracy tottered after him down an empty, concrete staircase, once again cursing her choice of footwear and the tight hemline of her dress.
As soon as they were in privacy, Mr Bennet drew his gun and checked it over with methodical practice. "Lesson number one: never underestimate these two." The mechanic clicking and sliding of the weapon at work only served to increase Tracy's unease and confidence at once. Suddenly it was all very real – just a second ago they'd been in talks of agreeable employee bonuses! She hoped Noah wouldn't have to use the gun. But if it came to that, it was at least comforting to know they were covered. "Clearly they've got help. Someone who knows the system."
Tracy scoffed. "Or knows how to work it –" Her voice caught in her throat. She stopped walking, mid-step.
No...? It couldn't be...? Noah froze, stalling his ministrations on the gun, and the young woman knew her thoughts had been betrayed in both her face and line of delivery.
The company man watched her, absorbing everything as the company woman failed to stop her eyes darting to the nearest security camera embedded into the wall. There was only a second until the truth sank home in both agents. Then Noah promptly continued his descent with renewed fervour.
"Noah -"
Tracy grabbed his arm with a threatening grip, stopping the man again.
"He's an accomplice, Tracy. He's helping them." It was almost chilling how quickly the guy could snap between man-on-a-mission and comforting-father-figure. Currently, he looked as understanding as he had back in the meeting room before this call had come through, even though he must have been aware of the possibility of nasty frostbite obscuring his arm. "We'll go easy on him because he's a minor, but we have to take him in. Unharmed, I promise."
Tracy knew Noah's sympathetic demeanour was all part of the plan. A career working with politicians had desensitised her to the act a long time ago. But despite that, and on top of the horrifying truths she'd learned concerning the future should they fail in their mission, Tracy wanted to trust him. She could easily recall the sweet kid at the centre of this discussion: all large eyes, messy curls and pure heart, trusting blindly in people because he saw good in them that simply wasn't there. He was precious, he was vulnerable but, most importantly... he could easily be played by falling into the wrong hands.
Noah was still staring at her. Tracy's fingers were still getting colder. The unnamed fugitives were still being held down on Level 6, although who knew for how much longer.
Very deliberately, she unlatched her grip from her boss's arm and followed him deeper into the building. But to Tracy's surprise, they didn't run down the full length of the staircase to the basement – instead, Noah flew through a doorway the next level down and led her through a corridor, then another door, then between two long aisles of computers to a chunky pair of boots crossed upon a desk at the very end of the row.
"I need you to track a signal for me."
The boots barely twitched. They were hideous in Tracy's opinion, scuffed and damaged at the toes as if deliberately (the things themselves were far too new and expensive to have picked up such wear and tear unless it was done by choice).
There was a sigh, then a croaky, female voice. "Well I need to get the hell outta this boring-ass town, but since when do we get what we need?"
"Taylor." Noah's tone was warning this time.
"Whatever." There was another sigh, as if she couldn't care less. But then the clunky boots uncrossed at the ankle and disappeared below the desk, revealing a disgruntled, gothic teenage girl in their place. "Am I supposed to be honoured that you came all the way here to pay me a visit?"
Tracy had a feeling she failed to hide her surprise from showing through. This was the kind of tech guru Renautas was hiring? This kid could barely work liquid liner, how could she be entrusted with the inner workings of such an important company?
The girl bored deep-set eyes and a heavy brow into her visitors, reserving a look just for Tracy that would melt the skin from her face if she wasn't made of ice. Noah, meanwhile, seemed far beyond entertaining the girl's attitude. "I don't have time for your pleasantries, Taylor. It's a top priority order and we can't trust our own system. This is, ah... off the record."
Somehow he was maintaining a tight smile, as if the two targets he had been chasing for months weren't almost within his grasp and every second wasn't precious. Even so, the agitation was too strong to be contained even behind Noah Bennet's famous bluff.
Taylor continued to eye both Noah and Tracy, all the while sprinkling flakes of black nail polish onto a growing pile on the desktop. Three more flakes were picked off and added to the collection as she wielded this power she had over her superiors, visibly enjoying every second of it. Finally, just as Tracy was about to step in and call out the girl on her bullshit, dark purple lips curved into a fake smile that could rival even Noah's.
"What kinda signal are we talking about?"
( )( )( )
Betrayal. It's all he's ever known. "Mother" and "father" lure him in from the cold only to sever his heart once again, the good professor rescues him from his miserable life only to mutate him into a weapon, even the man with who gave him life didn't think he was worth loving before walking out on forever... He never had a chance but somehow he fell further than ever should've been possible.
Sylar can see them, hear every voice telling him he's worthless, that he's ugly, that he's a demon, a parasite, a beast. They stand around him in a mighty circle of derision, spitting on him as he writhes on the floor, bound and gagged in the centre of it all. He can't tune them out, he can't run away or deny the things they're saying even though he wishes he could more than anything. He's powerless, drawn like a moth to the brightest flame that hurts the most because it speaks the truth.
They're right.
Agony spills forth from his very core, frothing on his lips as he tries to utter even one syllable that could spare him. There are none. None at all, because he did all the things they're blaming him for. He committed every crime and thought he'd gotten away with them all. But there is no escape. There is only pain.
The rope is too rough, the noose is too tight but still can't do its job. It's useless. Just like Sylar as he now runs alone around every inch of his cage, tripping on his shackles, invisible and forgotten inside another man's head and nobody cares. His fingernails split as he tries to claw his way free and fails. His voice disappears because he used it all up screaming for help that never came. And it hurts and he hates it but he can't even blame them.
Who would ever help you...?
That sound slithers into his ear again, the tone familiar and the words his own, but for the first time it's someone else who says them. Then... something changes. A mistake in the mechanisms of this torture. Something cracks out of sight like a whip, and the darkness starts to lift its weight off Sylar. It's not supposed to happen but it does... somehow... a forbidden memory breaks free and ruins the illusion. And Matt Parkman speaks again.
You know you don't deserve to be saved.
But the words fall flat, as if the microphone wasn't switched on in time. Another tether cracks and the sky is slipping off to one side, shrinking like paper burning into ashes that flutter away into nothing. Sylar can't stop clinging to the light beyond the void that lifts him into the air like a lifeline. Because he suddenly remembers something. He's been here before.
He remembers that same voice putting him to sleep for a long time, once. He remembers the man's face as he did so without remorse. Finally he recognises the shape of his enclosure now that the curtains have been raised and light floods into every corner. Once upon a time he forged himself a key to the prison door out of willpower alone, he's strong enough, he knows how to defeat this game and so he won't let it hold him anymore! Not like it used to... never again...
All at once the world is too bright, too vivid, too close, too loud, too rough and too real but Sylar fights through the fog with everything he has until, finally, he breaks the surface gasping for air like a dying man.
( )
"NO!"
A reverberating roar echoed around the cell, despite the paper-clad walls that should have stopped such a thing from happening. Unless they did, and the sound was only ringing through Matt's startled, empty head...? He was too stunned to even make sure. What. The. Fuck.
The telepath span on the spot, turning his back on the open door and any hope of reinforcements while dread and resignation encased him like a sealant. Unable to believe his eyes, he witnessed a ravaged, bedraggled Sylar tear himself free from Matt's mental command like he was merely ripping off handcuffs. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck – he knew that look. He knew that look far too well.
He spluttered. "L-let's talk about this –"
It must have been terror, rage and regret all at once that rendered Matt Parkman totally void of sensation. But merely for a heartbeat. Because in the next moment there was nothing but pressure all around, swooping insides and the closest experience he'd probably ever get to flying.
( )
Sylar roared again as he threw his torturer clean across the cell. He didn't care what he used: telekinesis, sheer force of will, as long as he got the motherfucker as far away from him as possible!
The grunt and squelchy thwack of a body slamming into the far wall both thrilled and disgusted him at once, but there wasn't time to dwell on that. Not when the after-image of his nightmares were still prickling along his skin and raising the hairs there in their wake. Sylar coughed, moaned and squinted past the lingering ache that was still making his eyes water, hauling himself back to his feet with effort.
What the hell... Oh god... Oh shit... He was trembling all over, weak at the knees and practically smoking from his skin at such an invasion of privacy. The visions melted off him in stages. He felt nauseous, physically sick at what had just happened. It felt like he'd just been stripped naked and thrown into a spotlight for everyone to laugh at the parts of his body that he most hated. To remind him of his scars all over again.
You're a murderer... a killer... a monster... you'll never be worth more...
It had felt so real. Every last part of it... as the mind games slowly diluted, the paper-strewn cell was now bizarre to look at, so normal and dull compared to the clashing colours painting over every inch of Sylar's mind. He swayed on the spot, knocking stacks of files to the ground and accidentally trodding on them while the last remnants of Parkman drained from his violated mind. God, it stung, like the telepath had ripped out literal chunks of his flesh while his hooks had been removed so forcefully. But Sylar only swiped his messy hair back and pushed a palm to his forehead, grunting out the pain to the best of his ability.
You've hurt everyone you've ever known... you've destroyed everything you've ever touched... there's no hope in hell for you...
The whispers continued to flutter around him like a hummingbird's wings, but he could take them. He was more than familiar with the sensation of Parkman's control after living within it for months, which aided him greatly in righting himself and standing up tall. At least enough to be able to remember where he was and that danger was far from over.
Suddenly fear gripped the ex-killer again, so fully-formed that it could have been forced upon him by another third party
"Peter?"
Sylar's voice was croaky as he waded to his fallen friend's side – the only person who had ever looked past his personality deformities in order to take a chance on him anyway. The doubts in his ear were quieter now, fading as their power lost momentum, but that didn't mean they didn't still stab like knives.
This is your fault... you don't even deserve him...
Sylar only felt more ill at the sight: the empath lay shivering on dirty concrete, hair strewn over his pallid face, curled on his side and gasping in shallow sips of air. Parkman wasn't in his mind anymore, Sylar could tell, but what terrified him most was that while Sylar was strong enough to withstand the worst of the telepath's spell because he'd encountered it before... Peter hadn't.
"...S'rry... M'so...sorry... I tried... I... try..." The younger man's voice was gruff, unsure, as if he thought he was still dreaming. Shit! He was still in too deep – there was no way he would shake it off fast enough to be able to walk out of this place by himself!
"Peter?!" Sylar dropped clumsily to his knees, the impact a pain that barely registered while his senses were so over-stimulated.
He fumbled for a hold on the other man's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, shaking him firmly but briefly to avoid upsetting the guy's balance more. Peter winced ever so slightly and whimpered in pain, his half-closed, dilated eyes swivelling blindly in search of something he likely couldn't find in this realm. But then the next uttered word shot hope through the former villain. "...S'lar?"
Thank god! So at least Parkman hadn't fucked him up beyond simple recognition. 'At least'?! Like he should be grateful it was only this bad...?! Sylar's pulse was still on fast forward from the first second the cop had attacked him, and he refused to look back to where the disgraced "hero" was groaning at the base of the wall, half-buried in fallen prophetic drawings. Shoving away Parkman's fading taunts in his head, and working from adrenaline alone, Sylar did the only thing he could think of while this window of time drew ever nearer to a close.
"C'mon." He instructed, trying not to overbalance as he scooped Peter Petrelli into his arms and stood. "We have to leave. Now."
"Wh... stop – don't... M'fine..."
"Shut up, Peter!" He snapped, beyond tolerating the guy's constant sugar-coating when he had to deal with escaping the heart of the fire, the vicious enemies who were approaching to kill them, and the realisation that he somehow had to get both himself and his only friend out of this impenetrable fortress alive...! The little man fell silent and stopped trying to resist when Sylar hoisted him up into a fireman's lift, trying to block out memories of doing this once as his brother.
Peter was hardly heavy, but the watchmaker trembled beneath him anyway. They had to run! They had to get out of this basement before it was too late...! But somehow Sylar just couldn't take that first step towards freedom.
He was still reliving his mental torture, so furious that he could have ripped Parkman's head clean off for what he'd just done – and he wasn't even sure if that was the anger talking or not! It wasn't that, though, that was holding him back. It was the simple fact that he didn't want to run away with his tail between his legs without at least doing something of substance to make this disaster worthwhile.
Making the conscious choice not to give in to his darker urges, instead he shot a blue spark at the corner of Bennet's nearest page. One of hundreds of equally flammable ones. It was only fair...
The paper lit instantly. Angry flames burst to life, crackling as they consumed their way through the furthest corner of the cell from where Matt lay recovering. There would be enough time for the cop to escape if he moved quickly... and that was the last gracious act that Sylar would ever grant him. Standing in the dark, surrounded by the flickering shadow of yet another nemesis, orange light tickled over the set of his features as he silently bid Parkman farewell.
Then he hurried to the open door of the cell, being careful of Peter as he slipped out into the dark, vacant corridor. His limbs were weak, his mind was spinning and his heart lay in violated tatters, but Sylar had to be strong for the both of them. He only paused for a brief thought, one of perhaps an aptly-timed, vicious one-liner or (even worse) kicking the door closed and having done with the telepath for good...
But more captors were coming. They could be here any second. Peter Petrelli was hurting on his back, and a lifetime of regrets were still trailing from Sylar like blood-soaked ribbons. He had enough on his conscience already.
So without a backwards glance, he ran through Level 6 as fast as he could, uncaring of where he was going as long as it wasn't here, leaving nothing but tendrils of smoke to leak out of the open cell door behind him.
( )( )( )
Micah's fingers worked overtime, hammering his keyboard and gripping the screen of his laptop alternatively in an unparalleled rhythm. The rest of the loft – no, the rest of the city – didn't exist within the cyberspace he was currently inhabiting. There was only this duel that infested every millisecond: "us" against "them", the technopath against the creators of the system that he was currently wielding against them.
After that call between Matt Parkman and Noah Bennet had transpired, things had gone dark on his end. A blatant lack of alarms or emergency calls or electric spasms through the security system had been a clever move on the part of Bennet and his crew. But when they re-emerged in full formation, Micah had been ready for them.
The kid let out a triumphant huff when he slammed another door in the frustrated faces of Bennet's backup team, having lead them down yet another false trail in the wrong direction. Then he scoured through his intel to locate the other, smaller group, the leaders of the pack, before they could make too much progress through the building. The system map was immense and highly detailed, yet the kid leapt across blockades and scaled webs of encryption like a freerunner let loose, his muscles burning but the thrill of the chase continuing to pump energy through his veins.
He searched avidly to recover Mr Horn-Rimmed Glasses and his new partner, the one Micah couldn't make himself look at for long. It was too painful. Too distracting. Micah knew himself well enough to know that if he let himself linger, he would never be able to look away from his mother's doppelgänger. Not when she walked just the same and moved just the same, and her determined expression looked exactly like his mother's did when she'd hunt Micah down to tell him off for leaving his jacket on the floor for the gazillionth time... No. He definitely couldn't let himself get distracted.
He found them on Level 4. Far too close for comfort while Peter and Sylar were still down on Level 6.
Fighting down the panic, Micah did all he could with the radio silence from his allies, and worked only on holding off the Renautas agents as long as possible. Like a warlock casting spells from his fingertips, Micah summoned iron gates to block the pathway of the bad guys, he drew padlocks in the air that sealed every door he didn't want opened, he changed pass codes, shuffled around authority and even lured his targets down shining corridors and into empty traps – anything to simply distract Noah Bennet and Tracy Strauss...
He was so engrossed in this battle that he didn't notice the activity in his own cameras. The hidden ones surrounding the loft. He was only roused from the depths of his plight by a sound from nearby, just in time to see armoured agents piling along the corridor outside the front door.
Electrified with sudden terror, Micah wrenched himself free from Renauatas' security system and scrambled off the old bed, his feet getting tangled in the duvet and his heart getting shaken around in his torso. Crap! There wasn't enough time! He shouldn't have been so blind – so foolish! But how did they even find him in the first place? He'd monitored every outgoing signal from that building...!
He couldn't afford to worry about that right now. He had only seconds to make a run for it.
Once he finally found his footing, he grabbed his still whirring laptop and snatched up his backpack, sprinting across the cold floor in just socks as a crash! from behind him announced the agents had infiltrated Isaac Mendez' old studio. Micah cut the lights and raced to the back exit with his pulse hammering in his head, doubting he would be so lucky as to have a repeat of Sylar saving him like last time –
Sometimes he hated being right. The door opened before he could get to it. And suddenly dozens of Renautas agents were crowding around the young boy from all sides, directing night-vision goggles and enhanced weapons at him while shouting commands that couldn't process inside his terrified skull. The only thing he could think was at least the only thing he needed: even if Renautas got him, he knew the fight was far from over.
( )( )( )
Peter had no idea where they were going. He thought he knew where he'd been, though. In that cell that Noah had packed to the brim with plans to get rid of him and Sylar. But then he'd just stood atop Mercy Heights hospital too... and been somewhere in the sky... he'd also been in a desolate future littered with bodies piled high like skyscrapers...
It felt like he'd travelled very far in an extremely short time. It was disorientating to recall whispered voices and taunts that were so fresh they were still drying on his skin, and yet to rationally know he was still on his latest mission to infiltrate Renautas with Sylar and hadn't left the building at all.
At least... he thought he was. Everything was fading in and out of focus. Everything was moving around him too fast. Everything was disjointed. He hurt all over but primarily in his head, like he was suffering from a migraine, a kick from a horse and the worst hangover he'd ever known all at once. There were repeated, loud blasting noises like cannon fire overhead, and what felt like rain kept falling down on his back. Nothing made sense except firm hands keeping him aloft, the sway of a man's body beneath him and the familiar, comforting scent pressed against his face. But why was Sylar carrying him?
Look at you now... still useless...
All at once the voice of his doubts came back to him, hitting with the impact of a tidal wave. Suddenly he remembered it all in vivid detail: Matt's betrayal, the mind torture, and the secret truths that had arisen from the depths of Peter's mind.
He fought to draw breath with difficulty, perhaps due to Sylar's sharp shoulders digging into his chest... or maybe it was just the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened to stream from his eyes. He struggled in his friend's hold, squirming as much as he could in this helpless position while he felt drugged and heavy and his every extremity ached.
You can't even escape on your own two feet.
Through blurry eyes, he could discern what he assumed was a sleek, unidentifiable corridor in Renautas. Then there was another blast! and more rain sprinkled down past his face – except it was brown and solid and looked more like rubble... They weren't in the basement anymore? Which meant Sylar must have carried him a distance already.
"St... stop it, Syl... I can w-walk..." He tried to sound assertive, but the other man's harsh tone between ragged breathing quashed that idea.
"You can barley even string a sentence together, Peter! Now shut up and let me concentrate!" The hands holding him in place tightened and Peter winced at such a dismissal. As much as he hated allowing himself to be such a burden, Sylar was probably right. He would only slow them down further... make things so much worse...
Always needing someone else to clean up your messes... You're pathetic. You only ever get in the way...
Reluctantly, as throbbing pain crept over and consumed his body once more, Peter stopped trying to wake up. Instead he gave in and retreated into the numbness of his sneering thoughts. Somehow it was still Matt's voice that gave life to his every secret. They burned and stabbed at his pulsing temple, the words expanding until the pressure of trying to look past them simply became intolerable.
Peter scrunched welling eyes closed against the painful brightness of the corridor and the sight of being literally carried to freedom by the real hero of the day. Again. For the countless time. Just like the liability he knew he was and hated that he'd always been.
( )
None of the doors were opening for him. No help at all came from any of the many touch pads, screens or cameras that Sylar passed, which could only mean one thing: Micah wasn't with them anymore.
He didn't want to dwell on why that could be, and he couldn't have even if he had wanted to. He didn't dwell on much of anything, in fact: no emotion, no regret and no questions, because everything would drown him if he let even one leak spring through. He couldn't afford the distraction of something as silly as thinking! For Sylar was so swept up in trying to find a way out of this godforsaken maze, without running head first into the hunters who he knew were on his trail.
All logical thinking and planning had gone out the window after exiting the basement to no technical greeting, and now Sylar was running on intuition alone. There was no need to maintain stealth anymore, thank god. It was too late to worry about blowing their cover – and so he just sped along narrow, windowless corridors in the bowels of the building with only basic survival in mind.
He blasted down walls with booming bangs! of telekinesis and ignored the accompanying waterfalls of dust, crafting a make-shift escape route that he raced through as fast as he could while being careful of the man on his back... a particularly valuable man who currently held only shape-shifting and couldn't withstand much more damage than he'd already endured thanks to Sylar...
No! No thinking! Just doing!
Lost in the labyrinth, Sylar carried his friend blindly through room after room, each broken wall encasing the pair in temporary blackness only to reveal another corner at the other side. He scrambled through the place like he just had in the shadows with Parkman's voice in his ear, forcing down the bile that was brewing just at the memories. Not yet, there wasn't time to look back and be dragged down by the shame. Not yet, not until they got out...
The wounded duo slipped across a slideshow of renovated halls, blackened ash piles that used to be laboratories, and construction sites drowned in plastic sheets and scaffolding. The further Sylar ran, the more the Company headquarters fell into the smouldering disrepair that had been his own doing, once. Somewhere along the way a distant alarm began to screech, and every sprinkler that was still working rained down upon the two fleeing fugitives, raining cold pinpricks of sensation that crept down their faces and beneath the collars of their shirts.
Goddamn it! The building all looked the same at every turn, the place was huge and the structures were getting too unstable over here to break down many more walls without every floor collapsing upon them!
So, panting, Sylar staggered to a stop after ducking under what must've been his tenth piece of scaffolding. He was in another gaping space, cast in near darkness, because the lights had yet to be repaired in this old corridor that had been abandoned halfway through restoration. Had he been through this way before? He was so worn out that he couldn't even tell.
Peter was biting back a stream of hurt noises and Sylar's back and arms were straining after carrying even this little man. He hovered momentarily to catch his breath, emotion threatening to flood and suffocate him like the sea to the shark that stops swimming. Particles of rubble swirled through the air from the newest broken wall, workmen's tools were scattered nearby and the sprinklers distorted dust that was caked the full length of the floor. The air tasted like stale water and mortar and Sylar had to force himself not to gag on it. The only thing that helped soothe him was a slight breeze floating across from afar.
...Wait... a breeze?
Deep, dark eyes traced the corridor far to the right, to where silver moonlight shone through a fluttering, plastic sheet taped over a hole in the wall. There was fresh air at the other side. The most delicious scent that could only mean one thing... freedom.
Sylar puffed out a rejuvenated cloud of dust, suddenly shaky at the knees. "Hold on, Peter."
Peter only gasped faintly when Sylar shook his wet hair out his eyes, hoisted his friend's warm weight further onto his shoulders and reaffirmed his grip on the smaller man. Then he set off again, driven by the literal light at the end of the tunnel...
Being so intent on his destination, he wasn't aware of the tinkling tune that picked up all around until it encased him like a chorus of tiny bells. He never realised that something was wrong until Peter screamed, then pain splintered through Sylar's scalp like a hundred needles at once, and suddenly countless shards of ice were shooting from the sprinklers and shattering upon impact with the ground.
Fuck, it hurt! The tinkling bells persisted, Peter continued to yowl and squirm and there was dagger-like rain spanning the entire length of the corridor between Peter, Sylar and the way out. What the hell?! It made no sense, but Sylar was aware that there was too far a distance to endure the pain.
Forced to stop, he dropped to his knees again and lifted the empath from his shoulders, instead shielding as much of Peter as he could with his own, regenerating body. He curled over his gasping friend, a yell grating in his throat as ice sliced through his jacket and back and red flakes of crystal melted upon concrete.
Was this still part of Parkman's torture? Had they ever even left the cell?! They'd been so close only for this torment to still be unfinished! How long could it possibly go on...?
Sylar couldn't gather the sufficient brain function to think. He could only continue to shout openly, so distressed as he was by the constant pain that was hitting him faster than he could heal. It was as if poisoned fangs were eating him alive, not enough to kill him but enough to render him helpless. A growing pool of blood was dirtying the water beneath the huddled duo, Peter was struggling to stay conscious and Sylar scrabbled to get a grip on anything that could help them. Somehow, miraculously, his flailing fingertips stroked the faintest ends of telekinesis, and he managed to hasten enough of a barrier to protect himself from the jagged rain as if casting up an umbrella.
Never had empty air seemed so blissful before. Even when he knew what was coming next. Now heaving in laboured breaths, Sylar grit his teeth and waited for the knitting of his flesh to begin while clip-clopping footsteps approached his back.
( )
Tracy ran to a stop in the middle of the corridor, gaping at the scene before her. The glowing ice encasing her hand was the only light source within darkness, reflected back in hundreds of falling ice drops as they cascaded over the targets. That was, Noah's targets – Tracy's meal tickets. She had chased them this far to now find herself only a few steps away... and every ounce of triumph that had driven her even three seconds before was gone.
She was close enough now to see the hunted men with her own two eyes. And they weren't just nameless, faceless bad guys, no. They were real people. Not just any people, either: people like her. Suddenly Tracy Strauss (most ambitious, top of her class, least likely to quit) hesitated even though she'd all but achieved her latest mission.
So this was "them". She remembered how dangerous they were, and how much trouble Noah said they had caused and would cause again in future... but it was the simplest thing that gave her pause.
It was difficult to see clearly in the dim light, but Tracy could make out enough to tell that one of the men was badly hurt, had been before she'd just made it worse with her sprinkler trick, and the other was protecting him avidly. Even if it meant he had to take the full brunt of the damage. And that changed things: they were the marks, the bad guys who would kill billions if they didn't get taken in and Tracy knew this! But they were also human beings who were currently bleeding at her hand.
As she watched, horrified by the effect of the ability she'd promised never to use to harm others again, the taller of the targets gathered countless splinters of ice with an invisible force above his head. He shook with the pressure and leaked more red into the pooling water at his feet, his jacket in tatters and the skin beneath open and angry. ...But, slowly, the wounds marring his back began to seal shut. And he looked over his shoulder, back in Tracy's direction – no, past her – with a glare that made Taylor Kravid's the most appealing thing in the world...
All at once Tracy began to regret faltering. What kind of evos could be worth so much trouble on behalf of Renautas? Perhaps ones that could control things with their minds, heal from any injury, and were not the type of men Tracy wanted to be around any longer...
What the hell had Noah roped her into here?! This man was clearly as dangerous as has been forewarned (at least too powerful for her antics to be of any real use!) and upon closer inspection, the other one was beginning to look suspiciously like Nathan Petrelli's younger brother, Peter... Although that detail had been accidentally omitted from the case overview. There were too many factors at play here and Tracy barely knew the half of them, it seemed, and that uncertainty coupled with this present incident had the woman only too aware of how out of her depth she really was.
As if just to stop her from giving up on the job altogether, ragged breathing and squeaking footsteps finally caught up beside her.
( )
"It's... over, boys." Noah panted, taking up stance next to his much younger, fitter partner.
Catching his breath, he wiped his foggy glasses with the back of the hand that wasn't pointing his handgun at his targets. There they were at last, the two sons of bitches who had kept him from peaceful sleep for almost half a year.
"It was a good shot. But we've apprehended Micah Sanders. ...You're on your own now."
Too slowly, he absorbed the full scene before him in all its painful glory: Peter's near-unconscious state, Sylar's rage, the bloody puddles on the ground, rusted scaffolding and discarded tools nearby, the hefty collection of razor-sharp splinters that were hovering above Sylar and ready to fly with even one angry thought from the serial killer... This was not how Noah had pictured the moment he'd finally catch them.
Even though the epic hunt had eventually come to its conclusion in this damp, dank space; and even though these two evos were responsible for nearly flushing Noah's career and sanity down the toilet in recent months, he wasn't overcome with the satisfaction he thought he'd be. He didn't want to gloat or brag, didn't feel the sense of utter completion that normally came hand in hand with concluding a particularly difficult mission. It wasn't that he wanted to hug them or skip into the sunset or anything either – god no! But... now that everything had been stripped back to the bare bones of the chase and there were no more theatrics, no more crazy escapes and just two scared, wounded and trapped young men in a miserable corridor... they didn't seem at all as menacing or almighty as they had grown to become from afar.
Not that Sylar wasn't giving it everything he had, of course. Lips thinned, eyes on fire, wet strands of dark hair curving over his face... the power in that scowl alone could frighten even the toughest of men, but not Noah. Not when he had been waiting for this for so long.
( )
Currently, Sylar couldn't decide which seemed like the better option: this indeed being part of Parkman's torture, meaning it wasn't real and he was lost in his nightmares forever; or it, in fact, being reality, meaning he'd got this close to escaping only for everything to be ruined at the last second.
You don't deserve any better...
Sylar concluded that he was still too fucked up after Parkman's violation to be able to normally process what was happening. It didn't compute. It was just so ridiculous. He'd gotten within sight of freedom but was going to be reigned in by no other than HRG himself and one of Nathan Petrelli's former conquests? Macy? No, Stacy? ...Tracy. Of course. The ambitious ice queen who'd cosy up to the biggest name in the house just to be associated with authority. What the hell was she even doing here anyway?
It was as if he could only scrape the very surface of the tip of the iceberg, and even though he could feel that there was so much more bullshit hidden outside his reach, he couldn't remember how to get to it. His functions were already clouded by too many bruises and too much pain. He was too tired, too desperate and too ashamed to think things through enough to be able to plan a counter strategy.
Like a cornered animal trying a last attempt to scare off its superior hunter, his instincts kicked in and he pushed every last speck of raw feeling into his features, purely for the sake of Mr Bennet.
( )
Just as well Noah had been on the receiving end of enough death stares in his life to have built up a hefty resistance. It was tempting to lose courage but he resisted, even though the risk of being impaled by flying ice was growing with each passing second.
"It shouldn't have come this far. I'm sorry that it has." Giving Tracy's surprised look no response, he let her believe that this was yet another interrogation tactic. Really, though, he shocked himself by how genuine those words were.
An animalistic growl rumbled past Peter's aimless mumbling and the crackling song of ice hitting concrete. "You of all people should know that "sorry" doesn't make everything okay, Bennet." A bitter huff of effort clouded from Sylar's lips, due to the falling temperature all around and the building pressure on his shield. He wouldn't be able to hold it forever.
It almost pained Noah to agree with this man, after everything they'd been through over the years. Almost. "You're right." He confessed. Because Sylar was right, and spoke with the weight of experience on his vocal chords that Noah, himself, knew too well. "And you have no reason to trust me, but you need to listen... Sylar."
The man's chosen name rolled awkwardly over his tongue before Noah released it. There was no need to cause more problems than were already permeating the dusty, icy air. This was months in the making, months and months of humiliation and sleepless nights and more plans than the alphabet had letters, for fuck's sake! But then why was Noah suddenly hesitating before saying the words he'd been wanting to all along?
"You and Peter? You're far too dangerous together, you could cause a lot of damage to innocent lives. Renautas only wants to make sure that doesn't happen."
Sylar didn't reply beyond more fuel flaring the flames in his eyes. The man was still curled over Peter, defending him from the sprinklers and the agents like a ferocious lion and his cub. It was always more difficult to bag'n'tag a target once emotions came into play. However, Noah had overcome this on every normal mission of his career when the ends outweighed the means. And this was far from a normal case.
Half a year later, and Noah was no closer to understanding this sudden conception of friendship than he had been the night Claire had jumped from that Ferris Wheel. He still couldn't comprehend it. But Noah Bennet had been many things over his time, and an idiot had never been one of them. He'd have to be foolish to deny these men their improbable bond any longer, when the truth was staring him so blatantly in the face for the hundredth time. And foolish not to... embrace it.
"All this?" The seasoned agent twitched his gun at the looming shell of Renautas around them, ensuring to lay down the words as smoothly and delicately as silk. "It should never have gotten so ugly, I understand." He continued, his features expressing a combination of both anger and concern that might easily have been true if he took the time to inspect it. "But I can promise it will only get worse if you don't turn yourselves in now. If you run, Renautas will chase you. If you fight, they will destroy you. This is your only chance."
There was more he could say (more he should say), Angela's vision was the worst of the truth, the most important part, but it would most definitely send this cretin spiralling over the edge before a wall of blades spiralled into Noah's chest. That was not an option he wanted to explore. So he spoke quietly. Almost sympathetically, with the skill of a master persuader to avoid releasing the wrath of the beast.
"You might be willing to gamble with your own life, Sylar... but are you willing to gamble with his?" Noah let his gaze linger upon the weakened man in Sylar's arms. Peter had always had a knack for getting himself hurt whenever Noah saw him, but that didn't make his ghostly-white complexion or the ice splinters embedded along his bleeding legs any less affecting.
The angles of Sylar's face rippled in a dance of rage and deep thought. His concentration appeared to derail somewhere between his weakened ally and maintaining what was now a deadly block of ice shards above the pair. His fists clenched tighter in the fabric of Peter's shirt while the weight of the world seemed to traipse through that sick head. A tremor shook Noah's gun as ice pitter-pattered around the duo, tension spiralling deeper inside him while he allowed the silence to hammer his point home.
Finally the killer's lips twitched. Noah dared to dream. "...So we turn ourselves in. And then what?" He snarled softly, barely louder than a murmur. "You kill us? Chain us up? Hand us over to Parkman to have his way with?"
Those eyes flashed midnight black like a shark the instant before a kill, a look that squeezed all the air out of Noah's lungs. Beside him, unacknowledged and unremembered until now, Tracy shifted in discomfort. Meanwhile Mr Bennet grabbed desperately after his fading remnants of control, finger itching on the trigger.
"We'll... look after you."
"You mean supervised "accommodation" down on Level 6 until the end of time? Visiting hours on weekends? Bingo nights...? I don't think so."
It could have been Tracy's ability that spread ice down every vertebra of Noah's spine, and perhaps he would have blamed her for it – if he wasn't so familiar with the dreaded sight before him now. It was the famous glare that personified the murderer, himself: two dark vortexes of pain and rage beneath the heavy frame of his brow.
A half-grunt of effort slipped from Sylar's mouth before morphing into a forced, bitter chuckle. "If we fight you'll destroy us, was it...?" The man panted for breath, the tips of his teeth poking into sight like glinting fangs. And then he let slip the promise that made everything break. "I'd like to see you try."
Suddenly he jolted, deadly ice splintered through the air, Noah ducked and hid his head while Tracy gasped and the sound of a hundred breaking glasses shrieked off every surface around them. With his face buried in his arms such as it was, Noah was helpless to stop what was coming. His last thought was one of resentment – that he couldn't even look the attack in the eye, the way he wanted to. This wasn't the way he wanted to go out but he didn't have the option: he couldn't see, couldn't help himself, couldn't avoid the pain and couldn't... couldn't feel it, either? What?
There was no pain. No ripping of his flesh or piercing of vital organs. Nothing. He strained his hearing past his own breathing and heartbeat, listening for anything besides the fading echo and the ever-present, gentle bells' song of the sprinklers at work in the background. When he chanced a peek over the sleeve of his jacket, the corridor was empty, the plastic sheet at the far end was fluttering and a dark shape drew across a sliver of sky beyond.
No... No! The future – the dream – his family – the world...?!
( )
Tracy stood, trembling in the space and slowly regaining solid form. She startled for the second time in ten seconds when Noah Bennet let out an ungodly curse at her side, and kicked a toolbox on the floor, rattling the thing in another reverberating tune around the corridor.
Holy hell. Unlike Noah, Tracy had had no need to hide her face once her ability had turned her to water to save her from harm, and so she had witnessed the attack in full. She blinked rapidly, reliving the sight of a fatal mountain of shards speeding directly towards her, only to fall short far from impact. It hadn't been an assault. It was only a distraction, a scare tactic – and a successful one at that! ...But why hadn't that man tried to kill them?
The woman was practically stunned into uselessness (although that was hardly an improvement over the last few minutes, she thought angrily), because as far as she was concerned she'd just completed the most ludicrous interview of her detailed career with no training, no warning and no guarantee of safety.
"What the hell just happened?!" She demanded, storming up to her boss with no respect for workplace hierarchy.
Sylar... of course she had heard the stories. The crazy madman who traversed the country cutting open the heads of specials to steal their brains, who only got more and more powerful until he could defy death itself... and Noah had just sent her into the danger zone with no heads up and no hope of protecting herself?! This whole thing was beginning to feel less and less like a dignified position within the world's most advanced corporation, and more like an improvised pile of steaming bullshit!
"You better start talking, Noah, or I swear to god I'm outta here!"
Tracy watched the always so stoic man pace madly across the corridor, running both hands through his receding hairline and looking the closest to manic that she had ever seen him. "I promise, I'll explain everything, but not just n-" His face suddenly went slack, staring over the top of her head.
"Noah?"
Pure rage lit the middle aged man up like a puppeteer had just lifted his strings, and he was gone from her space and suddenly marching to meet the arrival of a third Renautas agent. The newcomer was panting, sooty and sporting a nasty cut above his eyebrow, hobbling just a few steps ahead of Noah's (perfectly timed) backup team.
( )
"What the hell just happened?!" Fuming, Noah descended upon Matt Parkman like the big, bad company man he had been in the early days of their acquaintance. The cop was unpleasantly reminded of how fragile their truce as co-workers was, and how superior Bennet still considered himself to be in their dynamic. Fuck it, now Matt had to once again endure the burn of epic failure concerning this man!
Noah angrily sent the troops out the far end of the corridor while Matt stuttered, fumbling to get the words to form in his mouth. "They – they burst in!" He insisted, choked by nasty memories, a throbbing temple and, luckily, a non-fatal amount of smoke. "I – I was painting in the vault, like you wanted, and... and they burst in outta nowhere and attacked me!"
Sweating profusely, Matt jabbed a finger at the tender wound on his forehead. Sure, he could consider himself lucky to have evaded more serious damage after greeting a concrete wall with his face, but the small injury stung a hell of a lot more than it should due to the manner with which it had been achieved. Just reliving it made him feel sick at Sylar's nerve.
A female voice dragged him out of sulking thoughts. "You said you had them contained."
For the first time, Matt noticed an attractive, tall woman behind Noah. Tracy Strauss. Oh great! Another witness to his fuck up! Her appearance bugged him (and not because she was the doppelgänger of the madwoman who had once thrown him out a window), because if she was here as Noah's apparent backup that meant the company man had been "looking out for" more of his "old friends" than Matt had stupidly realised.
"Yeah, I did, but they weren't exactly playing fair – what's she doing here anyway?" He glared at his own reflection in horn-rimmed glasses. "I thought I was -"
"Don't change the subject, Matt!" Noah growled, rage filtering through his forced calm. "I need to know exactly what happened and exactly what they said!"
Fucking hell, Matt hated that look. He hated being seen as the newbie, the loser, plain ol' Parkman who couldn't even direct traffic well enough to be promoted... He hated it all the more because it came from Noah Bennet. The smug bastard always seemed to taunt Matt with that dull fleck in his eye, the one that would trickle down over his entire face until it even coloured the words he spoke so that they tasted like derision. He was so goddamn sick of it! And now, thanks to Peter Petrelli and Sylar (again!) he was robbed the great victory of a success that even Bennet couldn't capture.
Matt couldn't face dropping even lower amongst the ranks due to his own arrogance. So he did what he always did best in such situations. He lied some more.
"Like I said, they... they attacked me." His chest was tight from all the action, making his breath catch more than usual. "I thought I had 'em b-but they were too powerful. I blacked out and when I woke up they were gone. I dunno what they wanted we... we didn't exactly exchange pleasantries."
"Are you a mind-reader or not, Parkman?"
Matt squirmed, a fresh flush burning his skin even hotter. It was so tempting to... coerce his co-worker into believing him, but somehow the bastard always knew. So, biting his tongue and ability, the telepath simply sighed and slumped his shoulders. "I'm sorry Noah. They... they burned it all, everything you had, it... it's all gone."
( )
As if it wasn't enough to have the fugitives escape from within his very clutches. They just had to go and destroy months of backbreaking work before fleeing to bring the entire human race to its knees.
Noah nearly bit through his lip to keep back the filthy curses that threatened to spill forth. Ice crunched under his shoes as he paced on the spot some more, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes while his mind reeled like a carnival display. There was too much to process and too many people waiting on his response. ...Where was his beloved coffee maker when Noah needed it most?!
High heels clip-clopped close by, then Tracy entered Noah's narrow field of vision with her arms firmly crossed and her eyes upon him. At least if one good thing had to have come from Parkman's added kick to the shin, it was that the woman seemed to have let go some of her rage in order of business, in the most Tracy-like manner that blessed Noah with faith. At least one of them had their head screwed on straight.
"So all your work is gone, and we have no way to find the targets. What does this mean?" Tracy ran through it matter-of-factly. If not for the slight tremor to her voice she would have been flawless. Thank god one of Noah's initiates seemed to be up to the task he had chosen them for.
Performing a deep breath (in for four seconds, out for eight), the agent replaced his glasses along with his professional persona, righting it at the edges like pressing a good shirt. Grinding his teeth, he looked down upon Matt with such promise infesting his gaze.
"It means Parkman, here, better get used to spending a lot of long nights in front of an easel."
( )( )( )
Lights whooshed by outside, distorted by glass into shooting stars that blurred at the edges. They swooped past softly, steady against the night in a never ending procession that Peter couldn't seem to look past. The highway was reasonably empty at this time of night, and so only the occasional passing headlight speared him in the eye. If he'd been counting them he'd have lost track long ago.
The window was cool against his face, so close yet not quite touching as empty scenery rolled by in a peace that was undisturbed, save for the rumbling of the engine and other passing vehicles. Sylar sat behind the wheel at the left, a strained, silent shape that hadn't said one word the whole journey. Not that Peter could even remember most of it.
He could faintly recall being carried through the sky over multiple lit-up cities, and then suddenly they were in a car and fleeing yet another ringing alarm that stabbed through his skull like stakes. Sylar hadn't elaborated and so Peter hadn't asked, too spent as he was by the ordeal back in Texas. That must've been hours ago.
The unfamiliar smell of the car still permeated the interior, and the trundling of the vehicle did Peter's pounding head no favours. His nausea had finally faded but although he had taken regeneration at some point through the haze, pins and needles continued to tingle in his cranium and legs as if shards of ice remained embedded below the skin. The ability might have healed his physical wounds, but sadly made no improvement to the pain swirling throughout every crevice of his thoughts.
The memories... the faces... the encompassing worthlessness that had ingrained itself into his very bones... they weren't going away. Everything was only growing bigger, brighter until Peter was hardly aware of anything except his own regrets. Over the journey, he'd tested the mental wounds gingerly at first, terrified to discover how big they were, and had slowly built the confidence to stroke over the raw edges and gage how deep they truly ran. Very deep, was the answer. Now he couldn't stop worrying them like a loose tooth, even though it only hurt more. He'd been thinking for miles, now. Miles and miles and miles.
Peter had failed to initiate conversation with Sylar so far, although the lack of communication was crippling. Every time he tried to form a sentence it was tugged from his grasp by his many doubts tumbling over anew. So many mistakes... so many failures... He knew what he wanted and how he was going to ask for it, but it was too huge, too scary to actually open his mouth and get the words out. As for Sylar? If Peter had been forced to witness his worst memories over again – he could only imagine which horrors the recovering murderer had relived.
Night was threatening to lift its tendrils from the horizon ahead, the way home. Peter had no clue what time it was or even how long they'd been travelling, there was no anchor to reality or even the radio to give him grounds for comparison. It was when he thought he saw the tiny imprint of a city against the sky that he finally couldn't stand the silence anymore. He had to clear his throat in order for his voice to travel even so small a distance.
( )
"S-Sylar?"
Sylar tensed at the small sound, the first injection of human noise in a long time. Glancing over, he acknowledged that Peter was fully alert, if tired, and his cognitive functions seemed to have been restored, thank god. He'd been faintly aware of the change in energy surrounding the other man for some time, but had been far too swept up in memories to gift the attention it deserved.
Bennet's threat was prominent on his conscience, of course. So was Sylar's own, in response. He hoped he hadn't misjudged the ice and caused serious injury, even if they were the bad guys who arguably deserved it. ...And then there was Parkman's spell, cast out beneath it all like a blanket covering the entire expanse of his mind.
Every single ghost Sylar had shoved back during the escape to deal with later had returned with a vengeance inside the confines of this car, catching up to him now much worse than they would have at the time, he suspected. Every face, every scream, everything: love, loss, betrayal, obsession, murder, possession... there was no release from the twisted cavern of his own thoughts. That was, until Peter's voice shattered the world of black and red that he had inhabited for what felt like forever, drawing him out of the poisonous well like a hand reaching down to save him.
If only reality wasn't every bit as painful as his dreams.
"...Thank you." Peter whispered. Although it was genuine, Sylar could tell that it pained the guy to say it. Maybe as much as it pained Sylar to hear it? "For... getting us outta there. Thank you."
In response, the ex-killer's joints tightened and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. He couldn't bring himself to look his companion in the face. "Don't bother thanking me." He didn't tear his eyes from the road.
( )
...Oh. Peter frowned in concern, his friend's strong profile emanating disgust although his features were perfectly composed. His stomach swooped when he was hit by the realisation that he was in trouble. That Sylar was still angry with him. That by speaking he had reminded the man of how pathetic and stupid Peter was and how useless he had been throughout the entirety of the escape.
His tender wounds began to leak anew, so irritated as they were, and his throat tightened of its own accord. Of course he'd worried on the drive that this might happen, but to know for sure that the last person to stand by him was just as disappointed in him as all the others...?
Gripping the edge of the seat, Peter worked to make his voice come out at all. "What d'you mean?"
He would have forced himself not to assume the worst, if he hadn't been feeling so vulnerable. And if Sylar hadn't just shot him a look that so very plainly said 'what d'you think?'. The watchmaker tightly shook his head and concentrated on driving, the air around him colouring black with tension. Repulsion leaked over Peter's way, backing him further into his corner than he already was. Fuck.
"I..." Peter started then cut off, swallowing in a failed attempt to moisten his throat. His palms were beginning to sweat and those icy pins and needles were steadily working their way from his legs up the rest of his body. He couldn't bear the thought of Sylar turning on him, not now. He couldn't even entertain the thought of a fight. It was with great difficulty that he managed to croak out two little words in hopes they might save him. "I'm sorry."
It hurt like the crack of a whip when the other man's gaze jabbed into him with vicious speed. "What?" He hissed, that incredulous expression stirring more self hatred and the beginning of defence in Peter's chest. The empath fought not to visibly wince, but there was no way to hide the prickling sensation from spilling into his eyes.
"I said I'm sorry."
"I heard you!"
"...Then why-?"
"Why are you apologising?!" Suddenly Sylar erupted, like the top had blown off the volcano of his anger. "Don't thank me! Don't apologise! After all the things I've done! How can you sit there and say those things like I haven't killed you and destroyed everything you've ever cared about?!"
"...What?! Sylar -"
"I am a monster, Peter! You can't keep pretending I'm not!"
Peter gaped, shaken to his senses as his friend's face contorted with raw emotion and the car began to swerve haphazardly across the road. It seemed he had severely misjudged the earlier silence. Uncurling himself from his huddled position by the window, Peter dived across to put a hand on Sylar's arm. "Hey – stop –"
"He was right! I don't deserve it – any of it! I don't deserve you! And I especially don't deserve your apology!"
After nothing but blatant silence for so long, the car was now filled to the brim with brutal noise; two competing voices, two bleeding hearts and multiple screeching wheels as the vehicle veered dangerously into the surrounding lanes. Lights continued to flash by outside and the odd car horn blared before fading. Sylar was demented, his cheeks blossoming red and his hands beginning to spark electricity on the wheel, meanwhile Peter found that his uncertainty had fled in the state of emergency.
"Sylar, stop the car." He commanded gently, tightening his grip on his friend's forearm. "Stop the car, pull over... stop... pull over here..."
( )
Grudgingly, Sylar allowed his company to somehow guide them to a squealing stop by the side of the road. His emotions only continued to flare once he stopped moving and accusations were rising like bullets in his mouth, but when he turned to blast them the aforementioned man's way, all intentions died a death like water thrown over a fire. Within an instant, Peter slipped out of his seat belt, leaned across the car and was upon him, strong arms encasing Sylar in a hug he hadn't known he craved until it was granted.
A whimper (a real, live, humiliating whimper) acted as a full stop to his tirade. The sound escaped him and Peter only pressed in closer, chest to chest and heartbeat to heartbeat. The little man didn't say anything more, and Sylar didn't think he even remembered what a voice box was in that moment. Everything evil and corrupt and painful floated free from the confines of his person as the simple, pure relief of human touch healed him from the inside.
Far too late, he closed his eyes and wrapped himself around the smaller body in return, fingers curling into fabric and holding Peter tight, overcome by the warmth of someone else's body against his own. That bliss, that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't hated even though he should be... it was unparalleled. It had been so long since Sylar had known more affectionate contact than a friendly tap on the knee, or a hand on his back or elbow... this was very different than that. So much so, that he caught himself falsely thinking he'd never before known a hug in his life. It was the most wonderful thing in the world, when said world didn't even owe him its table scraps.
And as for Peter? Sylar couldn't possibly bring himself to save the other man from him if it meant giving up this solace.
( )
Breathing deeply into Sylar's shoulder, Peter traced his fingers blindly over the slashed tatters of the other man's jacket. Any ice had melted and dried long ago, and crusty blood dirtied the edges of each tear – the ones sustained to spare Peter the same treatment. Somebody did care about him, as difficult as that was to accept sometimes.
His heart compressed and his eyes scrunched closed while he readjusted his hold on his friend, this familiar body that he had missed although they'd never been far apart. The hug felt like their first all over again, as if it had been years since their last, and right now it very well could have been. The feeling of another person's breathing soothed the empath, and he set his own pattern to match it for an indefinite stretch of relief.
It took most of the willpower he possessed to open his mouth and end this moment.
"What Matt did? What we – what we saw...?"
"Don't say "it doesn't matter"." Sylar's voice was muffled somewhere in the ends of Peter's hair and he shivered. "It does. It does matter, Peter, it was the truth and that's not going to change just because you say some magic words."
Eyes still closed, Peter released his response along with almost all the breath in his lungs. "...I know." He couldn't miss the slump to Sylar's body language, it amplified like a fracture through his own ribcage. He paused to gather enough air to continue, biting his lip as he struggled to word himself. "Magic words won't work... because nothing's gonna change unless we do it. And we can, Sylar. Okay? We can change it... we just have to help each other."
( )
Honesty, Sylar was just making the most of this brief respite until the weight of their chains pulled them back down to Earth. He didn't believe Peter's words of wisdom, and didn't let them lure him in when the truth was so inescapable. No matter what spiel the little hero shared with him, Sylar chose to close himself off and just allow the guy to talk if it would make him feel better.
"We have to help each other... and I think I know a way."
It was then that something shifted. That suddenly things were different.
It wasn't even what Peter had said that sent shockwaves hurtling through Sylar. There wasn't a way to pinpoint the disturbance. It was only a sense of knowing. Of anticipation that tuned the intelligent man's brain into picking up every slight detail of the person encased around him. Peter squirmed ever so slightly, the muscles in his back rippled underhand and his breathing pitched. Sylar's heart began to race before he could even explain why.
"I've been thinking about this for a while, but... now I know I want it." Faulty lips stirred the fabric at Sylar's shoulder when they hesitated. "...I want you to do something for me. Something huge. I know you know how."
Peter's quiet, husky voice lost steam, leaving the void to hang heavily between the pair. But Sylar didn't have to wait. Because swiftly it all made sense. He knew exactly what the other man was going to say before he said it.
Disentangling himself from the arms of his companion, Sylar pushed the guy back with both hands on his shoulders in order to make sure his addled brain was absorbing things correctly. Peter seemed to shine although there was no light upon him, and Sylar simply gawped into large, nervous yet unapologetic eyes. Holy shit.
"I want you to look inside my head. And I want you to fix my ability."
A/N: Okay, I know this was a mean place to end it X) But I hope it's got you wanting to find out what happens next! I'm so excited to get to this part of the story at last – that last scene in the car was one of the very first ones I ever planned for this story, way, way, way back at the very beginning, and it's so satisfying to have finally written and shared it with you guys! I hope you think it was worth the wait ^.^ (come on, the boys deserved a good hug after all the sh*t they've been through 3)
Thanks for reading!
