A/N: Hi guys, I'm posting two chapters at once today! I've got so much more to say in the author's notes at the end of next chapter, but I wanted to put in a quick note now. There are sensitive subject matters in this update regarding recent world issues, so please be aware of that. I'm dedicating this and the next chapter to everyone who has been affected by them. Not just recently, but ever

The Weight of the World

The office chair squeaked as it span in lazy circles. "How much longer are you going to take?"

"Almost... finished..."

"I can't believe you are going to make us late. It was your stupid idea anyway."

The impatient huff faded into the sounds of overtime nearby: ringing phones, tapping keyboards and hushed conversations. Yes, the office chatter would be muted with the door closed, but it was comforting background noise after working as part of it for so long.

"Not stupid, Ando-kun." Hiro Nakamura tutted. He didn't look up from working on his masterpiece until... there. Satisfied, he lifted it from the desk with a beaming grin. "Ta-da!"

Hiro ignored his friend's eye-roll, and didn't let the man's unamused expression dampen his own enthusiasm. "Kimiko will never wear that."

"We shall see." Hiro wriggled happily in his seat, admiring his handi-work. It was very well done, in his opinion: two little Vulcan ears strapped to an elastic band that could easily fit an expanding waistline. Adorable. "Star Trek is the most important life experience for any child." He said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah." Ando scoffed. "Maybe once she is actually born." He tried to look unimpressed, but Hiro knew his best friend too well not to catch the fond dimple to his smile while he looked at the baby ears.

"No matter. She will grow up to thank me for it. You'll see..." Hiro pulled a face, one that very clearly said 'I know something you don't know'. He enjoyed dangling it in his brother-in-law's face.

The face that currently fell into its trademark look of surprise. Eyes wide, mouth open, Ando gasped. "You didn't!"

Hiro broke into another hundred watt grin, one of only an uncle-to-be. "No. I didn't. But I don't need time travel to know she will love it." He chuckled while warmth leaked into Ando's expression, erasing the boredom from earlier. Sharing Hiro's excitement, Ando stood and made as if to leave, while the time traveller searched around in another desk drawer.

"No, Hiro!" Ando complained, flapping his arms at each side. "I thought you were done!"

"Ah! Not without the finishing touch..."

Hiro felt Ando roll his eyes again, without even having to look. "Well I am not planning on getting into trouble. Again." He crossed Hiro's luxurious office to the doorway, patting a hand on the frame while he hesitated, smiling fondly. "Don't be too long or we'll start watching without you."

"I have all the time in the world, my friend." Hiro called out. When Ando loped away down the hallway, muttering, The Master of Time and Space busied himself once more in his project, tongue between his teeth in effort.

It turned out it was much more difficult to hand craft a Vulcan hairstyle out of office supplies and stick it to the elastic band than Hiro had anticipated. But he was driven by visions of sharing his most favourite TV show with his unborn neice, and that made the sticky fingers and cuts from the scissors worth it. He could see it so clearly already: Ando would fall asleep half an episode in, Kimiko would stare daggers at Hiro while pretending not to be into the story, and Hiro and her belly would stay up together quoting the crew of the Enterprise all night long...!

Tokyo bustled outside the large window, but this craftsman was too intent on his work to notice. He was only drawn out of his bubble when he heard Ando returning to drag him home – and what perfect timing too!

"Yatta!" He cried, raising the completed (if slightly askew) vulcan costume above his head on proud display.

"Very impressive."

...Huh? All euphoria at his success dispersed like a cloud of fog. That wasn't Ando's voice.

Hiro blinked stupidly at the guest in his office for too long, before his smile fell, he dropped his arts and crafts from his fingers and shuffled quickly to his feet. Even with a large desk between him and his visitor, Hiro couldn't help but feel utterly on edge.

"Mrs Petrelli." He said in English. It wasn't a welcome.

The woman at the door smiled at him. Or at least her rosy lips curved, but those eyes of hers didn't let in an ounce of warmth. "Hello, Hiro." She looked around the office with the air of someone returning to an old haven. Hiro didn't like it one bit. Then she locked her gaze onto her target, and began to prowl elegantly towards him. "You've been avoiding my calls." She scolded, looking far more at home here than she should.

Hiro took an anxious step back. For a rare moment in his life, he completely forgot about Star Trek, now that the real world and its problems were closing in on him. "How – how did you get in here?" He squawked indignantly.

Yes, Angela Petrelli was a significant stockholder of Hiro's father's company, but he had specifically requested to be made aware if she happened to visit.

"Oh, you should know by now." She came to a stop at the other side of Hiro's desk, much too close for his liking. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the photograph of Hiro's late father. From here he could almost see the beautiful young woman who Kaito had once known, but hidden deep under years of lies and cruelty. He would have snatched the picture away if he wasn't so intimidated by this evo who's power of manipulation was stronger even than Hiro's was over time. "When I want something..."

"No!" Hiro exclaimed. He puffed out his chest and righted his glasses. He knew exactly what she wanted, why she'd been trying so hard to corner him already. "They are saving the world! I will not help you catch them!"

It was almost imperceptible. The small thing that changed on Angela's face right then. For the briefest of moments, Hiro wondered if it had been... sorrow? She almost looked like a worried mother. But even if she was – Hiro's duty to her son, and to Sylar, to everyone that their shared deeds had saved – came before that. While, yes, he knew only too well her concerns, the fate of the world balanced on the fight for a better future. And hope had to be the main contributor in that!

Then Angela smiled again, the sweetest of smiles to probably ever enter this entire building. "A strong sense of honour. Your father would be proud." She fussed with the fur collar of her sleeves, preening herself as if subconsciously while numerable, burly figures filed into the room behind her, headed by no other than the power-stopping Haitan.

It was then that Hiro realised what was happening. And that he couldn't do anything to prevent it. He glanced sadly down upon the baby Vulcan ears that he would never get to present, and longed after the marathon of Star Trek episodes he wouldn't be introducing his neice to tonight. Then, with a polite bow to his abductors, Hiro broke out the Vulcan salute and his angriest frown.

He spat, in the most seething tone of voice he could muster. "Live long and prosper."

( )

Ando sighed, marching along the corridor with his fiance's cross words still stinging after him. "Hiro..." He scolded, approaching the door to the office. "You are in trouble. Which means I am in trouble too. I told you to hurry u-" Huh?

He broke off upon reaching an empty office. Everything was the same as it had been half an hour ago, except there was no Hiro bent over the desk giggling frantically about pointy ears.

While the pointy ears, themselves, lay forgotton and trampled at Ando's feet.

( )( )( )

The destruction was evident from high above amongst the clouds. Vivid enough to make the two flying men falter in the air. They hovered, unseen by the fleeing, frantic crowd below, and the emergency services who hurried to craft a perimeter a safe distance from the affected street. If it could even be called one anymore.

Peter stared, suddenly numb to the wind tugging at his hair and clothes and swirling all around him. At first it was difficult to make sense of what he was seeing: a black, jagged line splitting the length of the road, like a lightning bolt had been painted onto the surface. It was still growing even as Peter watched, stretching away between the buildings until it became almost as wide as the street itself, eating up cars and lampposts along the way with no remorse...

He couldn't even form an expletive in his mind. He just looked to see Sylar beside him, wearing the exact same expression that he was sure was on his own face. The pair didn't exchange a word, a circumstance too familiar in recent hours, but Peter didn't think for a moment it was due to what just had and hadn't transpired on the rooftop. All of that seemed so far away now. So selfish in comparison to this.

It would be foolish to get involved in such chaos. But of course Peter was going to do it anyway. Even though dread was filling him to the brim, and even though memories of more than one lost future were chilling him to the bone. He could still recall a prediction splashed across back alleys with too much clarity, could smell the paint being used by a familiar stranger while a young boy ate waffles in the next room... The entire planet: broken in half by too much power...

But no. It wasn't the same. It was not the same – the world wasn't ending quite yet! Although that didn't mean it wasn't severely damaged. Was this what would have happened back in Central Park if Samuel Sullivan hadn't been stopped in time...? If they'd been too late, like they were just now? Holy shit.

Bracing himself, trying to shake away the painful tingles in his limbs, Peter gestured for Sylar to follow and soared downward, over the police perimiter and toward the heart of the damage while hoping he wouldn't pass out.

( )

They dropped down the height of surrounding skyscrapers, chasing their reflections in hundreds of windows of the city. They flew in silence, in rising dread, as the wind lessened and the bubbling roar of the audience grew further behind. They followed the remnants of the road, their shadows consumed by blackness before the men themselves slipped into the gaping crevice that was splintering the Earth's crust.

Sylar couldn't feel his legs as he landed with care upon loose dirt. It was dark in here, cold outside the touch of the morning sun, damp and clammy and rancid. Tremors rang underfoot and through Sylar's legs, while the ground groaned all around like thunder.

Dropping down beside him, Peter gasped. "Oh god..." He started to heave, as if he couldn't draw breath, and Sylar couldn't blame him in the slightest.

Even after the ungodly horrors these eyes had witnessed before, Sylar struggled to accept where he found himself now: well below street level, tiny in a stretching chasm of dust and blood and split pipes that jutted out of the dirt like broken bones. Immense chunks of rubble and debris were piled up all around as if a building had collapsed, and more earth rained down from above as the crevice yawned ever wider. Sylar blinked rapidly, doing nothing but gaping and standing in one place like an idiot. Cars were upturned and smoking, littered the length of the crevice in varying degrees of ruin; a severed head of a traffic signal fizzled sparks over the walls and dirty faces; the faces of small groups of people who had already gathered to help each other with their predicament, all either crying and swearing, limping or resting or unconsious or worse.

It couldn't even process. The usually so intelligent channels of Sylar's neural network appeared to be blocked, because his knack of filtering out all but crucial information in order to make sense of things was gone. Traded in favour of white noise and a throbbing pressure behind his forehead. However, he couldn't ignore one blatantly obvious fact about this incident: it had been done deliberatey.

It was too precise, in a way that a natural disaster could never be. It wasn't clumsy or random like an earthquake or gas explosion or sinkhole. Instead, it was more like someone had cracked the ground open with a giant whip, or was tearing it apart by their fingertips... Which of course was ridiculous. Ridiculous, but not impossible in this extraordinary world of extraordinary people.

Sylar shivered. Then shivered again when Peter's hand sought out and squeezed his forearm. It was trembling from more than aftershocks, and Sylar knew why. They hadn't seen anything remotely like this since –

"Samuel?" Peter croaked. His face was pale, his expression honest, and even though he'd been closeby the whole time, he sure was a sight for sore eyes. Sylar barely noticed that his anger had moved to the backburner. He barely remembered their fight right now.

He cocked one eyebrow in thought, a sense of foreboading filling him up inside. "Could be..."

( )

What would be worse? If this was or wasn't the work of the crazed terrikinetic man who they were supposed to have stopped back in December?! Samuel Sullivan was supposed to be in custody, Noah Bennet had even said Renautas had taken him in! But what if he'd gotten free and was terrorizing innocent people again? ...What if he'd been set free?

Right now the details didn't matter, though. Not when the damage had already been done, regardless of who or what or why.

People were screaming around Peter, trying to help themselves and find each other, desperate to escape this pit that had no easy way out. Horrified, he staggered a few steps deeper into the shadows, cupping both hands over his lower face. Everything was already well in motion. Which meant that while Peter had been moping like a kid on the fire escape, he could have been doing something to stop this if only he hadn't been so wrapped up in himself! And now it was too late to fix it!

Or maybe...?

( )

Sylar nodded mutely when Peter turned back to him, before the empath could say a word or even lower his hands from his face. He knew what the guy was looking for when he scrambled for his pocket, and who he was calling before he even found his phone.

There was still time to make a difference here. Time, itself, being a given luxury upon request from a certain friend. And so Sylar waited, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself and grateful for the time he'd taken to speed-change out of his sleepwear. He itched to aid the wounded civilians nearby, and fought not to feel wretched for averting his eyes instead. They'd be okay. They would. In a soon-to-be-overwritten minute.

"Damn it!" Peter hissed, crossing back to Sylar with a fist in his hair and his lip in his teeth. "No answer."

Sylar's stomach plummeted. Shit. He stood up straighter as the cushy comfort of re-writing time was snatched from him. The pressure inside his skull was still pounding, a rhythm that slowly increased and reverberated deeper with every new beat. Maybe it was just as well his emotions had overexerted themselves earlier and were currently being replaced by cotton wool, otherwise Sylar suspected he might not have taken the news as well as he did.

"It's okay." He said quietly, craning his neck to look up and down the seemingly endless, quivering trench on either side of him, mind reeling, heart hammering. Of course it wasn't okay, but it happened occasionally – that Hiro had a life outside their constant demands for his time. Just, so far, the time-traveller hadn't taken a bathroom break when the circumstances had been quite so dire...

Sylar cursed this incident for transpiring so soon after "visiting" Renautas. It was like it had been perfectly planned to coincide with the moment he really needed time to work out his issues before even considering being dumped with such responsibility!

And then he cursed himself for thinking something so glaringly insensitive. Sylar was not the victim in this scenario. There were more than enough of them already.

( )

Peter's phone was heavy in shaking fingers: a lifeline one day, a barricade the next, always a crucial component of the job. So there would be no Hiro today. No time travel. No do-over. No way to erase the pain and suffering that was presently dripping into soil on all sides.

The shakes underground were subsiding now, fading as the crevice ripped open further away from here. It left behind a smoking trail of disaster, the aftermath for the survivors who were supposed to consider themselves "lucky". It was just like the oil rig all over again. Peter couldn't blink away the clarity of his surroundings, but even though it made his throat hurt and his eyes burn, he didn't want to forget where he was. Instead he channeled it into making him strong enough to keep going here, being able to make a difference, and not just collapsing into an anxious ball in the mud.

"These people..." He shook his head desperately, trying to rid himself of shock. He had to focus! "We have to help them, we have to..."

He cut off when, like a bubble around him suddenly bursting, the full reality of the here and now brushed up so close to his skin it left goosebumps. Dozens of panicked voices mingled together into a solid blast of noise, but somehow Peter managed to hear the uniqe tones of terror in every last one.

Stuffing his neglected phone back into his pocket, he tripped over his own feet hurrying to the closest site of destruction. A city bus lay on its side nearby, battered and crumpled from the fall, with shattered windows that caught flashes from the ruined traffic light and glinted eerily through dirt. The ground was still unsteady beneath his boots but Peter kept going, hearing Sylar follow determindly at his heels as he fought his way over rubble and debris.

"Hello?!" He shouted, thankfully without cracking. The dirt walls of this enclosure seemed to absorb his voice, giving it a muffled quality that fell infuriatingly flat.

Upon reaching the paneless back window of the bus and climbing inside, Peter rushed over to a young couple helping each other limp to an exit. They reached for him with outstretched, bloody fingers, sucessfully twisting his gut so hard it crumpled into ashes.

"It's alright!" He gasped. "It's okay... We're gonna get you outta here..."

( )

Sylar followed his friend across crunching, broken glass and along the interior side wall of the bus. His balance was taking a while to orient itself at the percieved rotation of gravity, and he couldn't even remember how to find his voice right then; meanwhile Peter charged on ahead with the stubborn recklessness, the compassion, that allowed him to employ tunnel vision for the sake of someone else's wellfare.

Splatters of blood streaked the seats and walls, staining the site with abstract markings that told of many tragedies. Sylar grit his teeth and refused to look at the evidence that rang of many a familiar, gory encounter. He didn't want to see. It wasn't like he could escape the smells, though. Blood. Vomit. Mixed with hot metal and something that stank sickeningly of burning flesh...

He shuddered. Normally the "people part" of missions were Peter's forte. As for Sylar, it was too compressing to be right here on the front line, up close and personal with the victims of the crimes he was trying to prevent. It reminded him too much of the old days. It ghosted too close to every soul he had wronged. No, it was much more straightforward to fight for innocent lives from afar when he didn't have to actually come into contact with them.

Peter reached the wounded couple up ahead. Meanwhile, Sylar hated that he had frozen up, and hated that he was selfish and fractured, just standing disjointed from the scene like Peter's fucking golf caddy or something! He should be doing something of worth while the little hero worked his heart out saving lives.

The hero. Becuase Peter absolutely was one. Abilities or not, selfish, dangerous desires or not, when push came to shove: the youngest Petrelli could put it all on pause for the need of other people. Sylar could just imagine how much good he could do with all of his power restored...

Somehow he managed to muster up a croak as he reached the couple. "What happened here?"

Nobody answered him. So Sylar just watched the empath set to work trying to ease the pain in any way possible, without even a trace of the insecurities that had wracked him back at the apartment. If Sylar hadn't personally been there, he'd never have been able to tell how unsteady in himself this knight in shining armour had been just minutes ago. He wasn't sure if that should be comforting or worrying.

Peter looped his arm around the young woman nursing an impaired leg, preparing to lead her and her partner to safety. He did it all in that trustworthy, intense way he always did, the way that couldn't help but reassure the injured patient (no matter how hard said patient tried to resist, Sylar knew from experience). "Easy, easy, lean on me... okay? We're just gonna take it slow, it's alright..."

Peter was visibly tired from the sleepless night, worn from yesterday's escapades. Yet somehow despite this, and the tiny size of him in the face of such calamity, he looked strong. Brave. Inspiring. He looked like the kind of hero Sylar so badly wanted to be.

So, following by example, the former murderer took up stance on the other side of their charges. "Can you tell us what happened?" He repeated, forcing his voice and courage to support him, even if his knees happened to be deviating from that plan.

It felt wrong to insert himself into this role that he had no business adopting – the good samaritan who held the hand and carried the weight of a perfect stranger, as if it wasn't awkward and embarrassing and totally hypocritical to do so. Trying not to think of the blood and gore compressing in on him, Sylar aided the hobbling couple's escape with a subtle push of telekenesis.

( )

The wounded man seemed too distraught to make much sense of anything other than panic and tears for his beloved, tears which scalded Peter even from the other side of another patient. The woman, however, coughed out a whimper.

"A – a man. An evo. He... he ripped the ground apart with his mind..." A weight dropped into the pit of Peter's stomach as his imagination went wild supplying the visuals. "I don't know why – he was angry but I – that's all. It happened so fast... I'm s-sorry..." She succumbed to a well deserved, high-pitched sobbing fit.

"That's okay, you did great! You did great." Peter enthused, gently tightening the arm that was around her back. He sent a positive smile the woman's way before flicking his hair out his face to peer past his charges to Sylar. And here, he couldn't have faked a calm expression if he'd tried. None would be able to mask the fear, regret, rage and uncertainty crashing together and crackling like lightening in his eyes.

He had no clue how he was supposed to sort this. But at the same time, his frazzled nerves began knitting themselves back together for the first time since leaving Renautas, now that there was a course of action and the fresh reminder of what was at stake. Of what was to be fought for.

( )

Sylar couldn't forget how broken Peter had been on that fire escape less than twenty minutes ago. Or how badly Arthur's lingering footprint in his mind continued to echo. It was a fact that the guy was in no state to face off against whoever was powerful and deranged enough to cause such damage as this, even if time was precious. Nurse Petrelli would be in his natural habitat if he stayed here helping civilians, and that was what should happen. It was what he did best, wasn't it?

But Sylar didn't say anything. Because he knew what had to happen next and Peter had to be the one to make the decision. The empath knew it too, it was written on every plane of his face: the grudging, sensitive worry that he wouldn't be strong enough; the reluctance to run away from this site and leave the innocents to their fate; but most importantly, most vividly... the unwavering urge to take down a bad guy.

Peter was not sittting this one out. And even if there had been time to waste on even more arguing today, Sylar wasn't sure he would have done so. Sitting him in the corner to keep him out of trouble would only be the worst thing Sylar could do to Peter right now.

So instead he just nodded.

( )( )( )

It was terrible. It was gut-wrenching. Soul-destroying.

It was the literal relization of nightmares that had haunted Peter for years, even before he had aquired the ability to dream the future. But there was no way to stop and help every person he passed if he hoped to catch the son of a bitch responsible for their ailments.

He tried to keep his eyes ahead as he ran, chasing the prow of the invisible ship that parted the earth before him. He made himself focus on his breathing and the burn in his muscles, the way they pushed and pulled to propel him forward so fast he could barely feel the mud shift below his boots. The air tasted like dirt and stale water that splashed from the puddles he crossed, but repulsion was nowhere near enough to distract Peter from catching every scared and tear-streaked face peppered along his path.

It got darker the further into the crevice the evos ran, the deeper it groaned and dug into the ground, until the sky was but a sliver of clearest blue overhead. It was murky enough below sea level to barely see more than a few metres ahead, and Peter and Sylar were tested over and over by fallen cars, streetlights or chunks of road materializing out of the din with only just enough time to avoid them. They didn't dare fly into the indiscernible wall of the unknown. Instead they just ran, side by side, Peter fighting ever so slightly more to keep up with his ally's longer strides.

He tried not to remember, but it was impossible to forget. This, today...? It was just as his future self had once predicted of a time when powers didn't need to be kept hidden. Only even more terrifying than he ever would have imagined. Compared to this disaster, Samuel's Central Park stunt seemed harmless, and even Sylar's hunting and vivisection of specials was almost trivial when put side by side.

For one person to hold enough power that such an outburst could be fatal to so many...? It was obscene. Not the power itself, but the will and capability to abuse it in such a way. It was unlike anything Peter had encountered before. Even when he had unwittingly exploded in the sky, he had been trying to spare every life in the city. It had never even occurred to him what might have happened had he blown up with the intent to destroy. What if things had gone differently back then...?

But this was now. And still Peter wanted to help people more than anything. If only Sylar had agreed to fix his ability properly... if only the attempt back at the apartment had been successful... he could have done so much more here...

But he was helping them! He was!By tackling the tree at the root he could make more of an impact than chasing after individual leaves, right? Although he could never look the other way when said leaves kept finding themselves directly in his way. Even if they might be slowing him down.

Not for the first time, Peter almost stopped dead in his tracks. He called forth his newly-borrowed telekenesis to rip a door clean off a mangled taxi cab nearby, setting free the inhabitants who had been trapped inside. It was just a small act, a few seconds on his part, but it made all the difference to those people. And to Peter.

Panting, he caught up to Sylar with more power in his step than before.

( )

It was better to be moving. To be actively doing something that was going to determine the fate of this day for everyone.

Sylar let this mentality trickle over him and keep him steady, as the spiral of tension wound tighter and tighter in his gut the closer he got to his destination. The walls were narrower here, the tremors stronger, the destruction fresher. Sylar could practically smell his prey already.

Of course he didn't want to ignore the cries and pleas for help that breezed past him so quickly they hit like harmless strips of paper brushing his face. But he knew, rationally, that he would be of more use to them later by not aiding them now. By instead channeling his energy, all his power, onto one particular target...

It wasn't the thought of revenge that was driving him, Sylar told himself.

Even if this morning's perpetrator would indeed turn out to be the guylined, soul-patch-wearing carnival leader from his past, stopping him was a service to the entire city! It was justice. And had nothing to do with the fact that Samuel had lied to Sylar, taken him in, pretended to understand him and promised him a home, a family, so long as the good little pet lived his life on a leash and attacked on command like some sort of fucking guard dog –

Another ground-shaking rumble from the shadows ahead, the loudest one yet, cut Sylar's bitching short. He promptly forgot about his old grudges and grievances and was smacked in the face by the stark reminder of where he was right now. Literally.

Blinking flecks of fresh, fallen dirt from his eyes, he cleared the last foggy tendrils of dust to see... Oh shit.

( )

Somehow Peter's lead-like legs managed to break free of their rhythm and stumble to a stop. Mud sprayed from his boots as he slowed, just in time to avoid toppling straight into a new barricade of earth and rubble that was still settling across his path.

Clutching a gnawing stitch in his side, he fought to even his breaths as he took the time to make sense of what was going on here.

The blockade was moving. Still falling, unsteady in its position as it stretched only wider the more Peter watched. It was like the earth was alive in its own right, shifting around his ankles like waves as the tide came in. But over the crumbling mound, just visible on the far side, was a sight so surreal it could have been lifted from the page of one of Peter's old comic books. What the...?

( )

It was a show-down. Already well into its third act.

The perpetrator stood high above them on the surface of the rupture with which he had decimated the entire street; a group of armed police on the other side; mere crisp silhouettes against the morning sky. The cops had a clear shot of their shameless target, but yet all refused to take it for the sake of one of their own. A hostage. A prisoner, suspended atop a precarious column of dirt that towered in the centre of the crevice like some sort of gross beanstalk from a fairytale.

Holy shit.

Sylar could do nothing but stare as the fresh mound of debris before him crumbled away further, revealing more of the scene like a curtain being drawn in reverse. His intelligent eyes mapped out and logged the scope of the exchange, while the acoustics in this void made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The assailant was screaming, his voice amplified eerily as if he were standing at the other end of an empty stadium. Sylar could hear every breath, every growl, every pang of a vocal chord as it struck a note off-key. It was almost spectral. But it was the words, themselves, that hit him hardest.

"...Don't you dare use that word on me! SHE was innocent! Was she spared?! Was it fair for her?!"

The group of police swarmed and twitched on the edge of the bank, anxiously treading ground as close as they could get to their detained ally. "We can help you! But you have to work with us -"

One nerve in particular panged inside Sylar, as the man continued to roar with everything he had. "Help?! I don't want your help! I want my daughter to wake up! I want justice for what you let happen to her just because she's different!"

The more the terrakinetic man bellowed, the louder he got, the more silence crept in over Sylar like a protective blanket. How many people had he just witnessed as hurt or worse at the hands of this guy? He knew perfectly well what had happened here. ...But did it make Sylar a bad person... was he still evil... because he could empathise with the man who had caused so much harm today? Because, despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to fully point the finger in one direction?

( )

"What have you ever done for people like us?! You sell us lies that everything's alright! You ignore us and pretend nothing's happening – but I've seen it! I have to live with it! Don't tell me I'm "confused"!"

Peter felt sick to his stomach from everything but secondhand vertigo for the hostage – heights had never bothered him, after all. All thoughts of a fight fled from his bones, and apparently he wouldn't be facing off again with Samuel Sullivan because that wasn't him up there. It should have been a relief. Yet Peter couldn't believe that he found himself wishing for the derranged carnie in exchange for... this.

All of a sudden he felt willowy, transparent and losing mass while his head only got heavier. He couldn't move from this spot.

That distraught father had just condemned countless lives. He wept for his daughter's injustice with every right, but then how many other sons and daughters had he affected over the course of his own rampage? It was so fucked up. So, so wrong. Yet... it terrified Peter that, in a way, this man was campaigning for the same thing he and Sylar were: for evos to be able to live their lives without prejudice.

But look what that had entailed, today. How much blood had been spilled just to make his point? This man, this street, all these casualties in the name of "justice"... How quickly had things gone wrong? How easily had he gotten so swept up in a belief and ended up hurting dozens of people to get it across?

The sound of the terrakinetic's first sob echoed around the expanse of the crevice. "She's fifteen..."

Fifteen. The age Claire had been when she'd first been targeted for her ability.

"...She never hurt anyone... She wants to be a scientist...use her talent to make the world better."

Peter could picture the girl clearly. He didn't need to know her face or name or height or race to know how he felt about her. She'd been attacked for no good reason, she was hurt, she was far too young to have to experience anything like this. The lead weight in his gut only grew larger as he just stood here, intruding, doing nothing at all of use to anyone as the crevice continued to shift around him like melting ice.

"And what do you think she'd feel about what you're doing today?" A calming, yet taut voice emitted from the gaggle of cops. "Does this look like the world your little girl would want? You would cause so much chaos in her name?"

It was then that Peter reassumed control of his numb limbs. He tried to swallow in order to clear his throat, and clenched his fists repeatedly to summon resolve. None of it worked, but that didn't stop him.

Even if his confidence in his abilities hadn't recently been shaken to within an inch of its life, he would be more than inadequate to deal with an enemy with such power and disregard for casualties. He likely didn't stand a chance. But that sure as hell didn't mean he wasn't going to try –

"Don't!"

( )

With perfect reflexes, Sylar snatched after his friend as the guy made to clamber over the debris pile, tugging him back down to earth by the wrist.

"Hey! What're you –?"

"There's nothing we can do, Peter." The statement tasted worse than this fracture in the earth smelled.

While Sylar agreed with the sulky, reluctant look that was jabbed at him in reply, what were the alternatives? Blast on into such a fragile impasse, ranting and raving about world peace and love for all; be either buried underground or shot by a dozen cops; doom the hostage; somehow overpower the target and let him go free after all he'd done here; or – even better – hold onto him until Renautas inevitably showed up with a pat on the head and all charges dropped...? Right. They didn't even have Hiro's ability to make things so much easier.

These same thoughts were pouring through Peter's mind at a slightly slower pace than Sylar's, visible behind his eyes like the running numbers of computer code. And then his whole demeanour shivered, and he was no longer the courageous hero ready to kick some villain ass. No, he was once again as lost as that huddled man on the fire escape, desperate for even one thing to cling to that would validate him.

Peter looked out again upon the stand-off unfolding without them in the distance, hiding the most telling parts of his face from view. "...Then what are we even doing here?"

Sylar just followed his companion's line of sight, for once at a loss of something smart to do or say.

( )

The distant shape of the assailant released only a whisper, and the faint sound and undergound aftershocks bolted right through his audience like a sizzling beam of light. It was the kill shot. The final blow that knocked everyone else out of the game.

"I would move mountains for my daughter."

Hidden from sight, rooted to the spot, Peter and Sylar could only witness the chain of events that next transpired as if someone were skipping frames. The spire of dirt in the centre of the fissure crumbled dangerously; the ground shook wildly on all sides as the puppeteer ripped more towering chunks of earth free; and the police finally let out a series of ear-splitting shots that ricochetted around the space like fireworks...

And then everything was obscured by a swirling wall of dust that blasted towards Peter like a tidal wave.

( )

There was only a second to prepare before everything went dark.

Sylar couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't orient himself or feel anything beside textured air ripping past his skin like sandpaper. For a second he couldn't even remember where he was or how he'd gotten into this mess in the first place... then he couldn't not recall the last time he'd been torn to shreds by weaponised earth...

He wasn't even aware of casting it – but the next thing Sylar knew, he was being spared from the storm inside an invisible forcefield of his own design, until the fog died down around him. He coughed clouds of dust from his nose and mouth while his skin itched with a telltale healing sensation. And slowly, he realised that he was huddled on the ground, also sheilding Peter from harm that his mortal body would never be able to sustain.

The empath spluttered to clear his own airway while Sylar fought to focus his vision and hearing. He couldn't see much past the dust in his eyes, but other than two men gasping and spluttering... there were no other human sounds at all. What was left behind were only the increasing grumblings of tremors all around, and the swell of the sea beyond.

( )

Very slowly, Peter extricated himself from Sylar's protection and stood, too shocked and ashamed to say thank you. No words seemed apt enough to fill the ringing aftermath of the event he and Sylar had done nothing whatsoever to prevent.

He didn't want to look. However, still coughing, bracing himself for the worst, he peered into the clearing mist where the stand-off had been just a moment before. Only to see an empty bank where the terrakinetic had been standing; a faint huddle of movement on the cops' side; and countless tons of fresh earth and debris still settling in the middle. Had the culprit gotten away? What about the hostage?!

Peter's worries were interrupted when another ground-shaking tremor splintered away into the distance. It growled like thunder, deeper and louder than any other so far. And even if the world hadn't literally been falling apart around him, Peter was sure his knees would have failed him anyway when the far wall of the crevice, the end of the line, began to fall to pieces right in front of him.

Dread enveloped his shoulders, even though he didn't understand why yet.

Sunlight cracked and grew through the wall like veins mapping the surface, so out of place that it didn't make sense at all. Peter rubbed grit from his eyes but it didn't magically make the building-sized slab of concrete and dirt stop toppling in on itself like the end of a wet cardboard box. And it didn't stop or reverse the dark waterstains that crept over and through the thing, flowing down the full height of it in rivers that pooled in the dirt below.

It was when the frothy crest of the sea splashed into sight that Peter's body allowed him to move again. It felt like he shrank to an inch tall within a second, complete with motion sickness and every sound growing louder and deeper as the world literally came crashing in upon him.

Shit! Shocked into life, he swiped at his dirt-smeared hair and sought out his friend with grabbing fingers. But it turned out even a fistfull of Sylar's jacket didn't remedy the sensation of his heart beating frantically in his mouth. Peter could barely even squeeze two syllables past the thing.

"S-Sylar..."

( )

No fucking way was fate this cruel.

Sylar watched in slow motion as tradgedy ravaged around him like a hurricane. He wanted to cower from it, but as terrible as the might of destruction was to witness... he remained untouched by it all at the centre.

Oddly, it was the orchestration of the situation that smothered him first. The ground must have opened up so far along the street that it had finally hit the water. Which meant the space before him had used to be the prominade, and that there was only one crumbling seawall before the full weight of the East River. They were far below surface level down here, trapped in a gutter half a mile long, like a bug in a bath with no way out.

Water was leaking in over the banks of the crevice.

There was no time to do anything about it.

And everyone down here was going to die.

Unless... for the first time in his life... Sylar threw off the shackles of his past and allowed himself to be more...

"Sylar!"

Peter was scarcely audible over the roar of the water. It cascaded down falling chunks of cement and mortar, picking up speed, growing louder like an angry crowd at a football game. Peter's voice from earlier, from the fight, from the harsh truths he had brought to light last night encompassed Sylar, then. But presently, that pinprick of light in the distance barely registered in the corners of his mind. Somehow, though, it drew him out of the dim, calm chambers of rational thought and thrust him back into reality.

Holy sh... The seawall was hanging by a thread, now. It would hold maybe a few seconds more, at best, before tons of water and debris flooded this channel in the ground. The first reaching fingers of the tide sloshed around Peter and Sylar's ankles and threatened to pull them over, but still both men were too aghast to move.

And then suddenly Sylar could see it all so clearly.

He didn't even have time to be terrified, or to think of a better solution than this plan that had already decided of its own accord that it was going to happen. Instead, Sylar kicked the thing into motion by balling his shaking hands into fists, and staring directly through the horror etched into his friend's face.

( )

Sylar's lips moved, for sure, but Peter couldn't find his way to the sound they emitted. He fought for too long to interpret the words, because even when they did process he couldn't make sense of them.

He squinted at the wild eyes and dirty face of his best friend, while Sylar's whole demeanour tried so hard to be comforting and assure Peter that he was going to make everything alright. Instead, it did the total opposite.

"What?" He gasped, lips numb, as sound came rushing back to him.

"Get as many people out as you can!"

"B-but what about you? I'm not gonna leave you-!"

"Do you have a better idea?! A lot more people are gonna die if we don't do something now!"

...He was right. And Peter hated that.

He hated the truth and he hated the situation, and he hated that he couldn't stand here with Sylar and be strong enough to take the hit with him, but he wasn't. And there wasn't even time to argue. Tendrils of the river were already upon the duo, pulling at their ankles and rising up their calves, but Peter didn't have the courage to just up and leave his only friend. To throw him to the wolves like this when there was no chance he wouldn't get hurt and be lost to Peter, too, like everyone else.

He tried to speak, but his voice had gone into hiding. Instead he tugged helplessly on Sylar's jacket, as if that could convey the hundreds of words that were spinning around and around in his head right then. He looked pleadingly between his one remaining ally and the seawall that was bursting at the seams, but he was only wasting precious seconds and they were both aware of it.

"I'll hold it off as long as I can." Sylar's voice cracked on the last word, a small squeak that stabbed through the rush of chaos that was already pressing in on Peter's eardrums. It was the only slip in the otherwise resilient courage of the hero Peter had always known Sylar had it in him to be.

He could see it here, right now, taking place in front of him: everything that the former murderer thought he would never have was oozing from him like light, but only Peter was aware of it.

It was the moment that Sylar truly evolved into his own. And despite the impending weight of the river, the innocent lives who were hanging in the balance here, and Peter's own terror filling him to the brim... it was a beautiful sight to behold.

( )

"I'll be alright." Sylar assured, trying not to feel guilty for lying. Or could it be called lying when both parties knew perfectly well what was going to happen? More like ignoring the most crucial part that would take place before 'alright' finally came around...

The empath was still staring up at him, gazing, and it only served to hammer home the madness of his plan. He knew what he was getting himself into, but it was the only way. Yes, even though it was insane. And even though he'd never done anything remotely like this in his life. But for once, it felt like the right thing to do, and that was pretty damn important to Sylar.

"...I'll wait for you." Peter croaked. His fingers clenched in the fabric of Sylar's jacket. His jaw set determinedly. He didn't say anything more, but it didn't matter.

If there had been more time, Sylar would have tried to ease the weight of their last fight, then. He would have tried to stop Peter's open insecurities from colouring this mission and dragging him down. All the hours they'd wasted arguing last night felt ridiculous now, when disaster was very real and very imminent, and when Peter was very much at risk here. As it was, Sylar tried to convey as much as he could without words, while the catastrophe continued to unfold around them.

He tucked most of his sadness behind serenity as he looked down upon his only friend. His hands twitched, itching to touch and soothe before the two men were divided again after fighting and failing to make up properly. He refrained, though, just barely.

And then the ground rumbled more than ever, the seawall groaned and finally broke inwards... and the great mass of the East River tumbled free from its constraints.

"Go!" Sylar shouted, pushing his companion off him and back the way they'd come. His heart swooped and his hands shook violently when for a moment he could only watch, stare, disbelieve, as a tower of water came roaring straight towards him. Holy fucking hell.

( )

Peter ran as best he could, but his best wasn't enough. He'd only splashed a few steps from Sylar when he just couldn't resist anymore and succumbed to the lure behind him. Then he just backed away slowly, unable not to stare at the trauma that nobody had been able to prevent.

His lungs caught like someone was throttling him, he felt weightless as if he were flying, and it had to all be a dream because there was no way that was Peter's friend – the chess champion, the neat freak, the king of sarcasm – standing there now. The man was but a tiny shape against the backdrop of ravenous water and earth and deadly debris, standing his ground and challenging the open ocean with only sheer force of will. He was almost unrecognisable.

Peter knew it was the right thing to do to let the strongest of he and Sylar, the most capable, take care of the biggest problem. But that didn't stop him from tearing into pieces because he couldn't help. For a moment, he wasn't in a collapsed street or laden under the impending weight of tidal wave. Instead he was back amongst trees and a night breeze, amongst stalls and bunting and whirring, flashing lights advertising the best popcorn in the world... the carnival was still a threat, innocent lives were hanging in the balance and Peter had just entrusted their survival to someone other than himself.

It was always difficult to let go of the reigns. It was always terrifying to send Sylar into the fight alone. But at the heart of the matter, a fact that had been proven time and time again... Peter trusted him to do right.

As he watched, the figure before him set his stance and raised both arms. It was painfully clear that he was everything at once: an evo, a fighter... a hero. His power was palpable already, and although dozens of lives were at his mercy, it wasn't frightening the way the terrakinetic had been before. Because this was for good. And this was what evolved humans were capable of, too. Peter used to think Sylar was so scary because he was so powerful. Too powerful. But only now did he realise he'd never known the half of what the guy was truly capable of.

It was when Sylar peeked over his shoulder that the empath had to believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that it really was him up there. He wished more than anything that his friend could see himself right now.

It might have been the most humbling sight Peter had ever experienced in his life.

"Peter! GO!"

The anguished yell shook him to his senses. And with one last look at what was really about to transpire, he turned on his heel and scrambled into the darkness as fast as his legs would carry him.

( )

Sylar watched him fade away. And along with Peter Petrelli went the last of his nerves, because he had to be brave right now. He had to be strong and willing and capable. And somehow, when he turned back to face his fearsome opponent head on, he was.

It was a kindness that everything was stripped away from the intelligent man, until only concentration and the urge to succeed remained. So Sylar increased the power eminating from his hands, warmed it up steadily to create a layered, reinforced barrier before him.

It didn't feel real to just be standing here like an idiot, condemning himself to what would likely be one of his worst deaths. He was standing on tracks and waiting for the train to hit him, except this train was enormous and muddy and carrying remnants of cars, a wall and an entire street inside it.

But somehow... Sylar wasn't afraid.

He grunted when the first swell of water hit, colliding with his telekenetic shield strong enough to make his feet slip backwards in the mud. And then it kept coming, piled up over itself, beat Sylar black and blue like a million fists and a million battering rams at once, but he stayed strong. The river stretched high above him, until Sylar stood inches from a rushing, swirling, vertical wall of water. There could have been a sheet of glass between him and it, a window through which he couldn't not stare at the mounds of road and pipes and ruin swimming around inside the blackness.

He cried out in effort, feeling his whole body be pushed back, inch by inch, along the channel he was giving his life to spare. His every muscle burned with the extertion, his legs were shaking outside his control and he couldn't feel his arms anymore. Sweat began to glisten on his face and he didn't even draw breath, allowing his regenerating lungs to keep him strong while he thrust more power than he ever thought he possessed into the ability that was practically shimmering before his eyes.

He could feel himself in it. His heart was beating through every particle of this extension of himself. His mind was in it, all his concentration, his soul. It was him and he was it, and perhaps Sylar would have stopped to explore such a sensation if the river wasn't still barging into him with no mercy. He laboured beneath the weight of the world, too far gone to acknowledge the nearby police and the people in the windows of surrounding buildings who cheered for him to stay strong.

He yelled again, when his knees almost buckled and fresh water sloshed around his legs. He grit his teeth so hard they might break, but rivulets still seeped down the inside of his barrier. He scrunched his eyes shut although it didn't keep the tears inside. And he didn't give up even though he feared his life force was draining so fast he'd die this way, before the water even had the chance to end him.

As the world began to blot at the edges, Sylar's thoughts floated around him, whispering encouragements into his ear.

This was for Peter, the first person to ever believe in him.

It was for all the people here who had the rest of their lives left to live, and for all the ones behind him who Sylar had deprived of theirs.

It was for Matt Parkman, who thought Sylar had nothing to give in this life besides pain.

It was for Micah, who deserved so much more than he got.

It was for Nathan, for Elle, for Sylar's mother, Isaac, Eden and Claire, for everyone he'd hurt with these powers insetad of putting them to good use from the start.

It was for Sylar, also. Who channelled everything he hated about himself into becoming something better.

He had no clue how long he'd been here. Had he given Peter hours to work with or just seconds...? Either way, he couldn't hold on much longer. He was failing. Slipping out of consciousness because that part of him that existed withinhis power was already drowning. The water around his knees kept forcing him along the crevice, and Sylar was no longer strong enough to stop it. So when his back slammed into a sharp, concrete and solid mound of debris, and there was nowhere else to go... he could only accept his fate with a dwindling mind and arms wide open.

It tickled when his ability faded. He'd never used so much as to tire it out before. But then it was gone, and Sylar was just a man lying at the bottom of the ocean that had yet to fall upon him.

It seemed to take a while.

He drew in his first breath in forever, which he knew also would be his last... his eyelids fluttered as he watched the top of the waterfall curl over in his direction...

Then everything ended beneath freezing, crushing, muddy, salty silence.

A/N: Thank you for reading! My notes are at the end of next chapter 3