My Friend
A voice echoed distantly through gleaming corridors, merely a whisper from the outside that got lost in the ruckus of the building. It was pointless to call for help, that had become apparent already. However, that didn't mean Hiro was going to just sit here and wait quietly.
"Hellooooo?! This is unacceptable! I demand to speak to your leader!"
His cries were indignant, pitched in distress yet hiding every ounce of fear if such a feeling were to even grasp him. Which it did not. Of course it did not! He was only outraged by this treatment! Furious that he had been sedated for who knew how many days...! And only very terrified of the ominously silent guard standing watch by the door.
"I am a very important businessman! You cannot treat me like this!" Hiro glared his most fearsome glare but The Haitian merely blinked in response. He was as unnerving now as he had been when performing the same role in a desolate future long ago. Hiro shuddered and his glasses slipped down his nose. While he may be sitting in a sleek, airy conference room, with a glass of ice water on the table and wall-sized windows at his back that looked out upon a skyline that definitely was not Tokyo – there was no doubt this was just as much a prison as the the concrete cells in the basement.
He could not teleport out. He could not stop time and run away. He certainly could not dream of besting his guard in a fight. And so Hiro had to grudgingly face the facts that he was trapped here, a prisoner just like so many others who had been lost to Renautas.
But still he rattled his handcuffs off the tabletop, if only in defiance. "I want to speak to Mr Bennet now!" He demanded. Surely he had been waiting here for ages already?!
He felt a brief glimmer of triumph when The Haitian spoke for the first time since Hiro had come to. "It is not him who is to speak with you."
Then that triumph trickled away, along with most of Hiro's resolve. Instead, goosebumps crept over him. The water in his glass may well have been pounding with each echoing step as the click of high heels upon tile grew louder from outside. And the time traveller suddenly changed his mind: he did not mind waiting here alone, after all.
The footsteps approached before a shadow rolled passed the clouded glass wall, the door snicked open and Hiro tensed in his seat... and then a sharp-featured woman wearing a slick bun and a smile stepped into the room. The amicable gesture was the first thing to give him pause. The second was the blinding white colour of her suit, much more startling than it appeared on TV. And the third was that his interrogator was not Angela Petrelli, as he had been expecting. Huh...?
"Mr Nakamura. A pleasure." She walked towards him smoothly and Hiro retreated in his seat. He did not bother trying to be polite or businessman-like in his approach, but neither did she. In fact, the woman came to a stop sitting on the table just out of Hiro's reach, towering above him and staring so intently. Her smile was a lot less genuine up close, bright fuchsia lipstick bleeding slightly at the corners of her mouth. "I'm Erica Kravid. I own this company."
"I know who you are." Hiro said slowly. Warily. "And I know what you want."
Erica's smile only stretched wider. "Cutting right to the chase, I see. I suppose you know more than anyone how precious each second should be." She spoke with the pretense of kindness; everything about her approach intended to put Hiro at ease in order to manipulate him better. But he would not be fooled.
Hiro sat up straighter in his seat. It was a matching display of competence that was more pressing than his urge to run away. "Renautas want to take over every corporation on the globe, but I will not give you my father's company!" He vowed. Never would he hand over Yamagato Industries to this woman and her evil plans! He had seen what she was up to! He had helped his friends foil so many of her plots already!
The shark-like grin disappeared from Erica's severe features, but somehow it was possible for her to look even more fake while trying to appear sympathetic. "In due, time, Mr Nakamura. I have other matters that require your assistance for now."
Hiro was so busy forcing his most resilient expression that he did not even notice her whip a data tablet out of thin air until it was presented on the table before him. His heart skipped a beat at the photograph it depicted: a neuclear explosion above New York City, violent gashes of orange and yellow against a dark cluster of clouds.
He pushed the tablet away with both tethered hands. "That was a long time ago. We saved the cheerleader and saved the world."
"That was today."
Hiro tensed again, suddenly beyond speech. Heat prickled over him like an upturned bucket of warm water, and he wished he could not recall the ghastly sight of people screaming and the blast tearing through the sky... No. Today? Already? So soon...?
"Your friends have been causing me a lot of trouble. Now they're causing trouble for everyone."
Hiro zoned out of the conference room and Erica Kravid's hard eyes until her voice just floated around him, distorted as if he had somehow managed to slow down time despite his powers being blocked.
"Where are they now?" He croaked.
"Why don't you tell me?"
Blinking foggily, Hiro tried to focus again upon the arched brows and perceptive look Erica was dropping upon him. "I do not know." He said truthfully. He had not heard from Sylar or Peter Petrelli since they had asked for his power to stop a shooting in Las Vegas. He really did not know where they were now. Apparently, neither did Renautas.
"Mr Nakamura, please. I know you've been helping them for months. And I know you think you're doing the right thing, but all you're doing is aiding two dangerous men in damaging the world." She might have appeared almost empathetic, then. If only Hiro could not see a hundred calculating schemes stewing behind that facade. "We have to take them in. They're threatening evo welfare all over the world, setting a bad example for everyone who wants to live a life without prejudice. ...You wouldn't want your niece to grow up in a world where evos are hunted, would you? Especially considering her father is one. And for all we know she will be too."
The threat struck Hiro in the heart. Of course Ando, Kimiko and their unborn baby were already on Renautas' radar, a power card that had likely been saved for this very situation. The thought of any of them coming to harm made it difficult for Hiro to breathe. He fought back the very sudden urge to punch Erica in the nose.
"I want her to grow up feeling safe. Not living in fear of people like you."
He stared directly into that pointed face, emboldened by the thought of his loved ones. He may not have been able to marathon Star Trek with them, and they might not even know he was in danger yet (so be the price for running off to save the world so often over the years), but Hiro would always do his part to craft the best future for them. Even if that had to mean giving others the chance to do so without him.
"I will not turn in my friends." He promised. "They are trying to make a better world for all of us."
Erica's eyebrows rose higher up her forehead. "A better world? Nobody else was hurt today, thank god, but Mr Petrelli and Mr Gray nearly levelled the entire city. We know for a fact that next time they won't be so lucky." She blinked at him, awaiting a concession that never came. "Y'know, for a time traveller, I had expected more of a -"
Suddenly, she choked on her words. There was a moment of ringing silence, the moment Hiro had been dreading all along. Then realisation dawned in those clever eyes, and Erica addressed him in what might have been the most genuine manner so far.
"You... you've seen it, haven't you? You know I'm telling the truth. Then why are you still helping them?"
It took everything Hiro had in him not to squirm, not to second guess the doubt he had been fighting for so long, for months now. He had to believe in Peter and Sylar. He had to believe he had been doing the right thing all this time in aiding them in their plight. "Because it can be different."
"But it won't be. We know this. You saw what they're capable of, even right now." Erica leaned in further than ever, as if Hiro was suddenly interesting in his own right as more than just a pawn to be talked down to. "They will get out of control. They will kill billions of people unless someone stops them. And you can either be complicit in this disaster, or you can do the right thing: be a hero, and tell us where they've been hiding. We can stop this before anyone else gets hurt."
Hiro averted his eyes, warding back memories. He had been at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival just moments after the cheerleader had jumped, and then he was in the midst of a crowded, bustling street; people were falling to the ground; a fearsome, gruesome display of powers was being unleashed for the world to see... but then Sylar had helped Peter. He held his hands and he talked him down. He flew the danger away from causing any harm, and because of what he had been through – because redemption and motivation had changed him – there was hope again. One man had to fall for the other to rise; one had to sacrifice himself to give the other a chance; the hero was disgraced to cure the villain of his madness, so that he would be there, he could be the strong one when it mattered, be the only one capable of restoring peace when it all went wrong. It had to be that way, because otherwise Noah Bennet and Erica Kravid and Angela Petrelli and the whole of Renautas were right, and everything would be over before they even understood why.
But Hiro had loyalty. And he had courage. Maybe not as much as he would have liked, but enough all the same. And most importantly, he had hope.
His hands tightened into fists on the table, restraints biting at his wrists. He glared steadily into Erica's steely gaze, without an ounce of faked bravado this time. "I am doing the right thing. They are the only ones who can stop you. Lock me up forever if you have to... but I will never play your game."
The woman's face rippled in displeasure, pinning in place the exact moment she realised she wasn't getting her way without a fight. There was a second of ugly vexation, until Erica slid from the table, neatened her suit jacket and crossed her arms. "We'll see." Once more she smiled at him, the most uncomfortable of sensations so far. "We'll talk again, Mr Nakamura. Have a pleasant evening."
She turned on her heel and strolled across the conference room, the strict clatter of her heels conducting the sway of her hips, and for the slightest moment Hiro actually thought that was it. It was over? But then, framed in the open doorway, he watched Erica nod at someone in the corridor. And the large shape of a man crept into sight, standing inside the room with his lips pursed and both hands on his hips. The delight of recognition was short lived. For the Master of Time and Space knew within seconds that this wasn't the same person he remembered.
"Hiro." Matt Parkman nodded. "Been a long time."
( )
Even though it had been many years since she had been in education, Angela Petrelli currently felt unlike anything but a school kid waiting outside the headmaster's office.
She shifted on the obscenely uncomfortable couch, looking around the corridor of Renautas without seeing it. At her side, Noah had been cleaning his glasses for much too long, and Angela had already inspected the first chips in her manicure too many times. The pair didn't look at each other and Angela didn't acknowledge the humiliation of travelling all the way here to be told off by her replacement, but that was not the most pressing matter of the day. By far.
"You should have told him about your dream months ago. He would have at least listened to you." Noah spoke quietly and casually, as if merely commenting on the weather, but any idiot would be able to tell how close he was to the end of his tether.
It took too long for Angela to find her voice, handle it, carve it into an appropriate tone and release it. "I had hoped it wouldn't be neccessary."
"And how did that work out? For Peter, or any of us, for that matter?"
"You know what he's like, Noah. Too sensitive. Self-destructive." Angela heaved out a sigh burdened by a lifetime of lies. Her hands shook as she fussed with the hemline of her skirt, targeting a loose thread. "The truth will only break him. He's much too young to have gone through so much pain. And after losing Nathan..." Angela's eyes stung traitorously even here, right out in the open where anyone could see, but she was strong and experienced enough to remain composed. It was one thing to cry for her youngest son in the privacy of her own home, and another altogether to cry within the company she had already stepped down from. "I only wanted to spare him."
"You think having him find out on his own would be preferable?"
"It should never have got this far." Angela set her jaw and dropped her eyes to the floor, but the damned shiny tiles just reflected harsh reality back at her. Her mistakes. Her misjudgements. Her secrets. Her losses.
Peter was hurt out there somewhere, he was lost, just as he had been the last time he had exploded. The last time his powers had overwhelmed him so badly. It was never supposed to happen again, because Sylar was never supposed to have unlocked Peter's abilities, because he shouldn't have ever been allowed to stay close enough to do so. Of course she had seen it happen months ago. She had known in advance, like always. But what was the point in this curse to dream the future if Angela could never make enough of a difference to change the outcome? Why did it always hurt just as much every time the foretold events came to pass?
"We should have removed Sylar from the equation long ago." She lamented. "Before it was too late."
Even from her peripheral vision, Angela saw Noah turn to her and place his glasses back on his nose. "Are you telling me it is too late?" His tone was rough enough to act like a hand dragging her around to face him.
She blinked rapidly up at him, but despite her best efforts she could tell from his expression that her emotions were out on a rare display of vulnerability. She worked hard to clear her throat, but still her voice warbled without her consent. "I'm saying... we're running out of options."
The way Noah was looking at her now... it was the first time he'd really, truly considered what she had been going through all this time. He would never have done what she had if it had been Claire in the firing line. He wasn't capable of such selflessness. Angela had been aware of his ignorance, of the way the job and his self-imposed morals always clouded his judgement – in fact, she had counted on it in order to get him to work accordingly. But now he was watching her, seeing her in her raw state for the first time: a mother who had forced her way through the unimaginable to try and preserve the world. Yes, people had got hurt along the way, and yes, she hadn't exactly taken the moral highground, herself. But she had been desperate, and she had put aside her own feelings as much as possible to save billions of lives from her baby boy without hurting him too badly in the process.
But now... the countdown was pressing upon them heavier; the world was in growing danger; and the final decision loomed larger than ever.
Angela could still see it even now, when sleep was far from her grasp. Burning clouds, ravaged earth, two silhouettes standing tall against a backdrop of destruction... She honestly didn't know if she had the strength to act should the clock hit zero. Apparently this was evident in her features, but for once in her life she couldn't haul it back behind an unreadable mask. Her skin crawled at displaying such open vulnerability, and only more under the sympathy Noah was filtering at her through those horn-rimmed lenses of his. But she was just so tired of making all the difficult choices in life. So tired of keeping it all together.
"Angela, I –"
Approaching footsteps instantly shattered the private exchange between the old friends. Swiftly, Angela got to her feet, just the sight of Erica Kravid helping her to summon a pretense of composure. Her successor clip-clopped up close, preying upon her subordinates with the ruthlessness and intelligence that had made her the perfect fit for Angela's job.
"When Parkman is done, prepare Nakamura for transport." Erica commanded, her gaze faltering for a split-second on the flush around Angela's eyes. Then her attention jabbed at Noah, and she gifted him one of the most scathing looks to ever roam these halls. "You. You're on your last strike, Noah."
"I've already got people searching the surrounding area for any sightings or similar descriptions -"
Erica held up a hand. "Just... find them."
Noah broke out one of his slimiest schmoozes over gritted teeth. "Yes, ma'am."
The trio turned at the sound of a door closing further up the corridor, to see Matt Parkman emerging from the conference room with a triumphant look on his face.
It should have been a grand victory after months and months of chasing their tails, but Angela knew what this development meant. For herself. For the world. And for her only remaining child. God help them all.
( )( )( )
Peter shocked himself awake with the last embers of a scream tearing from his throat. Coughing, heaving in great lungfuls of air, he blinked and shook and squinted painfully at his surroundings through new eyes that were seeing light for the very first time.
His head was pounding like a drum, his body felt too light all over, and every inch of his skin was throbbing as if thousands of tiny knitting needles had just had their way with him. What the hell? What the...? He was sitting up in bed, tangled in wires and crisp sheets, closed in on one side by a curtain and a window framing the night sky on the other. A hospital room...? The ringing absence of splintering pain pressed in on him, invisible aftershocks of having ripped apart from the inside like a paper doll.
Shivering, Peter checked himself over and ensured his limbs were all where they should be. But then why did he feel so wrong? Like something was missing? The aftertaste of all-consuming power still lingered in his senses, but otherwise he was clean and new and unburdened, and maybe he just didn't know how to handle such a thing. However, while he physically appeared to be all in one piece, mentally he couldn't fight his way free from a lingering cloud of disorientation.
He had been hurting beyond belief. He had been burning alive. He had died! But then he had been somewhere else, hovering, unseen, in a gleaming white corridor where his mother and Noah Bennet sat conspiring about him... It had been far too vivid not to be a precognitive dream.
Still groggy, Peter struggled to free himself from a frightening amount of wires and tubes, spotting an identification tag clasped tightly around his wrist – 'John Doe: EVO. Regenerative Abilities'. Monitors were beeping angrily around him, the hospital gown was itchy against his new nerve endings, and suddenly Peter realised he had no clue how the hell he'd come to be here, or where 'here' even was. He had to get out, though. In the dream Noah had been looking for him – he couldn't stay here! Even though he had no plan or even a slight grasp of orientation.
Just when he dropped down from the bed, swaying slightly to catch his balance, the curtain was ripped back and more bright, artificial light stabbed at his eyes. He winced and threw a hand up to shield his regrown corneas from the brightness. "Well aren't we a lucky duck!" A woman laughed, then there were large hands on his arms and a kindly voice telling him to get back into bed. Peter only tugged free and staggered around the room.
"Wh-where am I?" He growled, voice rough as his vocal chords worked for the first time.
"You're safe here. You've been recovering for a couple of hours." Slowly it came back to Peter in bits and pieces, painting a painfully vivid picture in his memory. The explosion – the bright light – the agony – the end of it all... "You were badly burned when you were brought in, we couldn't believe you were even alive! Honestly, I wasn't even sure you were gonna make it, hon, but it's good to see that face all healed up and pretty again." She laughed once more, a pleasant sound.
Trying to breathe easy, Peter worked hard to focus upon the smiling, middle-aged nurse at his side. She reminded him slightly of Nurse Hammer from Mercy Heights, except she exuded warmth and empathy in place of pursed lips and a no-nonsense attitude. He still didn't know where he was. It had to be outside the city, Sylar must have flown them for miles before –
Peter's healing blood ran cold. He gasped and clung desperately onto the nurse who was still holding onto him. "My – my friend! Is he –?!"
"He's doing fine, honey. You were found together at the side of the road."
"Where is he?!"
"Please calm down -"
"I need to see him!" Once more, the empath was off, struggling his way around the bed to the door while his balance fought to right itself and his nurse fought to look after him. Shit! Sylar! How had it taken him so long to remember?! The guy had just died at Peter's hand! He had saved millions of lives! Peter had to get to him, had to make sure he was okay and then get them both the fuck out of here before Noah caught up to them! It was a miracle he hadn't already in the hours (at least) since they had blacked out. How many unidentified patients were brought in burned beyond recognition after an explosion in the sky...?
"You need to get that cute lil' butt back in bed, first. There's plenty time for you to visit after you've rested." The nurse was relentless, blocking his way and somehow managing to mother him into place despite her short stature and the constant gentleness to her tone.
Peter didn't want to hurt her to get past – he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again! – and he didn't want to get her into trouble either, but his choices were getting pretty limited. Already, within just minutes since he had awoken, he could feel his abilities creeping out of hiding again like water pooling in a puddle, and his patience was running out much faster than he was used to. The insinuations of this would make him feel sick if he was brave enough to acknowledge them right now, but he wasn't.
It was when the back of his legs hit the bed that Peter gave in and fumbled for a thread of a power that could help. He bit his lip and tried to calm down enough to speak clearly. "I'm sorry about this." He said sincerely. "Tell them I was gone when you came in."
He waited just long enough for her to recognise the apology on his face. Then, hoping for the best, he tugged on invisibility in the hopes it would save him like pulling the cord of a parachute. The ability sheathed him a little shakily, but it did the job (and without the unwanted accompaniment of his many others, thank god), and so he took advantage of the poor nurse's shock to clumsily slip past her at last and out into the unfamiliar corridors of the hospital.
Somehow Peter managed to get himself lost in this maze. Once, he thought he saw a sign reading 'Philadelphia' which might have given him a rough sense of location on the planet, but it wasn't exactly encouraging. At least he hadn't awoken in the underground cells of Renautas. He should be counting his lucky stars.
Peter was only brave enough to maintain invisibility until he could blend in with other patients in their ugly hospital gowns. He didn't want to tempt his power by giving it too much attention when he still didn't trust himself to carry it. And after what had happened last time he tried to use his new abilities... Nobody should know he had been the charred figure back in that room, but still he couldn't help but feel extremely nervous passing so many oblivious people after almost murdering so many of them back in the city. But he couldn't think about any of that now, or the guilt would tear him into a million pieces all over again. All those terrified faces... innocent lives... it was all his fault...
No. Get Sylar. Get out. Get a new place to stay that Noah and Renautas didn't know about. But first, he needed clothes.
Peter couldn't explain how he managed to find the right place – perhaps he had teleported without realising, or perhaps it had been a guiding hand from above – but somehow he stumbled back into the burn ward wearing a stolen pair of scrubs with another set bundled under his arm. None of the passing staff gave him any notice as they searched for their missing patient, but Peter kept anxiously looking over his shoulder every time he moved on from checking each room.
He didn't know what he was going to find upon locating Sylar. He braced himself for the worst: a scorched and inhuman lump of a person, or a badly disfigured remnant of his only friend... the thought alone formed a lump in his throat. But when Peter finally skidded to a stop in an open doorway, the sight before him was more harrowing than he ever could have imagined.
Sylar.
Breathlessly, Peter inched into the room, setting his jaw and trying hard not to let his lower lip twitch. His heart raced with its physical new lease of life, and although Peter knew he was healthy and whole, he may as well have been paralysed for all he could feel of his limbs.
He had seen this man move objects with his mind before; had watched him stop bullets in mid air; run through fire; fly amongst the clouds and come back from the dead countless times over the years. So how could him just lying there be the most surreal sight of them all?
The man was flawless. Pristine. Immaculate. His skin was smooth and free from so much as a single scorch mark, his hair tousled and soft, and even every single eyelash had been restored, unharmed. He looked perfectly serene as if he were only sleeping, except Peter knew better. Sylar lay on his back with his arms at either side of him, with a matching identification tag adorning his wrist and far too many needles and wires tracing over the length of his body.
He looked utterly helpless. A word that just didn't go with "Sylar" no matter how many ways Peter tried to see it.
All at once he felt very intrusive, because nobody should ever have seen this man in this manner and likely nobody ever had before. It was worse than if he had been sporting burns, because that at least could carry some of the blame. But there was nothing now except an unblemished man and the bare truth laid out before him between tightly made sheets. Sylar was supposed to withstand everything. He was supposed to be the strong one, he was never supposed to look so small. And he was only in this state thanks to Peter and his latest epic mistake.
Somehow the empath was suddenly standing at the bedside although he couldn't recall crossing the room. "Sylar...?" He barely breathed the name, as if that would be enough to wake him. But it was all the strength he had to put into his voice when his insides were twisting themselves into pieces.
He could still feel the echo of Sylar holding onto him, flying him into the sky and burning with him as if it had happened only ten minutes ago. It was obscene that they could both have died since then, that the reformed killer was to be rewarded for his courage and selflessness like... like this. Hesitating, Peter reached out numb fingers, brushing only a hint of a touch to the inside of the other man's wrist.
A tiny bleep from one of the monitors caught his attention, and he shook his hair out of his eyes in order to translate the information. Thank god. Sylar's vitals were as encouraging as they could be for even the healthiest of patients. According to the data he should have been perfectly fine, but Peter didn't know of any hospital tech that could make sense of the effect abilities had on a person. He tried not to overthink it – he, himself, had been unconscious until just recently too, and understandably it took a lot out of a person to explode like a bomb. Sylar would be fine. He just needed time. Just a little bit, then he'd wake up just the same as always. Peter wouldn't even entertain the idea of something different.
Still, that was time he couldn't afford to take when his nurse had to be heading this way right now to find him.
As if she had heard him, a cluster of hurried steps sounded outside in the ward just as Peter was halfway through detaching Sylar from his aids. Shit, there was definitely a panicked voice or two in there – say as if someone had witnessed a man heal from the brink of death and then disappear into thin air right in front of her. Or as if someone had finally connected the dots about the incident in New York City and was running to confront the suspects before they got away again?
Then he placed a distinctive, deep voice in the herd, and despite the events of last time Peter found himself wishing it could have only been well-meaning security guards headed his way instead.
Fumbling, he made quick work of the needles, then hurried to close and wedge a chair against the door as the voices grew more shrill and the distance became less secure and the footsteps broke into a run -!
Bang! He staggered back from the barricade just in time, staring guiltily through the small glass pane in the door. Numerable people swarmed at the other side, including (Peter's stomach flipped) the friendly Not-Nurse Hammer from earlier, and at least three duplicates of a big, broad man in a suit. M.F. Harris. He must have been the "people" Noah had talked about in the dream, which meant that Renautas would soon be very close behind.
In the stretch of a second that he just stood there, Peter knew wholly that he deserved this reaction. People should fear him. They should want to lock him up after what he nearly did. In fact, he was lucky even to get that from them, seeing as what he really deserved was for everyone within a hundred miles to flee at the mere sight of him. What if Noah had been right all along...?
A gasp and sudden coughing fit at his back jolted Peter into action, and he hurried again to his friend's side. Relief caught in his chest when he saw the clenching of fingers and a frown marring Sylar's face. "P... Pe-?"
"Yeah! I'm here!" Peter jumped at another bang to the door and a squeal of the chair slipping further across the floor. "I've got you, c'mon..."
Sylar was far from fully awake but they were running out of time, so Peter pulled him into a sitting position and looped one of the guy's arms around his neck. Sylar gasped and grunted in protest but Peter ignored it, hauling his much bigger friend to his feet with what might have accidentally been a touch of enhanced strength, but he didn't notice. He was far too distracted to hear what the crowd behind the door were shouting at him and he was making it all up as he went along here, mind whirring so fast that he barely had time to be frightened.
Sylar's whole body tensed around Peter's when he realised what he was planning, as if trying to dig his heels into the ground. "N-no... not again-"
"It's okay." Peter promised, throwing out a hand before him. He turned inward to shield his companion from the following shower of glass shards, then adjusted his grip on him and took a deep breath. He spoke with the feigned courage he needed to convince himself of as much as Sylar. "I've got this."
The door banged twice more before the chair was dislodged and three Harris duplicates burst into the room, followed by a handful of inquisitive staff. But by then there was nothing to find of the evo vigilantes besides a broken window, a fluttering curtain, and two severed identification tags lying intertwined on the bed.
( )( )( )
The park was relatively quiet at this time of night. Groups of kids would run nearby, swinging bottles or each other around with the unapologeticness of youth, cars trundled past at the other side of the bushes, and disembodied voices would float through the tunnel with an eeriness that left chills in the echoes. Nobody passed beneath the bridge that sheltered two fugitives from the night, but Peter was grateful for that. Because down here hid a monster, after all, one ravenous and deadly if the wrong person were to get too close.
Currently he sat hunched on the damp ground, his knees up to his chest and his scrubs providing no protection at all from the elements. Rain coursed past the open ends of the bridge, having been promised by the clouds for hours, now. A single drop plopped down upon the back of Peter's neck and he shivered for what could easily have been the dozenth time. It was partly due to the water, partly due to the cold of nightfall and partly due to the vivid ugliness of his reality that just wouldn't let go of him.
He huddled a little more into the warmth of Sylar beside him without saying a word. It would be easy to forget that this stoic man was the same one who had been lying in that hospital bed, but the sight was haunting Peter every time he tried to close his eyes. Like so many other nightmare snapshots that he had unwittingly collected over the course of just one day. The memories would have been enough to keep him awake even if he had been safe and comfortable in his bed back in Charles Devaux's penthouse. He missed such a haven terribly.
At least Noah and his duplicating lackeys shouldn't find them here. Who would ever look for them in this random little park on the outskirts of a city that even they didn't recognise? But Hiro was still captured, thanks to Peter. Matt had still found out where they'd been staying, thanks to Peter. And now he and Sylar had nowhere to go, no belongings, no plan, and no one in the world to ask for help.
( )
This was the closest feeling to drunk that Sylar remembered. That moment when the hangover is creeping in even though you haven't even slept yet. It made him realise how little he missed being able to be affected by alcohol. Although, now that he thought about it, maybe a black-out-drunk weekend would be a better deal any day than blowing apart in front of millions of witnesses?
He felt like shit. He had never exploded before. What a strange thing to have to justify, but he was going to do so anyway. Sure, Sylar had been electrocuted beyond belief, stabbed in the back of the head and shot on more than one occasion, but he had always just... healed. Not regrown his entire being from a smouldering chunk of ash, even after Primatech had burned down around him. It was just taking him a while to get used to the sensation of a full-body regeneration. Not to mention he was cold in these pathetic scrubs, ravenously hungry, and pissed off.
And that was before counting all the rest of the bullshit that had built up over the course of the day. Sylar didn't even want to know what the media was saying about them now. Terrorists. Dangerous. Evil. To name a few. He'd rather just shape-shift into someone else and run the fuck away to a beach house for a few decades or so. If only it was that easy to escape so many mistakes. Ones that hadn't once been voiced in the hours since Sylar had properly come to his senses.
There was so much he wanted to talk about with Peter now that they actually had some down time, but he also didn't even want to look at the guy. It was bad enough having to sit so closely together that their sides were touching when Sylar would have loved the chance to just be alone for a while. So many times Peter had shifted or twitched in a way that Sylar knew he was going to say something, but he inevitably backed out of it. He couldn't hold it against the guy, when he himself didn't know how to even start wading through the shit they had brought on themselves.
But this time, when Peter lifted his head from his arms and his feet shuffled on cold stone, his statement actually made it into existence. Even if only barely.
( )
"Th-thanks."
Yes, it had taken hours for Peter to muster up the courage to say this. Because what else could he say or how could he possibly condense everything that had happened into words alone? His voice was measly and pathetic, but even that was more than he had been expecting.
"Thank you." He repeated, clearer this time.
"For what? Unlocking the power that got us into this mess, or the other part?" It was the first time he had heard Sylar's voice in what felt like forever. Even though it was just the smallest of sounds, such simple human interaction soothed the edges of Peter's nerves ever so slightly.
"For saving all those people."
He wanted to reach out and touch more of his friend, but something held him back at the precipice of the action. The way he was sitting rendered the watchmaker's form harsh at the corners, and the way his face was angled away made him almost unreadable. Yet Peter could decipher unrest just below the surface, through everything that he wasn't saying. Such as any acknowledgement at all of the heroic deed he had committed today, for example.
Peter licked his lips timidly, reaching after the fading tendril of communication before it evaded them again. He needed to provide, to try and help his companion. But mostly he craved even a scrap of reassurance in return. "Are you alright?"
"Yes."
"...Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be alright after cutting into your head and then being left to deal with the consequences for the both of us?"
Stupidly, it actually took a moment for Peter to realise he was getting into trouble. But when he did, despair kicked in stronger than ever and he wished he could stop his aching chest from breaking away into splinters. But Sylar had every right to feel that way. Peter couldn't even imagine having to act if the tables had been turned. He linked his fingers together tightly, knowing what he had to say – what he should say – but somehow reluctant to put it into words.
"I'm so sorry."
The figure at his side huffed bitterly, still not looking at him. "Of course you are. You're always sorry because you never think before acting!"
Shame-faced, Peter didn't bother trying to defend himself at all. He only knotted inside and curled up tighter against the wall at his back, wishing he'd just kept quiet. Suddenly he realised he'd been proven wrong in thinking he couldn't feel worse than he already had. So much for the idle dreams of never feeling inadequate again after having his powers restored to him. He couldn't believe he had actually been so naïve only this morning.
Just when the younger man became grateful that his red cheeks weren't under scrutiny, Sylar tensed and turned his face in Peter's direction. In the dark he was cast mostly in shadow, a silhouette against the streetlights outside, but there was just enough light to make out the rush of emotion burning in his eyes.
"I told you unlocking your powers could have side effects! But you didn't even care, did you?" Sylar's voice was as sharp as a blade and barely more than a murmur, but he was sitting so close that he may as well have yelled for the world to hear. "Well are you happy now, Peter? You got what you wanted, you're powerful now. Tell me, is it as amazing as you always imagined it would be?"
Hugging himself, Peter dropped his face and allowed his hair to screen him from sight. "Please don't do this." He said quietly. He just didn't have it in him to fight. He couldn't perform this dance around the complicated matter of Sylar's feelings and his inability to ever express them correctly. Not when his own were already crippling him beyond repair.
( )
Sylar fell quiet then, against the constant pattering of rain nearby. His temper was flaring and he had barely even started – but it was the lack of reciprocation to his temperament that made him check himself and his attitude.
The parts of him that were touching Peter felt bruised by such proximity, by the weight of the burden both men were struggling to carry between them. Sylar resented it. But there was no denying that he didn't feel worse out of the two of them, here. That's not to say he had emerged from the events of the day unscathed (far fucking from it), however it had been terrifying enough for Sylar to witness the meltdown of his ally. He could only imagine what it must have been like to be the one suffering through it.
Peter was blatantly hiding from him, and the thought that he might be crying only fanned the flames of Sylar's exasperation, because it made him want to cry too. Somehow this got lost on the way out and his words emerged dripping with animosity.
"I thought you were gone." He finally admitted, resting his head against the damp underside of the bridge. "When you went for Hesam, when your abilities all went crazy... I thought you might never come back from that. Do you know how that felt, Peter?"
The little man might have trembled in the cold right then, or maybe it wasn't that at all, but whatever the reason made Sylar unable to look at even the shape of him any longer. Because he was so fucking angry at the son of a bitch for being so stupid, for pushing his way into making this happen in the first place! Now they had no argument to counter that of the hunters who wanted them dead, who wanted to take them off the streets "for the greater good". But Sylar was also furious with himself. For giving in and helping Peter with his foolish plan when he'd known all along how stupid it could be, and because he knew it wouldn't be the last time.
Now look at them. After everything they had been though, they had ended up homeless under a leaky bridge with nothing to their names besides too many transgressions between them to count.
Sylar had been this low before, in his past. But there hadn't been anyone else to blame back then.
( )
The most important factor of Sylar's confession should have been the tenderness swaddled within it, but it wasn't. Instead, the words just didn't sit right within the shifted planes of Peter's heart. Pressing his palms to his aching temples, he gave life to the swirling black pit of fear that had been creeping into his blood for hours.
"I don't know if I did come back. Not fully." His throat constricted painfully when he felt Sylar shift to face him once again. Peter tightly closed his eyes against the building onslaught of tears, holding them back with everything he had. "The hunger. I can feel it in me. I'm so aware of it, Sylar, it's... waiting. The next time I slip up for even a moment..."
His voice deserted him when flashbacks of an icy morgue, a flick of his finger and Nathan's dead body smothered him. Last time he had held this power he had killed his own brother out of greed, alone. The thought of how many horrors he could bestow, without the option of returning to his own timeline to start over, was enough to make Peter's stomach compress like he was about to throw up.
"...I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself." He croaked, tucking his hands tightly between his knees as if that would keep them out of trouble for the rest of his immortal life.
( )
Sylar hushed out a dejected breath. He was intimately familiar with these fears. He wished he could honestly tell Peter not to worry, that it wasn't so bad and that he was panicking about nothing, but he wasn't. Unfortunately Sylar had the personal experience to know this for certain.
Invisible weights pressed upon his chest so tightly that he could barely breathe, and suddenly any and all anger he had been harbouring since his resurrection was gone. His only friend looked up at last, fixing Sylar with such honest sorrow from the one eye that wasn't hidden behind a dark veil of hair. Sylar was glad it had grown back from the explosion just as unkempt as before.
"I'm scared." Peter admitted, frowning as if in contrast to his words. It might have been believeable had the watchmaker not known him so well, or been able to see the reflection of a distant streetlight sparkling in tears that pooled along his eyelashes but refused to fall. He was holding it together much better than Sylar had when it had been his turn. "I'm scared of how it'll change me."
The former killer moved before consciously deciding to do so. He remembered only too well how horrific his transformation had been at the beginning; when the bloodlust had been insatiable but his mind had still been clear enough to know and detest what he was doing. He had tried to resist the hunger for power. He had sought forgiveness and help from a God who had never answered his pleas, he had even been so terrified of what he was becoming that death had seemed like a better option, once. It hurt even now, over a decade later, to regurgitate these feelings. And never in a million years would Sylar wish the same torture upon this overly sensitive man.
Crouching on his knees on the cold ground before Peter, he spoke very deliberately, very softly now. "Listen to me." Without even thinking about it, he reached out to free a strand of hair from sticking to Peter's wet eyelashes. "It doesn't have to change you at all."
The empath took a shaky gasp, and his composure almost shattered completely for the first time. "But look at what almost happened today!" His voice broke. "Look what it did to you! Think how hard you had to fight to overcome it!"
Briefly, Sylar closed his eyes against the reminder. He hated such phrasing, as if his experience could ever be something that could be shelved after having its run, as if it could ever truly be left in the past without leaving any scars behind. Opening his eyes to Peter's before him, Sylar both summoned and bestowed strength by gently grasping the other man's ankles.
"You won't turn into what I was, Peter, because you have something I never did." He vowed, a rusty whisper that was swept away along the length of the bridge. "A friend." He squeezed his grip just slightly, watching Peter's heart melt into his expression. "You don't have to go through this alone."
( )
More than anything right then; more than food, more than shelter, more than a way to counteract his many failures, Peter wanted to be able to physically express how much this meant to him. But he couldn't. Not like this. Not in this state.
Sylar's hands were hot through the thin fabric of his scrubs, and his words broke over Peter like a fountain of tingling sparks. But all of a sudden he felt filthy, unworthy of such kindness after everything he'd done. He didn't even want to be touched because he was contaminated, but he would never throw off his friend's sentiment.
He didn't deserve this. Sylar had been the hero today, Sylar had sacrificed himself even though he didn't need to. He had been the brave one who should be getting congratulated instead of still doing his best to clean up another of Peter's mighty messes.
But here they were again, the way it always seemed to be.
( )
"Tell me how to help you." Sylar instructed, just as Peter bowed his head again to hide the first and only teardrop that fell to the ground. It almost sneaked past unnoticed in the dark, while the night continued to rage on outside the confines of this bridge and the rest of the world beyond.
Then Peter peeked up again, and he looked so tired and broken that Sylar promised himself right then that he would do anything – anything – to keep the guy from getting to this point ever again.
The empath sniffled and his lower lip sat ever so slightly off kilter. But when he spoke his voice was as resolute as their Wall had used to be, once upon a time. "Just please don't let me drag you down with me."
( )( )( )
Click.
Click.
CLICK.
The glow of a screen bathed the far corner of the office a sickly blue, the only source of light that illuminated the lines in the face behind reflective, horn-rimmed glasses. Noah Bennet sat hunched at his desk, over-tired, taking out his stress on the computer mouse in his hand. He had watched and re-watched the footage of the events outside Mercy Heights so many times that it barely even made sense anymore, but still he jabbed the 'replay' button over, and over, and over.
There were no hidden clues as to where the two perpetrators might have gone, no convenient subtitles that filled in the blanks for him. They weren't at the Devaux penthouse anymore, and although it was now under constant surveillance Noah knew his targets wouldn't go back there again. He had exhausted this avenue hours ago, but he just couldn't make himself move on, because that would be scarily close to giving up.
Angela's words still wouldn't let go of him. It was not too late already. He refused to believe it. He hadn't worked so hard and prioritised his job over everything else in his life just to fail and have the world end anyway! Yes, Peter's explosion had shaken him, he wouldn't deny it. Had it not been for his many years on the job, he would likely be as traumatized by such a close call as many of his team were. Noah chose to use the incident as only incentive to do better.
Such as pointlessly replaying the same useless video a hundred times over?
Heaving a great sigh, he slumped back in his seat and removed his glasses, scrubbing a hand over his face. This was getting him nowhere, and he didn't have the luxury of wasting time. Idle thoughts had been forming in the back of his mind for a while now: plan Z, the last resort. He didn't want things to get that far, but with every dead end that came rushing up to meet him, he wasn't proud to admit that the last resort was beginning to look mighty inviting after all.
A brief knock before the sound of the door opening shocked Noah out of dark and desperate thoughts. "Any sign of them?" He asked quickly while replacing his glasses, hating that he was actually hopeful.
"None."
The large figure of a solitary M.F. Harris loomed creepily in the shadowy recess of the office. Only now did Noah realise how late it had become when he wasn't paying attention. His lip curled impatiently. Harris sounded a lot more self-assured than he had after reporting his failure in Philadelphia, but still Noah had no sympathy for the man.
"Goddammit!" He cursed, slamming his fist down so hard on the desk that an abandoned mug of old coffee tumbled onto the floor. "They almost blew New York City half to hell and you let them get away!"
The other agent said nothing. Although Noah couldn't see his expression in the shadows he could clearly feel the derisive look being cast in his direction. Yes, he knew he was acting like a total hypocrite and taking out his frustration on Harris, but that was just because there was nobody else to point the finger at but himself, and Noah despised that. If Sylar of all people hadn't stepped up and spared millions of innocent people from being obliterated... then those deaths would be on Noah. And there was one particular person that was in the city right at this moment, wrapping up the latest leg of her press tour...
Taking a breath, the company man calmed himself enough not to bite Harris' head off this time. "What about Parkman? How's he doing?"
"Still painting."
Noah ignored the lack of "sir" in that statement and got stiffly to his feet. Parkman had been at it for hours, surely he must have something of use by now? Grumbling to himself, Noah stalked past Harris, blinking in the brightness of the corridor as he made his way to the elevator. He tried not to set the bar very high on his expectations, but desperation can do terrible things to a person after they've been put through enough. If one thing was to be taken away from a full career in this business, it was that fact.
The final door bleeped upon his arrival and Noah was instantly met by the rich scent of oil paints, ink and turpentine. The converted room was unrecognisable as an old cell; with paintings stacked over every free inch of wall space and canvases littering the floor. Noah paid this no notice by now, instead approaching the engrossed form of Matt Parkman, still at work.
Two new paintings were drying on their easels at either side of the transfixed artist and a third piece; one a modest portrait of Petrelli's face; the other, two figures apparently talking on a rooftop. Neither of them held anything of importance that Noah could discern, so he cut right to the chase and shook Parkman by the shoulder.
"Parkman." Upon receiving no response, he shook him harder. "Parkman, that's enough!" With another tug, the former cop's tense posture eased and he shook his head, the fog in his eyes fading away.
"Wha- what?" He turned with the paintbrush still poised, confused for a moment.
"I thought I told you to quit it with the masterpieces and just work quickly. All we need is information, we're not opening an art gallery." Noah nudged him to one side to have full access to the freshest image. Then his gut swooped. "Well I'll be damned..."
( )
Matt shook himself out of the lingering coils of prophecy, wiping his hands on a paint-smeared rag in his belt. He stretched his stiff neck and legs, unsure of how much time had passed while he'd been painting. By the look of it, enough to have crafted at least three new masterpie –
He took a double take, then stormed across the cell. "Son of a bitch!" At his back, Noah made a half-assed grunt of a question. "That guy left me to rot in the middle of an African desert!" Matt jabbed an accusing finger at his new portrait, even before Noah tore his eyes from another piece.
"...That's Peter." The older man drawled.
"No!" Matt insisted, feeling old anger begin to prickle. "Not the one we know, he's from the future!"
At this, Noah's eyes roamed indecipherably from behind his glasses, an arrogant thought process that Matt had hated since the first time he'd met the guy. "How can you be sure?"
"See the scar?" Matt traced the fine pink gash of paint that tore the length of Peter's face. Then he straightened and rubbed a hand over his chin, contemplating the painting again while shaking his head. If he got a chance to give the bastard a piece of his mind... "It's him, alright."
( )
Wonderful. So not only was Noah on the look out for Sylar and a Peter with all his abilities restored – there were two of him out there. It was enough cause for concern that Noah might finally have lost his temper and his sanity at once, had Parkman not provided him with the perfect remedy for such things.
Turning back to the newest prophecy, Noah gripped the sides of the canvas and smeared his thumbs in the paint. He didn't care. He was too engrossed by the picture before him, one that was responsible for a great deal of his stress and panic fading away at long last.
How extraordinary. What had merely been a half-formed idea in Noah's mind was now fully-fledged before him in bold colour: the bare outlines of a thought having been nurtured into fruition by someone else's hand. Of course... it made sense now. He understood the twist, the angle, the way it had to go for anything worthwhile to be done...
( )
Curious as to Bennet's strange action, Matt dodged over dropped brushes and palettes to stand beside him once more at his newest painting. There was a second of mental translation from the shapes on the canvas into concrete knowledge, and then Matt scoffed, turning to his boss with disbelief slathered all over his paint-smeared face.
"You can't be serious?" He half chuckled at how ridiculous it was. "Bennet, tell me this isn't what I think it is."
Mr Horn Rimmed Glasses didn't correct Matt in his epiphany. He didn't free his attention from the canvas, either. Although outwardly that hint of a smile didn't increase, Matt could interpret growing smugness from the other guy without even having to read his mind.
"This is crazy!" Matt insisted, half sure this was a joke on his boss's part.
"Yes."
"Not to mention highly dangerous!"
"I know."
"B-but you can't seriously be thinking... I mean, we've never tried anything like this before!"
Noah Bennet turned his face at last, a smile curving beneath two reflective squares mirroring Matt's perplexed face. "And that's exactly why it just might work."
A/N: So I absolutely surprised myself by suddenly finishing this chapter. I feel like I barely got started and it finished itself very quickly, but that's never a bad thing X) Hopefully you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
After the very big events of last chapter I always think it's nice to get a well-deserved decrease in pace for a bit, for the boys and us to catch our breath again. Saying that, this was still a pretty busy update! Just on a smaller scale.
This was also the first chapter of Act 3, and I am sooooo excited for this next chunk of the story! I've got a lot in store, you can count on that X) Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I cherish every single comment and will try and reply as quickly as possible 3
