You Again
Time could have frozen around them. An endless breath, a moment that hovered weightlessly in the air as if it never existed in reality. Then Sylar lifted his head. Bruised eyes pierced into the darkness where Peter let invisibility slip uselessly from his shoulders, and gently shimmered into sight.
The first thing Peter did upon seeing that face again wasn't rip the guy apart limb by limb for what he'd done to Nathan. Or even take the time to wonder how the smug killer had ended up in this mess since the last time he'd seen him bleeding into the night before the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival.
Instead, a shiver possessed the empath, devouring him from within while disappointment suffocated his airway.
No.
He didn't care that he could feel Sylar's eyes upon him as he desperately scanned the rest of the container. Sapphire flames bursting to life in his palm, Peter used the crackling light to peer through the gloom for someone, something else – anything else! – to rise up and satisfy the aching loss he'd suffered in silence with for weeks. The same sensation that now gnarled more painfully than ever inside his ribcage like a hand reaching out blindly, forever unmet, in the void. But there was nothing for him here but metal walls, creeping claustrophobia, and the last thing Peter would want to be faced with in the world.
No! It had to be a mistake. It had tobe! Had Angela really sent him all the way here for this? Was Sylar what she'd wanted him to find?!
"Come to join the party, Petrelli?"
The deep, strained voice ran through Peter like a blade. Forcing himself to look upon his enemy properly for the first time, too late he noticed what his shocked state had missed before. Sylar was strung up, alright. Shackled against the wall in some sort of harness like a gruesome art display of sorts, draped in tubes and needles that were clearly there by design to keep him alive. Even cast mostly in shadow his skin was paler than Peter had ever known him, his frame thinner, more fragile looking. Actually, now that he thought about it, Peter wasn't sure how he'd even managed to identify the guy so quickly. He was almost unrecognisable as the powerful killer who still haunted too many reoccurring nightmares: tired and weak, his jaw sporting so much untended stubble it was practically a beard by now; while overgrown, tangled hair obscured eyes that simmered with only a shade of the power – the terrifying passion – that Peter had come to associate with Sylar. He already looked halfway to the grave, like he'd been kept in this state for weeks, at least.
It was an disturbingly sobering sight. It was sick. The whole thing reeked of humiliation, like a severed head impaled upon a spike: a Renautas badge of victory declaring their capture of the biggest, baddest predator of them all.
Despite himself, Peter felt his chest tighten further. He loathed Sylar. The killer was perhaps the only thing in this world that had ever received the courtesy of such an emotion from Peter Petrelli, but even he wouldn't wish this upon him.
( )
"What have they done to you?"
Petrelli's voice rippled quietly around the container, a frown lit by the flicker of flames held aloft in his hand. The light was almost painful against Sylar's eyes, as if it had been years since they'd seen anything other than darkness.
He felt his hackles rise beneath the wandering gaze and badly-hidden sympathy of his visitor. Because of all the people in all the world to walk in on him in such a vulnerable state, it just had to be Peter fucking Petrelli, didn't it?
"Like you don't know." He said darkly, fighting to look as comfortable as possible in his restraints even though his throat felt like sandpaper, his bones as brittle and frail as dry matchsticks. He tried to look unfazed by being caught like this by one of the good guys, as if it had somehow been part of his grand and powerful plan to end up here all along. But Sylar barely even managed to fool himself in this regard. "I'm sure you all had a good laugh already."
Petrelli narrowed his eyes, his head twitching a little in confusion. "What're you talking about?" He asked, and Sylar was vividly reminded exactly how much he disliked the guy and his perpetual facade of butter-wouldn't-melt innocence.
"Let me guess," The prisoner rasped, powering through despite the dryness of his tongue and how much talking was taking out of him. Fury seeping into his voice now, the words spilled over each other so fast he couldn't have stopped them if he'd tried. "Did Parkman call you up the moment I was down? Bet he couldn't wait to share his grand victory? How easy it was to trick the idiot murderer by promising to helphim get better,and how quickly he fell for the lie?!" Sylar cursed the telepath in question, and cursed himself for being so incredibly, irreversibly stupid. The one time he'd tried to see the good in someone... the one time he'd finally asked for help when he needed it... he should never have even tried to trust...
Peter hadn't taken his eyes off him, as if he were transfixed by a beast moving in for the kill, or a natural disaster that he couldn't unsee. As if he didn't understand, as if he had nothing to do with it and was just an innocent bystander to the chaos – just like all the so-called heroes liked to pretend as soon as they'd gotten their hands dirty!
And then the nasty thought clicked into place, far back in the corner of Sylar's mind.
"...Or were you all in on it?" He seethed. The words burned so deep that he felt the sting suddenly in his eyes. "Did you throw another party? Should I consider myself lucky I even woke up here at all instead of burning on a pyre?!" His cries stumbled to an end in the form of a painful coughing fit, and Sylar was forced to slump back in his bonds and simply fight to steady each shallow, rattling breath.
"Wait, wait, wait," Failing not to look spooked at the memory, Peter paced back and forth before Sylar, screwing up his face in effort as he attempted to catch up. Even without access to his beloved abilities Sylar could almost hear the guy's gears grinding to life at their usual, insufferable pace. "You said Parkman? He did this to you? Is he working for Renautas?"
"For what?" Sylar snapped impatiently.
"Renautas. This is their facility."
Sylar's scowl deepened. He didn't reply this time. Only because he didn't want to admit that he had no clue what the hell Peter was talking about. He might not know what that "Renautas" thing was, but that sure as hell didn't mean he had no one to blame for his downfall!
Gritting his teeth, Sylar recalled his last glimpse of Matt Parkman's flushed face hovering before his own, glee brimming from his eyes, from the curve of his mouth, from the words that turned to smoke in Sylar's mind. But it didn't matter that he couldn't remember the telepath's parting words. All Sylar knew was that Parkman had promised to help him shut off his abilities when he'd gone to him and asked, and the next moment he'd woken up here: trapped and alone and powerless.
No one could say the guy hadn't stuck to his end of the bargain, in any case.
( )
In Peter's mind his hate-fuelled reunion with Sylar had always included a lot more of hands tightening around throats, black eyes blossoming into bruises and knuckles dripping both his own and his enemy's blood to the floor. But now? What had seemed like the end of the rainbow from the other side of the door felt instead like the beginning of a maze, that instead of finding the answer to the one question he craved he'd just found himself thrust into a hundred new ones.
What was all this about Parkman? What the hell kind of ordeal had Sylar been through? Why had Angela sent him to this particular container? Did Sylar have the answers that she'd refused to reveal? Why hadn't she warned him what he'd find? Did she think, rather appropriately, that Peter wouldn't have believed her? Or did she, equally as accurately, think he wouldn't have come if he knew? And how could anyone not know about the new Company that had stormed the world by force during the void in Peter's memories, let alone someone as actively involved in the world of abilities as Sylar?
Then, slowly, the penny dropped.
"...You don't know, do you?" He breathed this realisation aloud. Maybe it wouldn't have taken so long if he wasn't still reeling from living outside his own time, still feeling constantly behind, as if a crucial chapter had been ripped out of his book and everyone else was pages ahead.
Peter caught the flicker of confusion that tried to hide itself on Sylar's features, there for only a moment before fading. Shit. Holy shit. Shaking his head hopelessly, Peter threw up the hand swathed in blue flame, rubbing his face with the other.
"They got to you too. I thought it was just me, but..."
"You better start making sense, Petrelli, if you know what's good for you -"
"They wiped my memories, okay!" Peter forced himself to hold the weary yet smouldering glare of his brother's killer. He didn't even know why he was still standing here, or even bothering to talk at all rather than punch the guy in the face, but he was – even though Sylar clearly couldn't help him after all, not now he was as useless as Peter felt, himself. "Listen: one day I was tryna work out how to stop Samuel Sullivan from hurting thousands of people at a carnival, and the next I wake up and it's six months later! Now it looks like they've gone and done the same to you!"
( )
It took a moment for this unpleasant news to sink in through Sylar's fugue of exhaustion and pain. Six months? But he'd just been to the carnival. He'd just spoken to Samuel Sullivan; died his dozenth death by a storm of gravel to the face; been sent out on his fateful hunt for a connection all thanks to Lydia and her cursed assessment of his deepest desires. And now Peter was claiming all that had happened half a year ago? That – what? He'd been stuck in this shithole for six months while Parkman crowed over his grand capture?!
"You're lying." The accusation sounded as weak to his own ears as it must have done to Peter's.
The man's jaw tensed. "Have I ever lied to you before?"
Further assaults faded from Sylar's lips, then. He wanted to dismiss this wild story as another of Peter Petrelli's Grand Mistakes, but it was harder to do so now that the seed of doubt had been planted in his mind.
It was true, he realised like smack to the face: the curious little empath – impulsive and unpredictable and thick-headed as he was – had never lied to Sylar. Never. He might even be the only figure in his entire life who could honestly claim so. Sure, Peter had fought and improvised and bounced the hell back time and time again, not to mention been an award-winning pain in the ass... but that was where the similarities to his family members ended. If it had been Nathan or Angela Petrelli standing before him now, Sylar would have clocked their claims as manipulation in a heartbeat.
But Peter, he admitted to himself, had never seemed to tick that way.
( )
Standing his ground, Peter balled his hands into fists as Sylar dragged those eerily perceptive eyes over him yet again. This time felt different than the others. More invasive. Even in the near darkness, with just the soft, cool glow of sapphire flames to illuminate him, Peter could see suspicion coil behind the man's pupils and watched his lips grow thin. A warning.
"Why are you here, Peter?"
The younger man hated the sound of his forename on Sylar's tongue. Somehow it always managed to sound like a taunt, like a prize the killer would caress oh-so-gently while threatening to hold it hostage just to prove that he could. Peter grit his teeth, working up the courage to say what he'd rather have said to anyone else on the planet but him. "'Cause something was stolen from me. And I think you're supposed to help me find it."
Sylar laughed. It wasn't clear if this was at Peter's discomfort or the statement itself.
The deep, dry chuckles sang throughout the metal container despite the fact the killer was very clearly in a lot of pain. Peter clenched his fists tighter and shifted his weight, sure he'd never in his life wanted so badly to add to a person's suffering until this moment.
"You nailed me to a table last time we danced, Peter. You tried to erase my mind from existence. Or have you conveniently forgotten that memory as well?"
Peter fought not to show his discomfort at the reminder of their last, fateful, dalliance. The last time he'd seen his brother's face. Falling away from Peter's grasp, from his life, forever...
The leer fell from Sylar's lips. He eased himself forward as far as he could in his bonds, and the rage that burned behind those eyes made the laughter seem preferable instead. "Enlighten me: why would I even consider doing anything you want?"
Pushing aside vivid flashbacks of the murderer pinned, writhing and bloodied, between his thighs, Peter stepped right up so he was inches from that face. Baring his teeth, he met the challenge head-on, unafraid. "'Cause I can get you outta here."
For a long moment, the pair simply stayed that way, bound by the might of one another's glare, so close they could feel the other breathing. The last thing Peter wanted was to set this bastard back on the loose to torment and kill and steal more Nathans from other people's hearts, but what choice did he have? He couldn't just leave a living creature in this condition – not even Sylar. Truthfully, he already knew he would be leaving this building with the murder in tow, one way or another.
But that didn't mean that Sylar had to know this, too.
( )
It was the killer who broke first. His gaze slipped from Peter's eyes, the tiniest sign of concession.
Drawing in a deep breath, Peter backed off a few steps. "Look, I could leave you here to rot," he said clearly, every ounce of his reluctance caught by the soft flames that illuminated the container, like veins of sunlight reflecting off water, "but I need you to help me."
Sylar scoffed, ignoring the strangest sense that he'd heard those words somewhere before. "Am I just supposed to trust you? I hate to break it to you, Peter, but I think we're long past that stage in our relationship."
"You got a better offer?! You wanna stay here forever?!" Peter huffed, his stupid hair fluttering over his face like strands of black silk across satin. And Sylar fell quiet, then, although he wasn't entirely sure it was due to the empath's rather sobering accusations. Taking this as a reply anyway, Peter drew himself up and raised both hands out before him. "Alright, listen: I'll get you out. And once we're safe, you'll help me find what I lost. Okay?"
Ever since he could remember, Sylar had always hated being indebted to others. It was why he'd always preferred to be alone. When you don't have to rely on someone else, when you don't give them the chance of an upper hand, no one can hurt you. But now here he was: at a dead end, his back literally against the wall and with none other than the brother of the man he'd murdered coming to his aid. He didn't like it. But he didn't have much of a choice, either.
Grudgingly, Sylar nodded his head. It was easier than consenting his agreement aloud.
( )
Finally. At least he was getting somewhere. Steeling himself, Peter ignored the chill that prickled the back of his neck and inched closer to his enemy, looking over the restraints more intently this time.
"What're you gonna do? Melt me free?" Sylar drawled, because of course his ego couldn't let a moment go by without attempting to reclaim even a sliver of control, imagined or not. Peter threw him a dirty look. Then he let the flames fade from his hand, carefully rifling through the collection of his still newly returned abilities.
In the darkness, he stepped up to Sylar with the nasty feeling of approaching a repulsive wild beast, aware of every inch of space that drew close between them. It took a moment not to recoil from the proximity alone, and a moment longer to summon the strength to wrap his arms around the killer's waist in a twisted imitation of a hug, as close as he could get with the ribcage-like harness in the way. Concentrating, he let D.L Hawkins' old power flow through his veins and tried to phase Sylar free from the harness, needles and tubes that were keeping him captive. The man gasped and trembled in his arms, attempting to bite back how much it hurt. At first Peter tried to ignore it. But when the restraints kept refusing to give way, and Sylar wouldn't budge more than a few inches until he finally spilled a ragged cry of pain into Peter's shoulder, he was forced to give up with a jarring lurch of his insides.
Why did it have to affect him at all to see the fucker in such agony? Had Sylar felt anything even close to remorse when Nathan was in pain...? Peter shook himself from that dangerous ledge and fell back a few steps, a desperate attempt to seek clarity.
"Wh-what's your next great idea, genius?!" Sylar growled between laboured breaths.
Rich flames curled back to life around Peter's fingers, splitting the blackness of the cell. "Look, I'm trying, okay!" He snapped, averting his eyes from fresh tears glittering on the killer's cheeks and dark blood seeping through his clothes from the needle sites. God, he was even paler than he'd been a minute ago. "The drugs must be stopping my abilities from working on you somehow, how was I supposed to -?" He cut off, mid-rant, when something on the floor by Sylar's bare feet caught his eye.
Something small, flat, rectangular, and so white it practically glowed in the darkness. There was no way they could have missed it before, which meant it wasn't there earlier. Maybe it had been dislodged somehow during the scuffle? It looked like... but no. Half-sure this was a prank of some sort, Peter bent to examine it, returning with what was unmistakably a Renautas-branded key card in his grasp.
For a long second, both men just stared at the thing. The winning solution, the perfect key to their problem, right here, right now, popping into existence precisely when they needed it.
"What, did you pull it out a hat?" Sylar snarked.
Biting his tongue, Peter began to question his noble decision with each scathing remark from the other man. He'd almost forgotten that Sylar had a knack for making him feel like a bumbling idiot who struggled to keep up with the big boys on his training wheels. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to leave him here, after all...?
( )
"Hold still." Peter commanded quietly. Sylar hadn't let himself believe it was true until the moment the man touched the keycard to a panel out of his eyeline and the harness clicked and loosened.
He stopped dwelling on the miraculous manifestation of the keycard (and the apparent return of Petrelli's original power-sponge ability, which hadn't escaped his notice) when the needles embedded in his skin slowly retracted with a hiss, and the world blotted out white in pain.
Sylar's cry echoed throughout the container, a shamefully vulnerable sound, and as soon as he was free his body betrayed him and fell, too weak to support himself on his own. He braced for a hard impact, but none came. Instead, surprisingly strong, steady arms caught him and broke his fall. The men stumbled as Peter lowered Sylar gently to the ground, the latter trying to convince himself he'd rather have taken the hit full-on than be in debt to the guy again so quickly.
"Are you okay?"
Sylar shrugged the little hero away with what strength he had left in him. "Just peachy." He grunted bitterly, struggling to haul himself onto his knees with trembling limbs that wouldn't obey him properly.
Peter huffed through his nose and stomped away in the direction of the door. Meanwhile Sylar was left to suffer alone through an intense swell of nausea, splitting through his head so remorselessly that even his teeth hurt.
Fuck. He couldn't remember ever feeling so ill or weak before. Like he'd been recently set on fire and left as ruined as a charred piece of kindling. His spine stabbed pain through his system with every slight motion, his wrists were chafed and stained in both fresh and long dried blood, the wounds so raw they were more numb now than sore. It wasn't particularly cold inside the container, yet goosebumps flared upon Sylar's skin just the same, protected from the elements as pitifully as he was beneath thin, papery scrubs that offered nothing more than the barest protection of his modesty.
Luckily, he managed not to throw up – as if he even needed the cherry on top of the most humiliated he'd ever been in front of someone, anyway. He longed after the soothing elixir of regeneration to kick in and take care of his ailments. But until then, Sylar had a different matter that needed taken care of, first...
From his slumped position on the floor, he lifted a lead-like arm and pointed unsteadily at Peter Petrelli. The guy was busy fumbling open the container door, being awfully trusting of the serial killer at his back... Before his victim could become any the wiser, Sylar twitched his fingers to fling Peter into the wall, giving him enough time to escape both this hellhole and the empath's deluded illusions of a collaboration between the two of –
Nothing happened.
Blinking at his hand as if the problem would present itself there in writing, only then Sylar realised that no such elixir as healing was kicking in to save him. He watched as the wounds on his wrists continued to stand out dark and livid against his deathly pale skin, and when he tried to spark electricity from his fingertips he came up with nothing.
"My – my abilities -" He murmured, panic rising up through the growing cloud of disorientation.
"It's just the drugs." Sylar jumped when Peter's gruff voice sounded close by his ear. He hadn't even noticed him return. "Whatever they gave you must've been pretty strong, it'll take a while to wear off."
The assurance was unnecessary, yes, but appreciated. Sylar sincerely hoped the empath was right – waking up in custody once with his powers stripped from him was more than enough times. When Peter scooped him onto his feet Sylar itched to make a fuss and try to walk on his own, but he knew he wouldn't make it five steps if he tried. Defiance drained away quickly at the realisation he was stuck here for the time being, and that the smaller man really was, astoundingly, following through on his promise. So this time when Peter wrapped an arm around him, Sylar allowed the guy to support his weight and help him hobble to the door.
It was difficult to say who despised the arrangement most.
"Since my abilities aren't gonna work on you, looks like we're gonna have to do this the old fashioned way." Peter sounded almost as enthusiastic about this as Sylar felt.
It wasn't until that very moment, framed in the open mouth of the container, that Sylar was hit by the full picture of his predicament. A jailbreak through what was obviously some nefarious company that may or may not have stunk of Noah Bennet's involvement, with no abilities to speak of, barely able to even stand on his own, and with no choice but to entrust his life in the hands of a man who had already successfully killed him in the past. Great.
The only reassurance was that Sylar watched this exact same thought dawn on Peter at the same time.
The paramedic busied himself by peering out into the corridor, checking the coast was clear, before reaffirming his steady grip on Sylar. "You ready?" He asked curtly, as if he was supposed to sound undaunted, brave and inspiring. Was this how it felt watching him launch into another suicide mission like all the others before it, but from the other side? Was this how Petrelli had appeared to the rest of the heroes every time they'd set out to face him? Sylar wanted to laugh at the thought.
But despite himself, he couldn't deny that he didn't feel anywhere near as anxious as he should be, right here on the edge of the unknown, resting his survival in the hands of the man who had every right to have left him behind but hadn't.
His voice escaped him quieter than he intended. "Ready."
( )( )( )
The hubbub of the surveillance lab was always strangely reassuring. As welcome as an oasis in the desert, a berry amongst thorns, it was the only place in Renautas HQ where dirty boots were allowed to rest on tables, easy banter was thrown between cubicles as if between desks in a classroom, where comfortable clothing wasn't a problem, and where a single crumb left upon white ceramic wasn't seen as a mark of rebellion against the otherwise pristine Company.
Or maybe it was all a rebellion, and that was why Tracy had come to like it so much.
The place bustled, unbothered like usual as she wound her way past the clattering of keyboards towards the far end of the room, treading a path she'd walked far too many times in recent weeks. Tracy slowed to a stop beside the last desk in the row, and lightly tapped her data pad against the edge to get the occupant's attention.
"You got anything new for me, Taylor?"
The teenager didn't even bother to lift her eyes from her phone, thumbs never faltering in their mile-a-minute typing as she spoke. "Careful, lady. You keep coming down here and people might think that fancy promotion isn't living up to your expectations. I'll bet Noah Bennet will be thrilled."
The girl smirked, flashing a heavily eyelined glance Tracy's way. Tracy raised both eyebrows. "I'm just here to collect data. In other words: doing my job. You should try it once in a while."
"Is part of your job walking down five stories to collect this data in person?"
At this, smirk still in place, Taylor Kravid lowered her phone and hoisted herself up in her chair, wheeling herself closer to the desk to better reach the slew of computer screens encasing her. If Tracy didn't know any better she might even think the girl was trying not to look impressed.
"Man, if this place is your escape you must really hate it up there in that PR hellhole." Taylor glanced up again, still tapping away at the keyboard to rival the speed of her texting. "Didn't you, like, blow smoke up politician's asses for that creepy governor for years? What's the matter now? No fun stomping on the little people when they're your own subspecies?"
Stunted, for a moment Tracy didn't know how to respond to that accusation more than to just stand there, blinking. For the life of her, she couldn't even muster a false recovery – despite the fact her career currently resided on her ability to do just that about a corporation she'd grown to despise.
Luckily Taylor didn't seem to be waiting for a more coherent reply, because Tracy didn't have one to give. If this hadn't been the boss's daughter she would've personally seen to it that Taylor was clearing out her desk within the hour. As it was, she could do or say nothing at all to defend her resentful loyalty to Renautas and its... methods. A telltale tingling sensation, one that felt suspiciously like guilt, began to churn in Tracy's gut. Crossing her arms as if to ward off the reaction, she flicked her hair and stared unseeingly at one of the monitors behind Taylor's head, seeking any distraction from the ice currently creeping along the lengths of her fingers.
Keys clacked. Seconds passed. Yet the frost printed like lace upon Tracy's skin refused to melt.
She wasn't even watching the intercutting video feed on the monitor. Among boring, desaturated shots of static frames and a dead warehouse, it was only a sudden flash of movement on screen that shook Tracy back to the present.
And then she just stared at them, unsure at first what she was seeing. Two little figures. One cradling the other. Limping between winding rows of shipping containers while trusting one another to guide them... as they had once trusted her the same way.
Holy shit. Tracy hadn't set eyes on those two men since the night she'd crystallized them in ice and turned her back on Noah Bennet's whole scheme. Yet she was only too aware that Peter Petrelli and Sylar were supposed to be anywhere else in the world but where she was currently witnessing them now.
On the loose. Dangerously unsupervised. Together.
Her first instinct was to alert someone – anyone! But when she opened her mouth nothing came out. Because, yes, she'd had nothing to do with this case in weeks, but that didn't mean Tracy had stopped seeing those faces in the exact moment of her betrayal: horror and shame encased forever in her memory like two humanoid entities preserved in amber. And now there they were before her, live, escaping together the way they would have succeeded in Odessa had she not followed through on securing their capture. Peter had trusted her, then. More than anything she'd deserved. And Claire had trusted her too, and Tracy had hurt her even after Claire had been there for her in a time when nobody else was, a friendly face to help keep the cold at bay. How had she repaid them? By ruining their lives in one fell swoop, when all they'd wanted was to be free.
Weeks of carefully building up walls were wasted in an instant. In the moment where all the guilt that Tracy had managed to tentatively hold off so far burst in through the seams and flooded her.
Because, yes, it was easier to take the big promotion and accept the hefty bonus than dwell on her part to play in throwing her own people under the bus. And, no, it didn't hurt as much to hide her regrets behind boring as hell data collection and preserving a falsely pristine, shiny good side of Renautas. But Tracy had walked the dungeons of this fortress, and she knew what truth lingered in each empty cell. And no matter how many times she rehearsed the smiles and repeated the mantras, she still couldn't stop resentment from bleeding into every word she pitched to the investors.
Suddenly it wasn't so easy to turn the other cheek, not when the truths of her actions were being projected in stark black and white before her eyes. As Tracy continued to watch, helpless, Nathan Petrelli's brother zapped electric blue light directly at the camera and the video feed disappeared with a crackle of pixels. Were it not for the after-image left lingering in her mind, the whole thing could never have been anything more than a five second hallucination.
The lab's calming chaos continued to pulse around Tracy. Nobody else seemed to care what transgressions were taking place on the other end of their monitors. Nobody else had seen what she'd seen. Nobody would ever need to know, as long as she didn't want them to.
But before the weight of this responsibility crashed down upon her, what little breath was left in Tracy's lungs froze solid when the video feed cut again, this time to the interior of one of the containers with text stamped across the top corner: HIGH RISK CARGO. But the little figure seen slumped in his restraints wasn't cargo. And he wasn't a risk. He was just a boy... one who had believed in the best of Tracy back when everyone else had only seen a weapon. Dark curls, bright eyes and a dimpled smile swam across the woman's vision, memories of a time when that kid still had his whole life left to live ahead of him.
Micah Sanders was only in that prison now because Tracy had let him be. She'd been too ambitious, too heartless, too selfish at the time to stop it or put the boy's needs before her own. And every time she'd cashed a paycheck since, or kicked back at the weekend with an overpriced martini, the closest thing she had to family had been lying there, comatose, as something not even labelled human...?
A waving piece of paper in her face hauled Tracy to her senses. She numbly took the now pointless information without checking to see it was correct, or even acknowledging the snide eye-roll she got from Taylor Kravid in response. Then she'd crossed the length of the surveillance lab, the hubbub now just a muted mass of buzzing in her ears, and was alone in the stairwell with her heart in her throat and her phone in her hand before she'd even decided what to do next.
She watched her call connect to the man she'd never intended on seeing again, and didn't act on the chance to back out before it passed her by.
Noah Bennet answered on the third ring. Tracy didn't even give him the chance to say hello. "It's Sylar." She said. "He's escaping."
( )( )( )
"C'mon, I think it's this way."
Peter adjusted his hold upon his unlikely patient and set them off down yet another identical row of shipping containers. Sylar's weight against him eased the longer they walked, his footsteps finding it easier to keep up with the pace Peter set. He optimistically took this to be a sign that the guy's strength was slowly returning to him. Hopefully, though, the same wouldn't be said for his powers, anytime soon.
Pretending he wasn't extremely aware of whose warmth was seeping into his side, or whose ribs he could feel too vividly beneath the demeaning prisoner garments, Peter didn't even peek at the other man as they slowly and clumsily wound their way to freedom.
It was difficult to feel wrong about helping someone in such desperate need of care. It was more difficult not to feel guilty for bestowing said care upon the same man who had struck Peter's brother down and smiled as the life drained from his veins.
Each time they paused to check around each corner or, too often, for Sylar to catch his breath, Peter seriously debated leaving him. And each time they resumed their journey he held onto the killer a little tighter than before.
He couldn't just ditch him here. But, honestly, Peter wasn't sure which way was out and which way would lead them right back to capture, anyway. The place hadn't seemed nearly as big or consuming on the way in, back when escaping had only been something to worry about later. Now, rather than the promise of answers to drive him forward, all Peter had was the ticking time bomb in his care and the faint night's breeze that teased an exit up ahead, whistling enticingly through rows of containers like air being released through teeth.
He zapped another security camera and slipped down a narrow gap between two standing containers, hoping for a shortcut between rows. This soon revealed itself as a mistake. Peter regretted it once he discovered there was barely enough room to drag Sylar along with him, the guy grunting quietly in discomfort at his back. To his credit, he hadn't complained nearly as much as Peter had expected. Maybe humility wasn't a bad thing on him, after all.
Gruff voices up ahead stopped the men in their tracks, like a pair of startled rabbits who quickly tried to hide their slip of panic from each other. They shared a glance, their first since setting out together. It was just brief but it burned in Peter's cheeks even after he tore his face away from his enemy's, much closer to his own than he'd anticipated.
( )
Sylar obliged when Peter lifted a finger to his lips, and watched as the other man slipped away from him and crept on ahead, alone. Still aching, still trembling, Sylar breathlessly leaned his weight into one of the container walls lining the narrow cocoon of this crevice.
Fuck. He hadn't even realised until it was gone just how much his deceptively strong saviour had been supporting him; as if Peter emanated colour and without him the world reverted to black and grey. This revelation twisted uncomfortably inside, and he hated that somehow he felt very alone, very small and papery thin now that he'd been left to stand on his own two feet, even for just a moment.
Maybe it was a power of some sort? A new one Petrelli had gathered along with recovering his original, that meant he released some sort of healing energy from proximity alone? The sensation felt vaguely familiar, like a dream he'd once had, or an ability Sylar had used to own but forgotten. Maybe if said abilities weren't currently on hiatus he could have named the source of the phenomenon, understood where it came from.
As it was, he refused to believe it had anything to do with himself.
Weakly, he grit his teeth and made his way along the container walls to the mouth of the crevice also, determined not to leave his fate entirely up to an impulsive brat who was no stranger to failure. Why should Peter lead the way the whole time and Sylar be left in the background like the invalid he was? He slid into place opposite the other man with the full intention of scoping out the scene for himself, faster and better than Peter did, thank you very much.
But the space was so narrow up here that the warmth of Peter's chest nearly touched Sylar's. That his fragrant hair nearly brushed Sylar's face. And suddenly colour bloomed back into the world once more with that same, strange rush of familiarity, and the building desire to one-up the righteous little bastard just didn't seem to matter so much anymore.
Sylar couldn't explain why.
( )
Peter knew what it was. Canvases. And lots of them.
Peering out into an unfamiliar corridor, he watched, unseen, as a crew of tall, dark and identical duplicating men finished offloading a final few crates into one of the containers. The packaging was familiar, overt even if he hadn't seen the ones Simone Devaux had used to handle back in the day, or if he hadn't spent too many hours since at the paint-splattered site of her murder.
"I'll bet those aren't just regular paintings..." He murmured, more to himself than to Sylar, aware that the guy had sneaked up close enough to hear him. As soon as he said it the sweet burst of purpose ignited and burned through Peter's veins, and for the first time since arriving at this hangar he felt like he'd finally stumbled into the right place at the right time. "If they're valuable to Renautas, maybe they'll be valuable to us, too." Peter pulled back to hide behind the corner again, listening intently for the workers to finish up their task.
His heart pounded heavily while he waited, a drop of hope daring to pool back to life in his ribcage. Seeing as his first lead had resulted in a wounded and amnesiac serial killer who seemed less likely to be able to help Peter with his problem than Angela had been, the lure of the truth, laid out so clearly before him in bold paint and brushstrokes, seemed almost too good to be true.
He tried not to get carried away. But Peter couldn't quash the sense that he was finally within touching distance of the faceless, formless shape that he'd been missing all this time. The relentless something that had haunted his every hour with its absence ever since he'd awoken back in his family home, missing so much more of himself than just memories. He could feel it like he had felt the magnetic pull from outside Sylar's cell door earlier, so close it warmed him like soft breath on his skin...
Trapped in this position until the coast was clear, too late Peter realised just how compact his hiding spot was. He suddenly noticed the scratch of Sylar's paper thin t-shirt pressing against him with the man's every struggling breath, how carelessly he'd just been sharing his space with someone he hated, someone who had delighted in drawing the life from him in the past. Feeling clumsy, somehow very exposed when he hadn't the second before, Peter resisted the urge to recoil in case it would alert the Renautas workers nearby.
Instead he just frowned and stared pointedly to the side, unsure whether the heat creeping over his face was due to being watched very intently from close by, or just a consequence of his own imagination. He didn't dare check.
( )
Sylar endured the excruciating wait without moving a muscle. Somehow he couldn't look away from the enigma of Peter Petrelli before him: aware of each rapid inhale and exhale of air, each flutter of his eyelashes, so close, capturing and holding Sylar's attention as brightly as a solitary flame in the dark. It felt similar to unearthing an epiphany, or the heat on his fingers as he mapped the exposed surface of a cerebrum, a telltale vibration that meant he was close to recovering the ability he sought...
Here, right now, he was suspended helplessly in that same heightened moment of anticipation; exhilaration; a heartbeat where time slowed just before something unknown to him clicked into the place it had belonged in all along.
But nothing did.
As soon as the metallic clang of a door echoed nearby, and heavy, methodical footsteps faded into the distance, Peter and Sylar extricated themselves from each other's space so quickly they could have been breaking the surface of the ocean for air. Sylar clung onto a container wall while Peter stormed straight to the now locked door across the corridor that hid the paintings from sight.
It didn't escape Sylar's notice that, this time, the former nurse didn't try to help him hobble over there too.
The spell of intimacy broken, cold sanity slapped him hard across the face. "This is wasting time," He snapped. "We should be escaping while we have the chance, not chasing some hunch that's – let's face it, knowing you – probably wrong."
Seemingly unruffled by the jab, Peter phased his arm through the door, biting his lip while he fumbled blindly for the lock on the other side. There was a clunk from within, then he ground the door open just enough for a slim grown man to slip through. Flicking his hair out of his eyes, Peter stared levelly back at Sylar.
"Don't you wanna know what happened to you? Why they did this? If we leave now, we might never know what was important enough for Renautas to steal from our memories." Sylar braced himself for the disgusted leer to follow and hit the reminder of his sorry, bruised and bloodied state home, but it never came. "You agreed to help me." The empath stated calmly. Much more calmly than he felt, Sylar suspected, and much more calmly than the watchmaker managed in return.
"I agreed to try after we got out of here," He hissed, carefully making his way to the door when the other man disappeared through it. "We're not out of here, Peter." He didn't miss the fact that the whole performance with opening the door was all for Sylar's benefit, as he was unable to phase clean through the thing like Peter did. He didn't want to consider it a thoughtful gesture. He considered it a means to keep Sylar close on the leash where the latest Petrelli wanted him.
After a quick debate of how likely it was he could make a run for it on his own, the killer grudgingly followed suit, staggering across the remainder of the aisle on knees that trembled from more than fatigue.
The inside of this container was nothing like the one Sylar had been kept in. In place of a harness there were shelves bolted around the walls, and in place of a prisoner there were crates. Lots and lots and lots of them. It was impossible to tell how many paintings could be in here altogether, but Sylar had a nasty feeling he'd be as well just wandering back to his cell, stringing himself up again and waiting to be found.
"Tell me you're not stupid enough to try and look through them all?" He scoffed.
But of course Peter was already kneeling on the floor before a crate, trying to decide on the best way to open it. He threw a look over his shoulder at Sylar, who bristled at the defiance burning there.
"I came here looking for answers. You got a better idea?"
Sylar bit back the slew of remarks that begged to fly from his lips. His fingers twitched, yearning to give the guy a good flick or a zap of electricity, but still no abilities stirred beneath his skin. So, powerless and past it, he just eased his tired body down to sit on one of the crates. He might as well use this time to gather some strength, either enough to no longer need Peter and escape, properly, on his own; or enough to endure what was likely going to be a pointless diversion that would get them caught for no good reason at all.
He watched, disgruntled, as Peter cracked open the lid with a bout of telekinesis that Sylar envied greatly. He released another bitter scoff when Peter lifted the first painting into view, rendered in a much too familiar style, bold slashes of colour heavily contrasted by shadows. "Two stars in the sky? Groundbreaking." The work itself was hardly impressive compared to the likes of that artist Sylar had once killed, or even the prophetic paintings he'd made in his own time.
Undeterred, Peter scrutinised the piece as if annotations or instructions would jump out at him and fill in the blanks. Then he moved on to the next canvas, and the next, the colours slightly faded and a little smudged by time. Again, nothing monumental jumped out at Sylar. A river of some sort, it appeared, and an old woman with long, grey hair surrounded by flowers. Hardly world-altering developments.
Sylar zoned out rather than watch Peter take his time fawning over every detail of every drawing. He hated this... pause. At least when escaping, he was focusing so intently on putting one foot in front of the other that there wasn't time to let the tidal wave of thoughts crash down upon him with the might of an entire river. Because why had Renautas kept him strung up and alive in the state that they had? Why hadn't they killed him? Why hadn't they at least kept him unconscious, a la Bennet in the old days? And if Sylar's last memories of Parkman had really transpired six months ago, he shuddered to think what had been done to him in the time since. Perhaps not knowing was a gift, if it was shielding him from half a year of grotesque tortures. Or, even worse, what if it wasn't? Perhaps it was better never to remember. Never to dig up the past or break open cauterized wounds just to needlessly relive the pain over again. While Peter would venture into the dragon's lair and tear the place apart just to remember something he must have loved terribly; Sylar couldn't help but think maybe it was safer not to have loved at all. Not to know exactly what was missing.
The idea of never disturbing the settled tide of the past, never venturing back into the expanse of blissful ignorance...? He could think of worse regrets.
By the time Peter moved on to the last canvas in the crate, Sylar was sore to his bones, nauseous and firmly at the end of his tether. "If this is your idea of a rescue mission it's one hell of a good one." He snarled through his teeth, spitting the sarcasm at Petrelli's boots while struggling to claw himself back onto his own feet. He'd had enough. Agreement be damned. "I hope whatever you lost was worth the effort, Peter, 'cause its going to get us both killed!"
"Sylar –"
"I could crawl myself out faster than this!"
"Wait –"
Pointedly ignoring any protests, Sylar hobbled back to the container door, fighting through the aches in his body, picking up speed once he got going. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for long, and even if he did manage to get outside he had no idea where to go in this state, but damned if he'd go down without even trying! See? This was exactly why he never bothered to rely on people! This was why being indebted to someone else was always more trouble than it was wor –
Clang!
The door slammed shut on its own just as Sylar fell into it. Anger flaming to life, he span around ready to go down fighting this superpowered human with only his trembling fists, even if it was the last thing he did!
But Petrelli wasn't launching himself at him, or using more abilities to drag Sylar to heel like a good little pet. His hand was thrown out before him, yes, but only to keep the door solidly in place. The power was just an afterthought, Sylar saw, to Peter's true intentions. Because beyond the empath's wide-eyed expression, Sylar was treated to the sight of two unmistakable figures – ones who had no right being anywhere near that close to each other unless they were fighting – depicted in blues and blacks upon the latest canvas. Small, distinct shapes captured beneath the cocooning arc of a stone bridge, huddled together for warmth while rain blurred the darkness around them.
And, fuck. As much as he hated being swept along in a Peter Petrelli plan gone wrong, Sylar hadn't considered just how much more he'd hate it when the stubborn bastard was right. Fading tendrils of his rage left him in a sigh. He dreaded the answer even before the question left his lips.
"Is that...?"
Peter's face said it all, more than the word itself could hope to contain. "Us."
( )( )( )
The road slipped past endlessly in the night, shrouded on all sides by darkness that pressed in like a fog around the edges. They could have been anywhere: speeding through a forest trail or lost along the Texas desert for all they could see of the world, but the car never slowed or once strayed from its path.
Noah listened to his phonecall ring uselessly into the void, searching for a woman who didn't want to be found. "Damn it." He hissed, turning off down a narrow lane that would have been impossible to find for someone who didn't know it was there. "The only time Angela Petrelli would stay out of an unfolding disaster is when she's sitting back to watch it happen."
The call rang out once more. Noah swore again and threw his phone onto the dashboard, resisting the urge to run a hand over his face.
Beside him, Tracy didn't make a sound. She'd barely even said a word since they'd left the Renautas base behind. Noah had worked hard to swallow his curses of Erica Kravid – how negligent she'd been – how ignorant – how he'd tried to warn her against reverting The Company's most dangerous target of all time to his most unstable mental state – but with each passing mile it got tougher not to bite clean through his tongue. The last thing he wanted, though, was to push Tracy's already unsettled nerves over the edge.
Now that they'd been reunited it was difficult to believe he hadn't seen her since that night at Union Wells High School, the same moment he'd been so arrogant as to believe he'd actually neutralised the threat of Peter Petrelli and his pet serial killer for good. It felt much longer than just a few weeks ago.
Noah thought better of mentioning this aloud.
Tracy's hands tightened on the edge of her seat as the car turned into the lot, the large shadow of Renautas' aircraft hangar looming through the night up ahead. Noah played his part well: he smiled and made idle chit-chat with the guard at the gate; calmly let them scan his ID and draw back the chain link fence at a glacial pace; all while trying not to draw attention to the ice forming like crystal on his companion's fingertips. It was hard enough to keep a handle on his own restraint at the moment, never mind his former partner in crime's as well.
The duo didn't speak while Noah drove them to an isolated spot off the side of the runway, yet everything they weren't saying still engulfed the car around them, spreading like smoke until it was difficult to breathe. Mostly it was guilt. Regret. An uncomfortable awareness that they'd played too big a part in making this mess for themselves. And Noah suspected he wasn't the only one burdened by the merciless hunting of two human beings, only to discover they were innocent all along of the crime he'd condemned them for. Sylar's broken cries still echoed in his dreams, sometimes. Along with handprints and tears left behind upon glass, and Peter Petrelli's unconscious form being carried between the arms of his enemies.
Too many people had been hurt in this storm of Noah's creation. Too many lives had been destroyed already.
Only when they pulled to a rather unrgaceful stop did the Company man force his voice to come out the closest thing to calm that it could. "Follow my lead, okay? If we avoid a panic until we at least get inside, we might be able to bring them down quietly. The last thing we need is for Petrelli and Sylar to know we're onto them." He fumbled for the door handle, checking his gun holster at the same time. "If we're lucky they won't have gotten far, the drugs should linger in Sylar's system for at least a few more -"
Stumped, Noah tried the door again. But just like before, it didn't budge. What the...?
He saw the ice freezing the lock in place. He saw his breath clouding in the air when it hadn't done the moment before. He saw his glasses begin to fog up, felt the cold lift the hairs on his arms and prickle the back of his neck. But it wasn't until he met Tracy's steady gaze for the first time since entering the car that Noah realised what she'd done.
And the chills that gripped him then had nothing to do with her ability.
"Tracy..."
"I'm not sorry, Noah." All the anxiousness that had shrouded the evo's frame on the drive was gone now, having faded into mist like icicles in the air around her. "I'm done turning the other way while people I care about get hurt."
Noah removed his fogged-up glasses with shaking hands, but he still couldn't process what he was looking at. All this for Peter and Sylar?! Noah knew Tracy felt guilty for her part to play in rounding them up, but since when had she cared about them? Yes, Noah had knowingly pushed her past her comfort zone, and he'd known she resented the acts he demanded she commit for his grand plan – enough to turn her back and move departments before the prisoners had even awoken! But that still didn't justify her actions tonight.
Tracy didn't offer him any further explanation. But suddenly Noah didn't need her to anyway. Because as soon as the word escaped him he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it coming until now.
"...Micah." He realised aloud. "You never planned on catching Sylar. You just needed me to lead you here."
Tracy didn't bother denying it. The betrayal hurt more than Noah thought it would. The master manipulator, played for a fool, himself. "I never wanted this." Tracy whispered, but it was far from weak. Without breaking their eye contact she reached for the steering wheel, allowing ice to flow from her fingers and spread across the entire car like blood through water. "But I won't play your game anymore. Too many people have suffered because of us."
The full might of her decision crept up on Noah at once. Seriously worrying now, his well-trained defense mechanism kicked in on its own to keep him sounding barely less than calm. "Don't do this. It's dangerous in there. You have no idea what you're up against."
"I don't care." Tracy smiled. And despite himself, it might have been the first time Mr Bennet had ever seen her look so at peace. "For once in my life, Noah, I'm putting someone else before myself."
He watched, horror clamping around his throat, as Tracy Strauss transformed into water right before him and he couldn't do a thing to stop it. The shape of his accomplice faded into transparency before slipping away through the vents in a fluid, graceful motion; a surreal reversal of the last time Noah had been locked inside a car with her ability. She wasn't trying to drown him this time but still she left him breathless, shivering and panicked in the cold left in her wake.
"No!" He yelled, punching at the translucent, crystallized window, but it was too thick to break. "Tracy!" With clumsy, numb fingers, he reached for his gun only to find his holster empty. Goddamn it! Desperate now, Noah grabbed for his phone instead – throwing plans and stealth to the wind – but it was solidified along with the entire dashboard. And so he was trapped, helpless and alone, inside a seamless frozen sculpture that only a minute ago had used to be a car. "Don't do this, Tracy! It's dangerous! You might not make it out again! Stop!"
The blurry shape on the other side of the window didn't respond. It only re-formed into the proud silhouette of a woman before growing smaller into the distance, fading further from Noah's reach, and leaving him behind with nothing but his own muffled cries rebounding back at him inside this solitary prison of ice.
A/N: Hellooo! I know this has been yet another insane wait between updates – I hope you can forgive me, no one is more p*ssed about this than me, I can promise you 'X)
If you've stuck with me all this time (and put up with the ridiculous waits between chapters) then I can't thank you enough! Real life is getting harder and harder to put on pause atm to delve into the wonder of Heroes, but I promise I'm not done yet. We've still got a grand finale to get to after all, and after the long, eventful and wonderful journey of this story so far, the final few chapters (yes, we really are in the last handful of chapters now!) will be nothing but the honest best that I can make them!
As for the events of this update: our clueless boys at odds once again; Tracy's conscience finally catching up to her; Noah's fate...? Please don't be shy to leave me your thoughts or guesses for what could possibly happen next ^.^
P.S. The convenient keycard appearing out of nowhere to free Sylar from his restraints? That is, in fact, the very same one that Claire very helpfully hid there all the way back in chapter 33... XP
