I saw this one coming, there's no use in running/
Safe in the distance, ignorantly witnessing/
Everyone scattered as I had a vision/
A regret, you might say, a worry, you might say/
Despite the human tendency to be drawn to disaster, Nathan had come to realize that when one heard hysterical screams, the smartest idea was to run away from them, not toward. So, when they went down from their rooms for dinner (Katie, the most cautious of them, had argued for room service, but Nathan had started to see that look in Peter's eye, the one he used to get on road trips that said he was about to go absolutely stir-crazy, would explode in five minutes and counting) and heard the commotion around the front door, he promptly grabbed the other two and turned them around, pushing them back toward the stairs.
"Go back to the room," he told them. "I'll see what's going on." However impressive that sounded, it consisted of only one thing: him grabbing the nearest bystander and asking them what had happened. Those were his favorite kinds of phrases—the ones that sounded fantastic coming out of his mouth but required little effort on his part. Am I a politician, or what? "Excuse me, miss," he asked the receptionist. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
"It was terrible," she said, gushing out horrified scandal. "One of those crazy mutants from the news was right here outside our hotel! He attacked this blond lady, took the top of her head right off, and there's blood all over the doors, it is so gross."
"A blond lady?" Nathan asked, feeling suddenly ill.
"Yeah," she said earnestly. "He, like, sawed her head open or something, and he killed the concierge too. The police don't even know where he went, he could be anywhere."
Caught up in her own indulgent terror, she didn't notice Nathan striding away, filling from his feet up with anticipated disaster. He shouldered his way mercilessly through the crowd with the instinct of a born New Yorker, until he was stopped by the thin plastic police line and the sight he'd been hoping not to see.
He recognized her instantly, destroyed as she was, crumpled and wet, broken on the uncompromising hate of one mad fellow man. Laying there, she was all Niki, victimized and shattered for the last time, ultimately too hollow to hold. He backed away with deadened, echoing horror, not caring that he was bumping into people, insensate of their bodies against him. There's another one, he thought numbly. There's another one gone. Everything I touch breaks and bleeds. I'm a virus, I'm an acid, I'm a curse. I love it and it withers. I touch it and it dies.
He throttled back his blind guilt and breakdown, bottlenecking it before it could reach his heart. This had nothing to do with you, he told himself sharply. She was a one-night stand, she was nothing. She was killed by Sylar, and he'll kill us all if you don't get a grip. He brought his shoulders back up, squaring out melodrama and morality. Let her husband cry for her. Nathan had more important things to do.
---
When Nathan got back to their room (it took longer than expected—he'd had to stop once to be violently sick, unable to rid himself of the blood-and-blond image of Niki's corpse) he was horrified to see Peter halfway out the window, staring shamelessly down at the crime scene. He crossed the room in seconds and dragged Peter into the room, shoving him back with more force than strictly necessary, venting his strain on his senseless kid brother.
"What are you doing?" he yelled. "You're a nationally wanted fugitive, you idiot!"
"I'm sorry," snapped Peter, pushing his hands away. "I guess I was just wondering if I was going to die anytime soon. Would you mind telling us down here at the kid's table what the hell is going on?"
Katie stood quickly and got between them, throwing herself on the train tracks with the fearless conciliation that seemed to be instinct to her. "Hey!" she interjected. "We don't have time for this! Nathan, tell us what happened."
Nathan felt all the anger draining out of him, leaving weaker feelings he'd been hoping to miss, and he sat down heavily in the chair. "It's Niki," he said.
"Niki," Peter said blankly. Then: "Oh, crazy girl? What about her?"
"She's dead." He dropped the news like a rock, glad to be rid of it. "Sylar was outside the hotel, and he caught her and killed her."
Peter's brain stopped dead at the word 'Sylar', bursting into panicked flame. "Sylar? Well, what happened? Where is he?"
"I don't know," Nathan said. "He just disappeared, they don't know where he's gone. He must have been after us, but he found her first."
Katie was already up, busy pulling out luggage with efficient briskness. "We need to leave, now," she told them. "He's probably still around, and if he doesn't get us, the police will."
Nathan had just managed to kick himself into action, getting up out of the chair, when the phone rang. The whole room froze, staring at the unwelcome, startling intrusion. With a meaning look of apprehension, Nathan picked it up. "Hello?"
His feeling of foreboding was instantly confirmed as he heard the voice on the other end: Linderman. "Hello, Nathan. How are you?"
Nathan shot a frantic glance at Peter and Katie, hoping they could interpret the warning in his eyes and violent gestures. "Suddenly much worse, Mr. Linderman. How did you get this number?"
"Don't be foolish," he chided evenly. "I'm not letting you slip away from me just yet."
"You know where we are," Nathan accused. "Why haven't you just sent your thugs after us? What do you want?"
"I want Peter," Linderman said simply.
"Well, I know that," Nathan bit off, "and I have to tell you, I'm running out of ways to say no. He's not a bargaining chip, he's my brother." Peter raised his eyebrows at Katie, as if to say oh—they're talking about me again.
"If only you knew what you could bargain," Linderman said thoughtfully. "Don't you want the power back, Nathan?"
"Of course I want the power back," Nathan replied flatly. "I want it back so it kills me."
"Then do as I say." Linderman's voice tightened to a sudden flint edge, sharp, hard, commanding. "It's easier than you think, Nathan. Close your eyes and pull the trigger, and the rest will follow."
Nathan tried not to look at Peter, but he felt his brother's eyes on him, so trusting that they burned against his corrupt half-conscience. Peter would never guess the thoughts running through Nathan's head, how close to the surface the greed had pushed, how seriously he was considering throwing him to the wolves. He opened his mouth to say yes, take him, I can live without him but I can't live without the power—and couldn't get it out, choked on Peter's trust. He couldn't do it. He couldn't pull the trigger, not while Peter was sitting right there, watching him raise the gun but not moving, trusting his brother to save him even from himself.
"I'm hanging up now, Mr. Linderman," he said with some effort. "And by the way, Jessica Sanders is dead."
"Nathan—" Linderman tried, but no use—Nathan slammed the phone down, breaking the circuit of the siren song before Linderman could drag him out by his weakness.
As he backed away from the phone, watching it warily in case it should start ringing, he felt Peter's arms wrap around him. "I love you, Nathan," Peter said, as uncomplicatedly sincere as when he'd been six.
After a second, Nathan's irritation and indecision dissolved into somewhat-deeper love, and he returned Peter's hug, putting an arm around his neck. "You'd better," he said.
---
Gabriel came awake with a gasp, feeling like a swimmer bursting up from the water, nearly drowned and blinded by the unfamiliar light of the sun. He was confused and disoriented, memories jumbled all in a mess. He didn't know where he was. He barely knew who he was.
His first conscious thought was of disaster, murder and chaos, and one line of memory fell into place. He opened his eyes to blood on his hands, and the red slick of it sparked a name: Sylar. In the scarlet-streaked glass behind him, he caught a glance of his reflection—only it wasn't him. It wasn't Gabriel Grey but a hungry-eyed visceral creature, a frightening man who cared not at all about the blood.
The sight, the name, sent a violent reaction tearing through him, waking a lethal personality that roiled beneath his awareness, barely contained, struggling to break loose. Flashes of the last seven months blasted across the backs of his eyes, terrifying images of cold death and hot obsession. He remembered.
Oh God, what have I done?
He heard sirens behind him, their lights turning the scene of carnage into noir-contrast blues and reds. A spotlight snapped on, pinning him back against the wall with its blazing white light. He threw his hands up to protect his eyes, and did what his instincts told him to do—he ran, out down the alley through the sheeting cover of the rain. Oh God, forgive me. I never wanted this.
I wanted to be someone. I didn't want to be him.