A/N: I want to be clear that Peter had, in addition to the nitrous, a local anesthetic. He's tough - really tough - but efforts would be made to make it easy for him to hold still. Sylar just wasn't paying attention.

Sylar was hauled up to his feet by someone who came in past machine-gun guy, who had backed off. He hurt all over and his legs were weak but for the moment, for the sake of his dignity, he cooperated. He would have been fighting, but he couldn't quite focus. He felt stunned. They jerked him out into the open at the foot of the bed. Rather distantly he registered that the grenades had irrevocably ruined his carpet. People were talking, but it was like they were at the end of a long tunnel.

Nausea rose up in him as an irresistible wave. He threw up and doubled over. Someone hit him on the side of the head, over his ear and probably with the butt of a gun because it was a lot harder than a fist should have been. He heard the sound of Peter's voice and to his relief, there was something of a warning in it, a tone that he hoped was protective, even if he couldn't understand why Peter would do what he'd done.

I'd rather be dead than powerless! His body was suffering from the loss and intellectually he knew the shock would pass eventually. Right now what he was feeling the most was the loss of regeneration, an ability that subtly propped up his natural systems. Now they were floundering with the sudden withdrawal.

There was more talking, but he didn't listen. He couldn't see. He could barely think. He was being hustled down a hallway and it wasn't his. He looked around, feeling a jolt of fear at the realization they weren't in his apartment anymore and he hadn't even noticed them leave it.

Somehow they'd ended up somewhere else entirely - a concrete bunker maybe, though some attempts had been made to decorate it and cover up the very utilitarian purpose of the place. There was a man on either side of him, arms under his, towing him along by main force. He staggered and stumbled. Someone behind him kicked him back to his feet.

As he came up, the grip of one of the men wasn't as firm as it should have been - as it needed to be. Sylar balled a fist and turned, swinging at the man behind him who'd kicked him. It was machine-gun guy and he caught him right across the cheek with everything he had, knocking the man back and almost down. The other two were on Sylar immediately, getting his arms and pulling them back behind him.

The man snarled and got up, then punched Sylar in the gut. The blow seemed to set him on fire with pain and his bile rose again - what little was left. It burned his throat and choked him. Spittle and worse flowed from his mouth as his stomach emptied the very last of its contents.

The man grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. Sylar's body betrayed him. It was weak. There was nothing he could do but watch as the man cocked back his fist and drove it forward. It stopped suddenly, jarringly. Peter's voice called out, "You know, Nathan might want to do that himself. That's the only reason why I brought the guy here." The man looked past Sylar, behind him. Presumably at Peter. He kicked Sylar in the shin, which hurt, but not as much as getting hit in the face would have.

"Get him moving," machine-gun guy ordered to the two holding Sylar. They turned him and fairly drug him down the corridor.

Peter was still with him. That gave him hope, in a way. He'd said he loved him, hadn't he? Wasn't that the shape his lips had made? Why the hell would he do that if it was over? But if it wasn't over, why would he betray him like this? He kept replaying that moment the day before where Peter had said there'd come a time when he'd have to trust him.

This was ridiculous though. He'd lost his abilities forever. What sort of trust was there in that? He wouldn't be worth loving if they got out of here. He certainly wouldn't love Peter anymore. The cost was too high. He'd kill himself. Maybe he could goad Nathan into killing him instead.

They hauled him into a room and dropped him into an old-style, heavy metal office chair with a green, vinyl seat. His hands were cuffed to the arms of it - one set of cuffs with a chain long enough to loop through the frame of the chair. He suspected it said something that they had restraints custom fabricated. The metal arms of the chair were scuffed and scratched as though many others had sat here and struggled, yanking the chain uselessly across it.

Sylar tried to think of something else besides his helplessness. His assailants withdrew. He hung his head and coughed, trying to clear his airway. He must have aspirated some of the vomit because he couldn't quite get his breath. It was across the front of his shirt. The stench was awful. No one seemed to care. He didn't expect them to.

Minutes passed, perhaps more. People came and went in the room. There was a strange buzzing noise, followed a few minutes later by a noise he was well familiar with – the sound of bone being cut. Another noise accompanied it – Peter making a sound of suffering. He blinked and focused ahead of him, where Peter had his head bent to the arm of the couch. He was naked again, which was confusing, but whatever. An elderly man stood next to him with what looked like a small drill.

The man said something Sylar couldn't catch. He really missed his enhanced hearing. Of course, he missed all his abilities. If he'd had them, he wouldn't be chained to a chair, so fucked up he could hardly keep his head up. Peter responded to the man, shoving away a small gas canister that was sitting on the floor. He snarled, "I don't want the fucking nitrous!"

"Peter!" the man answered sharply and said something else less distinct, but Peter wasn't listening to him. He'd shifted to the side and grabbed the canister, about the size of a very large thermos, but much heavier. He looked from it up to Sylar, meeting his eyes. He nodded once and righted the metal cylinder.

"Fine," Peter said. "I'll use it." He put a clear plastic mask over his face and after a minute, he put his head back down. One quick whir of the drill, another whimper of pain, and the man picked up a small device and inserted it into Peter's head. Sylar blinked. What the hell? Admittedly he was a little distance away, but that looked like the same kind of implant he'd taken out of Peter's skull yesterday. It would kill his powers. They'd both be helpless.

He shook and hung his head again. It hurt – a steady, pounding headache to go along with the burning in his throat and lungs. Every breath and every heartbeat made him ache. He wished he could stop both. More minutes passed. A familiar voice impinged on his consciousness - one he'd heart on the television many times, even if he'd rarely paid attention to it: the president.

He looked around the room again. Everyone was standing at something like attention. Peter was half-sitting on the arm of the couch, still naked, and kissing Nathan Petrelli, who stood there allowing himself to be kissed, but seeming indifferent to it. Peter was putting everything into it, his every motion a plea for attention and affection. Nathan ignored him, but he stayed right there where he could receive Peter's ministrations.

Sylar felt ill. And angry – angry at Peter for betraying him, jealous that after everything they'd talked about, Peter was sucking up to Nathan the moment he walked in the room. Peter was damaged goods in more ways than one. He was sick in the head. Nathan had obviously broken him time after time and he'd healed wrong. He was insane. It was the only explanation for how his mouth worked on Nathan's, the same begging subservience that had so turned Sylar on. It was repulsive to see him direct it to the man who had molested and abused him – bizarre to see it utterly unreturned.

They were certainly right out in the open about it. The emotion and anger seemed to help Sylar focus and clear his head. He looked around the room at the dozen or so people here. No one was shocked, though a few looked uncomfortable. Noah Bennet said very blandly, "I think the president would like to have some time alone with his brother to get reacquainted. Let's give them a moment."

The room cleared. As people filed past Sylar, they either ignored him pointedly, or smirked knowingly at him. It made him cold and frankly, scared the hell out of him. He wished they'd just get to the part where they killed him. Noah was the last to filter by. He had a different expression: assessing and cautious, like there was something up and he hadn't quite figured it out. His strides had slowed as he passed Sylar, who looked back up at him, confused. When he could slow no more without looking suspicious, Noah picked up his pace and went on. Sylar turned to watch him go. The door shut heavily behind him.

He turned back. There were two people in the room other than himself, Nathan and Peter. One was a thin, wiry young Asian he suspected was Trevor, who could stop time, and the other was the machine-gun guy, who was too generic in appearance for Sylar to place him among the many security stooges Peter had mentioned the day before. Trevor was tinkering with what looked like an iPad, off to the side of the room. Machine-gun guy was watching Peter's unrequited fondling of Nathan with rather more interest than Sylar thought he should.

Nathan broke from Peter, who was looking up at him with that rapt, adoring expression Sylar had so loved. He shivered in disgust. He'd thought it was real. He'd been a sucker, an idiot. He might have thought more along those lines, but Nathan was walking over to him. He squatted a little to the side, where he couldn't be kicked. He looked into Sylar's face with an empty curiosity and an unblinking stare. There was something positively inhuman in him, something reptilian. Sylar suspected that like Peter, Nathan could change his face quicker than putting on a new hat.

Nathan reached out and smeared his finger through the puke on Sylar's pajama top. He sniffed it and looked at Sylar, saying simply, "Vomit." He looked at his finger for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth and sucked it clean. Sylar gagged and dry heaved immediately in an involuntary spasm. That had to be the grossest thing he'd ever seen anyone do in person. Pain flared through his body as the nausea passed through him again. His head ached like it might explode.

Nathan smiled at Sylar's agonized expression, giving the impression that he'd done that quite purposefully, just to inflict that reaction. "I hear you fucked my brother." He was still smiling genially, but there was something about it that told Sylar he'd be lucky if death was the worst thing Nathan dished out to him.

Peter sauntered up behind Nathan and ran a hand casually through his hair. Nathan didn't respond at all – it was like he hadn't been touched. Peter said, "Yeah, he couldn't get enough of me. He thought he owned me." Peter walked around behind Sylar, the hand that had touched Nathan's hair trailing up his arm (despite Sylar's almost instinctive effort to jerk away from him) and across his shoulders as he circled. "He's so responsive. Look at him."

Sylar shuddered. Nathan's smile widened. Sylar would have thought he was going to be sick, but he already was. Instead he just felt profoundly miserable. He didn't think he'd ever felt this wretched and hopeless in his life. Peter walked over to machine-gun guy. "He's kind of like Blake here," he said, copping a feel without preamble. "Always ready to bend me over and take some."

That's not true, Sylar thought, angrily thinking about the times he'd turned Peter down and feeling suddenly self conscious about the times he hadn't. Nathan was watching as Peter continued to massage Blake's groin, pressing his body to him and looking up into his eyes. His other hand moved restlessly up and down Blake's right side, caressing his thigh, his gun, his knife and his combat harness. Blake's expression made it clear the advance was welcome.

Peter breathed open-mouthed at him and turned with a small, wanton groan, pressing his ass to Blake's front. He reached back and put his hands in Blake's pants pockets to tug him against himself in a mockery of sex.

"Peter," Nathan chided gently and Peter let Blake go instantly. The man shifted position, obviously erect, and looked away with a dissatisfied frown. How many of Nathan's goons has he fucked? Sylar thought, teeth clenched.

"Ooo," Peter cooed, looking at Sylar's face. "Look at him, Nathan. Look how upset he is." He grinned and knelt next to Sylar, opposite from Nathan. Peter took Sylar's hand in his. Sylar jerked away from him and Peter bit his lower lip teasingly. He took Sylar's hand again and then again and again until finally Sylar gave up, swallowed and looked away.

Peter wrapped his hand around his and then turned and put his knees on the floor in front of him. He could be kicked. Sylar considered it. Strongly. If he'd had shoes on, he probably would have. Peter's fingers worked against his hand as he leaned forward and kissed Nathan deeply right in front of him.

Sylar almost didn't notice Peter press the key to his handcuffs against his palm. Once he did, he nearly didn't manage to cover his surprise. The pair broke apart and Nathan looked to catch his expression. Fearing it might not be suitable, Sylar lifted his foot and shoved Peter away from him hard. He fell with a little grunt. Sylar snarled at him. It wasn't hard.

The key really made no difference. What the hell was he going to do with it? Neither of them had abilities, there was an armed guard standing nearby and probably more outside, and Trevor was in the room. He'd put a stop to everything as soon as it started because that was his job and that was his power.

Sylar did notice that this was the extent of Nathan's defenses at the moment. It was one of the many scenarios Peter had talked about, but all of those had involved Sylar having his powers. In the scenario, it was Sylar's job to incapacitate Trevor while Peter distracted or dealt with anyone else in the room. He looked back. Peter and Nathan were standing together (out of kicking range, sadly), and Peter was peppering Nathan's face with kisses. Nathan seemed unmoved. He didn't look distracted. Neither did Blake.

Peter began begging Nathan for sex and tried to pull him in the direction of the couch. Sylar tried not to listen to his entreaties – how much he'd missed Nathan, how much he wanted him, promises of never letting anyone fuck him without Nathan's permission again, etc. Sylar rolled his eyes and contented himself with glaring at Blake.

Nathan looked over at Sylar, no doubt at his face darkened with rage at the idea he was going to be forced to witness Peter getting it on with his brother. "Suck him off," Nathan said.

Peter hesitated, saying, "Sylar?"

"Yes. Show me," Nathan said. "I want to see you pleasure him before I have him killed for touching you."