Responsibility

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Scene Title Responsibility
Synopsis At the end of a journey, a hero reminisces on misdeeds, and finally takes responsibility for what he's done.
Date December 7, 2008

Homeland Security Holding Facility


Fluorescent lights flicker and dim for a moment as the door slams shut, and a man in a sleek black suit steps into the white-walled interrogation room. The lights reflect off of the balting top of his head, and he throws a manilla envelope down onto the table — open — and many black and white satellite photographs of Manhattan on fire come sliding out and across the table to the man handcuffed to the chair, as if that was really keeping him in place.

For her part, yes. Dani catches that. She hadn't known that. And she doesn't know Peter all -that- well. Hundreds… thousands… tens of thousands? How many people dead at his hands? Peter is the boogeyman of the modern age. Her eyes widen, and she immediately bolts for the door.

"I heard about your conversation with Agent Delecroix," The balding man notes, pulling out a sleek plastic device, pressing a button to settle it down on the table top. A small red light turns on beneath the letters REC, "Do you think you could reiterate all of that for me." His reflection in the wall-length mirror mimics his movements, and he stares at it, or perhaps beyond it briefly.

He can't move, there's nothing right now that could make Peter. Not Dani's fear, not Cat's concern, not even Helena's guilt. Right now he can barely keep his head up, eyes half lidded, staring vacantly in front of himself, eyes watering in a now silent crying. Every single life he took, every single painful moment he's tried to hide from since that day he fled from the glowing crater that was once Midtown had come flooding back. His journey to stop the bomb, and his inevitable descent to become it. His journey to stop Sylar in the Company holding facility, and his eventual failure to do even that simple task. Then, it all starts to fit back together, old memories and new stitching themselves shut like some Frankenstein's monster inside of his head. "Helena…" He rasps out her name, looking down to her with that half-dead expression, "We… we were wrong."

The man across the table looks like he's been dragged thorugh hell and back. One sleeve of his black collared shirt has been ripped off, and dried blood covers his body, even if there's no visible injuries to speak of on him, save for a scar cutting across his brow. A tangled mess of stringy black hair falls in all directions in a slicked disarray, and the stubble on his chin makes it look as though he hasn't shaved in a day or two, "You heard me." Does he have to go through all of this again?

Guilt, it's all Peter can feel. Guilt of thousands of lives snuffed out in an instant, guilt of having let those monsters out from their cells. Guilt from being responsible for the horrible attack Parkman suffered. Guilt from knowing that Bob's daughter was in the hands of psychopaths because of his own lust for revenge. In the end, it was, and had always been Peter's fault. "W-we… I was so wrong…"

"On the record." The agent motions to the digital recorder, "If you'd indulge a more formal explanation and just answer a few questions, we can get those cuffs on you and I might be able to see about arranging that you're moved to a more comfortable facility and allowed to clean up." He's much more personable and gentle than Agent Delecroix was.

"I can't afford to make any more enemies than I already have," Sylar says. "And as much as I'd love to see what makes you both tick, it isn't necessary. No ability is completely unique. I've learned from my mistakes, Claire. Gorging isn't going to get me anywhere. All I want is for Peter to take responsibility for his actions, as I'm taking responsibility for mine. No one will ever know the truth if he's dead."

Peter Petrelli has been many things in his life; a son, a brother, a nurse, a hero, a terrorist, an agent, but never n any of them has he ever truly been brave. Not in his own mind. It's this, where he's sitting now, where he's letting them keep him is where thr bravery comes in, where the guilt has dragged him kicking and screaming. "I was the bomb." He murmurs those words, lowering his head as he does.

"You're wrong," Gillian says softly, keeping hold of the gun, though she doesn't fire or even point it when she'd have a good chance to do so now. "I don't know who he was before, but Gabriel wouldn't hurt me, much less kill me. Can't say the same for you— or the Company your other half works for." There's a slow inhale and she looks away from him, risking a glance toward the skyline. "And you're one… to accuse someone of killing, Peter Petrelli. At least you could take responsibility for your own weakness."

The agent moves past the mirror, pulling up a chair to sit across from Peter, folding his hands and leaning forward. Thini brows lower as his voice takes on a somewhat more paternal and scolding tone, "You, Peter Petrelli, were directly involved in the destruction of Midtown Manhattan in two-thousand six?"

"An accident?" Munin breathes, rising to an incredulous pitch. "You call what happened here an accident? All that life, snuffed out in an instant? Just because you couldn't control yourself?" Now she does reach up, using her fingers to brush the stray strands of away from her eyes so her view of Peter is no longer obscured by dark curls. "If you were half the man he is, you'd step forward, take responsibility — tell everyone the truth. This city doesn't deserve anything less." She can't deny that Sylar is keeping her alive because he deems her useful. If there's any fondness between them, it only goes one way, and the falter in her rebuke makes this painfully obvious. She squares her shoulders and straightens her back, drawing herself up as high as she can without climbing to her feet. "I'm not going to tell you anything," she says, "not about Sylar, not about anyone else."

"Yes." Peter goes to bring his hands up to his head, but the handcuffs restraining his arms only rattle in protest. "I… I couldn't control my powers, and I exploded. I had Ted Sprague's ability, and I destroyed the city because I couldn't control myself. Sylar had nothing to do with it." The words are bitter venom in Peter's mouth, more so than Bryan Buckley's ability ever were for his counterpart.

Of all the evils Sylar has committed, laying waste to so much of New York City has always been the worst attributed. He didn't even do it. He never would have let it come to this. Never. Perhaps the worst part in the mind of the troubled Company rogue is that Peter Petrelli, a man she had such high hopes for and respect for, continues to let the city believe that Sylar is to blame. At her sides, Odessa's fingers turn to fists.

"Was your brother, Senator Nathan Petrelli, ever involved with or knowing that you were the purpetrator of this crime, and not Sylar?" Then without hesitation, "And are you, or were you ever associated with the terrorist organization known as PARIAH?" The agent leans in, tilting his head to the side before leaning back in his seat, casting a furtive glance to the mirror, then back to Peter.

"You're killing the people you claim to care about." Related, but obviously someone they both care for. "The people you say you're trying to save!" Gillian doesn't know that a piece of glass lodged in the young woman's head can be removed, that she'll come back to life. There's no pull of energy in her direction. She's getting tired— so much energy being pulled out of her in such a little timeframe, but she doesn't stop. Keep a piece for herself, but let it flow freely otherwise.

"No," He lies, to protect Nathan, to protect his nephews, to protect Claire. "Nathan was never aware of my involvement." He swallows down those lies with frustration and cold tension, "I am and was a member of PARIAH, and have been a member during their activities within the city of New York. Once as a leading member, and then later as an associate."

"The two of you need to stop fighting over who is right and who is wrong and who deserves to be alive… and…" She looks around. The helicopter that got ripped apart. The various Agents— the pieces of one Agent… And now this young girl, younger than her, someone who'd jumped on him. Someone who shot him first. But she can sympathize with that. She shot Gabriel— and she would have jumped on him to save him if she'd had the time to. There was something in the other girl's eyes when she grabbed the scarred Agent's hand, something he may not have noticed, but she did. She was torn for some of the same reasons.

The agent nods slowly, satisfied with how this is going, "Was PARIAH responsible for the destruction of Washington-Irvine High School?" The agent's eyes level on Peter, and behind that wall-length mirror, the observers of the interrogation wait with baited breath, it is a suspicion that has been nagging at them for far too long.

"If you want to fucking kill yourselves, leave everyone else the hell out of it." She has no gun, no protector, no weapon. Just her voice and her opinions. "But there's a better way to fix this and the two of you fucking know it. If you'd even consider it."

"No." Peter states flatly, "We have no idea who that was." Truth, lies, a mixture of both. There's guesses he could make, but right now his biggest efforts are to clean his slate, to start anew, and to take responsibility for what he's done to everyone, to the world, all because of his many mistakes.

Peter has a long way to go to find redemption from himself.

But in Homeland Security's custody, he'll have plenty of time to search his soul.

In a cell where he belongs.


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December 6th: In Somnis Veritas
Previously in this storyline…
Five Minutes to Midnight

This is the end of a storyline.

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December 7th: Broken Pieces
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