Days Of Futures Past


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Scene Title Days Of Futures Past
Synopsis Sylar has a new mission: getting home.
Date December 7, 2018

The Underground

This isn't what anyone expected.

Muffled sounds of scraping metal on rock, a hot and suffocating feeling in the air. There's a rush of cold for a moment, all amidst the darkness and sounds of muffled voices. Heavy eyelids crack open to view blurred yellow lights in the darkness, the numbness of shock fades to the dull and throbbing ache of pain, of mortality, of living.

We're bringing in a Priority Hot, ready the clean room.

Crackling voices coming over speakers snap and pop with audible distortion. The dull ache of pain gives way to the searing sting of fresh injury. Toes of boots drag endlessly across an uneven surface, and blurry eyes take in rough and broken concrete littered with debris. Wet and arched stone walls, exterior electronic cabling, caged lights overhead. Tunnels.

He's been exposed for god knows how long, he's probably already dead.

The dragging stops, pain gives way to the feeling of arms outstretched, held by others, the feeling of being dragged. There's a strained creak of old metal, chips of rust falling to the wet ground. Brighter light now floods the dark corridor, and blurred vision can make out two yellow silhouettes in flanking peripheral.

In you go. God have mercy.

Propelled forward, Sylar is hurled through an open doorway into a room of brown-stained tiling on the floor, walls and ceiling with a drain in the middle of the room. A metallic piping serves as a framework around the tiles, with spigots aiming from all sides, as if they could create a grid of water with just a little pressure. Landing on the tiles, Sylar skids on his shoulder with the gunshot wound, leaving a streak of blood behind him as he slides across the wet floor to impact the wall.

In the doorway, two alien looking figure stand in bright yellow attire. Crinkling plastic suits with metal gaskets on the joints, knee-high boots, and plastic face masks and breathing aparatuses. They stare, for just a moment, watching Sylar in silence.

He looks a lot like him, doesn't he?

The door swings shut with a creak, followed by a loud thunk and another groan of metal of a latch sliding into place. Somewhere distant, a rushing sound begins filling the pipes; Someone's turned on the pressure.

Good morning Sylar, welcome to the future.

Water wakes up the senses. That is the last thing he wants right now. A pointless, half-pained, more startled cry bounces off the walls as water hisses and soaks, body convulsing once, every little ache and pain twinging once in a chorus of life. Sylar squeezes his eyes shut and sputters, curling up for a moment— until water starts to bend away from him, pooling towards the opposite wall where it builds in some sort of supernatural ramp of liquid, and finally breaks only to drain towards the hole in the center of the room.

It happens by instinct, not thought, but it allows Sylar to open his eyes and fully take in his surroundings, take stock of himself. Kneeling and huddled against the wall, he knows that yes, his shoulder is still as ruined as it was, an electrical burn mark just beneath it, shirt half torn across the chest where he'd been sliced once by the Company agent, although that long ago stopped bleeding. All in all, it could be worse.

He knows that where he is is the worst casualty of all.

Sylar's good arm moves to press his hand against the slick, tiled walls, pushing himself up to stand, eyeing the water show with bemusement. Though his memory of his journey into this room is sharp, the images he retains are half-dazed, half-conscious. Creatures of yellow plastic and anonymous glass faceplates, the artificial drawing of air through a mechanical filter. How many more?

His left arm folded against him like a wounded bird might protect a wing, Sylar lets his right hand extend out towards the door, trying to telekinetically grasp at the locks and latches he can't see. Metal groans in protest, and the structure starts to shake.

The water stops with droplets falling from all of the spigots slowly, soon followed by a shuddering in the pipes as the pressure is halted. When the door begins to buckle and creak, not only does the latch creak and bend, but the metal frame itself begins to become unbolted from the wall. Old and damaged stone cracks and crumbles, and the door simply breaks out of the wall — frame and all — with a collapsing of some loose stone to a powdery burst on the slick concrete below. The ruster door scrapes and groans as it hobbles like some deranged puppet at Sylar's telekinetic command. Once removed, the door is laid to the side with a creak and a loud thump.

A narrow subterranean passage leads out into a hallway where flickering yellow lights in metal cages crackle and snap overhead. Drops of water fall down through splits in the molded concrete ceiling, and a faded yellow and black plate on the wall opposite of the doorway reads, Conduit Tunnel B-4.

B-4? Before? That has to be a joke.

The sound of Sylar's footsteps bounces around noisily in the confined space, ricocheting between concrete and making his head ring, but he's not about to slow down or be quieter for the sake of his hearing. He trails a combination of blood and water, although when it hits the concrete ground, it's only darker, slick spatters of an indeterminable kind, the shape of his shoes amongst them as he moves… not quite at a run, but something close, arms wrapped about him so tight it's as if he's trying to keep himself contained in some way.

He doesn't know where he's going. All Sylar knows is that he's following the sound of life in what he knows to be a mostly dead world. He'd seen the painting come to life in just a few moments of consciousness and knows what the end game was supposed to be - this doesn't feel like it. He's supposed to be a god.

Soft laughter joins the sound of his foot steps, rasping and mirthless.

He looks a lot like him, doesn't he? That's what they'd said. Sylar moves faster towards the sounds of hearts beating, foot steps, voices. He'll make them tell him everything. He'll make them scream it if he has to— of course, that's panic talking, and he finally slows down when he reaches the sounds of voices. Perhaps two years— well, however many years ago, he'd have inflicted pain if only to mask his own fear at this situation, but now, Sylar attempts to think. And so he tries to be quiet, and he tries to listen, to judge what his next move should be.

At the end of the hall Sylar moved down, there's a handful of voices. Two men sit at a warped metal table — the folding kind use for card games — in their yellow contamination suits. Both have removed the masked helmets, revealing weary and emaciated young men with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. One of them shakily pulls up a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips, drawing in a deep and thick breath of smoke before blowing it out in two clean lines from his nose. "…s'fucked though, isn't it? Spittin' fuckin' image really."

The other man, only just now having removed his helmet, runs a hand along the top of his head, fingers brushing over hair clipped close to the scalp where old scars have long since healed. "Yeah, I think it's the eyebrows." He snorts out a laugh, "Peter's going to shit himself when he sees him." The plastic helmet is set down on the table, rubber gloved fingers brushing over it as he settles himself down on a rickety wooden chair. The room seems like an old breakroom. There's a vending machine that looks a decade out of service, not getting any electricity. The glass front has been smashed out and nothing remains inside except for bare corkscrews of aluminum. A few steel doors line one wall, each marked with a faded diagram of tunnel networks and number codes.

"We'll give him fifteen in the hose room, should have at least cleaned him off enough to not risk immediate infection when we drag him down to the cell level." He snorts out a laugh, looking at the cigarette smoking man across the table. "Seriously, Bernie, those things are going t'fucking kill you."

Sylar leans against the wall just beside the door, shifting just enough so he can see a slice of the room. He doesn't need to concentrate to hear, and so he doesn't, just observes what he can without risking being seen. His vision focuses with supernatural ability to take in what he hopes aren't outdated blueprints of the place, and blinks the vision away just in time to hear the name—


A tense moment as he's bombarded with quite a few different reactions - searing rage being only one, and underneath that, lurking where rationality lies, a glimmer of hope. A piece fitting into place when it comes to the one plan he has, still in progress: the one that gets him home.

In this day and age, it might take more than cigarettes to kill you. The hapless man meets his maker with a broken neck, flung with violent force against a steel door, body still by the time it hits the floor. The other man, the one that had spoken that name, suddenly finds himself pinned to another wall, arms splayed out like a bloodless crucifixion as Sylar enters the room, right arm out. Times like these he wishes he wasn't left handed. No matter. He asks one question.

"Where is Peter."

When Bernie is ripped from his chair and thrown across the room to impact the wall, his partner lets out a rasping gasp of profanity, "Fuck!" He doesn't turn in time though, lifted off of his feet and slammed into the opposite wall hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. His legs kick and arms splay out to the sides as Sylar forces him up against damp concrete. "Jesus, fuck! Oh my fuck!" His eyes grow wide, snaking across the room to something Sylar didn't see on his first approach in, a weapons rack that was obscured by the angle of the door and the vending machine, a pair of AK-47s mounted on it. "You're him!" He has no hope of reaching the guns, though, pinned as he is.

When Sylar's question finally dawns on his ears, there's a solid, deep swallow, "You — You can go fuck yourself, Vanguard trash." Vanguard? "Go ahead, kill me. I ain't afraid of death." The coldness and emptiness in his eyes is something Sylar isn't familiar with. His rasping words aren't a boast, there simply is no fear or hope in him any more. At this angle, Sylar also begins to notice other details. Under his chin are a series of large circular scars, like smallpox innoculation scars, both of them over where the glands at the throat are

A crook of a finger, and the man comes snapping forward— only to be shoved back once more with force enough to make teeth rattle. "No I suppose you wouldn't be," Sylar says, quietly, although the resonance of his voice easily fills the room. The weapons go unnoticed, focus solely on this man while his friend lies cooling not feet away. "But you might be afraid of pain." He's in a sharing mood, it seems, and with a flash of green-blue, a needle thin laser passes through the man's splayed arm, and slowly, slowly it starts journeying, inch by inch, slicing through muscle, skin, sinew.

Separate thuds as bloodied human meat hits the ground and he can hear Gillian's heart beat skip a beat at the sight of the Company agent falling in pieces like a sordid jigsaw puzzle, the edges seared and so much blood that can't be contained by burned flesh-

The lasers flicker off and Sylar grits his teeth. Cell level, this man had said. Just like the Company, he'd thrown at Peter. The lights flicker back to life and he continues the steady sawing, hoping for answers.

The sizzling stench of burning flesh and the howl of screams echo through the room. It's loud, reverberating down the halls from the sheer pain of Sylar's laser at work. The blue-green beam leaves a black cauterized line through the man's arm, and his writhes in place as much as he can from where he's pinned. There's deep and throaty scream that roars up from him, jaw snapping closed to restrain words that might come. He's resiliant, he's strong willed, and it's almost admirable.

But there's only so long that he can hold out, the pain, the searing pain is simply too much. "Turbine room!" His voice is a shrill cry of fear and agony, "He's in the turbine room!" On the map Sylar had examined on the door, that wasn't far away. A few ajoining halls and up a flight of stairs. Where is he?

A federal agent from a past long since abandoned told Sylar that under pain, people will tell you anything to make it stop. Often times, Sylar finds that Felix was right - and it's fortunate that most times, what comes out is the truth. The sounds cease of screams, of half-breathed curse words, are silenced abruptly, and a gentle thud as the dead man collapses unceremoniously in a heap on the ground. Not a moment later, Sylar emerges out the room at a run despite his injuries, knowing that screams can attract company. Where there's one human, you will inevitably find another. And another.

And hopefully one in particular.

He follows the mental directions he'd memorised in a matter of a moment. Turbine room. He passes doors, moves upstairs which causes individual jolts of shooting pain through his shoulder, enough to make his vision around the edges blurry. He can deal with it when he gets— when he gets home

Down one series of underground halls Sylar runs, and the sounds of opening doors and shouting fills the halls behind him. Crackling voices barking over the radio about men down. He's been in the future less than a day, and already he's murdered two people. Some things never change.

Rounding a corner, Sylar finds a stairwell with "EMERGENCY ACESS" stenciled in black on the concrete above it. From the stairwell there is a droning hum like that of an idling engine. It is in that direction the memorized map said would be the shortest path to the turbine room. Shouts come down the hall further, and Sylar makes for the stairs. All of the running, all of the exertion, it gives a feeling of light-headedness as he runs up the concrete steps thorugh the emergency stairwell, flickering yellow lights casting deep and dark shadows. This would be so much faster if he had Wu-Long's ability. So much faster.

By the time Sylar covers two floors worth of stairs, his heart is racing and blood is drooling out of the wound in his shoulder, his knees ache and his back stings with pain from unseen injury. His vision blurs for a moment, eyes falling to the trail of blood e's been leaving on the stairs. Then ahead to an open doorway, and the loud roar of some kind of engines not far beyond.

Stepping out into the empty doorway, Sylar emerges onto the bottom floor of a room filled with noisy machinery. Large half-cylinders of metal rumbling and humming loudly, rusted catwalks overhead. This isn't a subway tunnel or train station, this is a power plant.

"…make sure they stay running. If even one of them shows signs of failing again, call me up and I'll see if I can fix it." It's a familiar voice coming over the hum of the turbines. Stepping into view between rows of the loud machinery is a familiar face to match it. Peter looks much like how Sylar left him, lightly unshaven with short cut hair, though his green army jacket looks somewhat out of place. Shirtless beneath his jacket, Sylar can see a pistol tucked into the back of his black jeans. Peter's never been much for guns before.

At his side walks another man, not one Sylar recognizes; young and blonde haired with a smudge of grease across one cheek, wearing a ratty denim jumpsuit with a pair of headphones hooked around his neck.

"A'ight Pete." Something isn't right. "I'll keep an eye on things down here." Peter doesn't have his scar.

Over bloodied clothes and bloodied skin - the water has long since cleaned away Peter's blood from where Claire had gunned him down, but Sylar's own seems just keep coming, a constant reminder of mortality - new and unnatural colours pool over. Camouflage sets in quickly, the colour of cement, machinery, shadows. It's imperfect, but it's enough to trick the eye for a few brief moments.

If there's one thing to fix about this future, it's to make sure Peter does not get to live in it. The differences, however, are jarring - the gun, the lack of a scar - and uncertainty, for a moment, wedges itself between Sylar's tendency to make up his plans as he goes and he determination to fix his situation.

A thunder of footsteps above as people follow the trail of blood, hunting down the cat that's been set amongst the chickens, already spreading carnage. Sylar knows he's going to have to leave very soon. One way or another.

He takes his weight off the wall, leaving behind a shining smear of blood, a bright red in contrast to his own unnatural pallor of his surroundings, flickering and changing with a moment's delay as he moves, keeping as hidden as he can for the time being. There's an industrial sounding grind as he shuts the door with his mind, barely looking back to do it. He knows, from the map he saw, there is at least one more way out of this place - may as well put a delay between him and his hunters, all the same. Steels himself, lets colour flood back over him, and, trying to put strength into his voice that he doesn't quite feel right now, fueled only by feeling, Sylar growls, "Peter."

Dark eyes immediately track to the sound of the slamming door, and then that voice, and Peter's eyes widen in shock as he sees the bloodied and wounded man stalking towards him. His mouth opens, eyes widening, and there's a gaping quality to his expression, more so than usual. "Go." It's the terse order to the young blonde man, who backpedals quickly and rushes down between the turbines. Peter squares his shoulders, taking a few steps forward as he very slowly reaches out for the gun at his back, flicking the safety off but keeping it held down at his side. His brows lower, and Peter slowly raises the gun to level it at Sylar, but the voice that growls out of his lips is not what Sylar was expecting. "Kazimir."

Sylar's gaze tracks the progression of the gun, eyebrows furrowed in visible confusion that Peter would opt to use this weapon on him, rather surprised he isn't already recovering from being slammed into the wall. He focuses, however, on this threat of choice - ready to stop the bullet that might come shooting out to draw more blood. But then that name— his gaze snaps up to Peter's, and a small, disbelieving and monosyllabic chuckle drawing out of him almost like a sigh, and slowly, he shakes his head. "Kazimir," he repeats, voice flat, sneering as if Peter had made a bad guess. "I'm not Kazimir." A hand lifts, and Peter's arm is forced towards the side - gun leveling at machinery rather than Sylar. "How do you know that name?" Against all odds, there's the faintest trace of jealousy in Sylar's voice, as misplaced as it may be.

Peter struggles against the telekinesis, letting out a pained grunt as his head cocks to one side, looking at the gun. There, just below the right side of his chin, a circular scar that looks like a smallpox vaccination. His arm struggles for a few moments, and Peter turns to look back at Sylar with a crooked and snarling expression, "Just kill me and get it over with." His dark eyes betray a long and difficult existance, even without his scar there's something damaged about him. It's only now that Sylar starts to notice there's some gray in Peter's stubble.

"I'm not going to play your games Kazimir, you won. Are you happy?" It's like he's trying to buy time, he's definately stalling for something. But there's a look of confusion on Peter's face when he notices the blood and the injuries. His eyes narrow, and they focus on Sylar again. Tilting his head to the side, Peter squints slightly, the look he would normally give when using his telepathy, but there is no hollow sensation in Sylar's mind to indicate it. "Who are you?" He asks rather verbally.

Why isn't he using his powers?

Sylar almost wants to hurt him purely to garner a reaction that reminds him of the young man who had sent him here, to show that he can send him back and as Peter talks, he takes in the differences, the vaccination marks and the grey in his stubble. How far in the future has he hurtled?

"Sylar," he states, and in a moment, wooziness hits him, eyes flickering shut for just a second. He simply can't keep going like this. "You sent me here or don't you remember," he says, almost genuinely angry at the prospect of Peter forgetting such a thing, anger enough to fight back the tide of blood loss for now. "And I want to go back." He can hear them coming, like a lynch mob, and weakness finally filters into his voice. "Send me back. Send me back and I won't hurt anyone here."

Peter's eyes grow wide in disbelief, mouth hanging open as he watches the man in front of him. But there's something that dawns on him, and first it's understanding. "The Bronx…" Peter's voice is hushed, and he stops struggling, "Oh my God, this is where you went." Peter's eyes dart around the room, just as several shouts and cries ring out from the catwalks above, men with automatic weapons circling around, trying to spot where the killer went.

"Sylar, it's really you?" The next thing that dawns over Peter is relief. He seems thrilled to see Sylar. His fingers relax, dropping the gun to the floor with a rattling clatter. "Sylar, you — when you disappeared that day, it — it all went wrong. I was — " He forces his eyes shut, then changes the topic. "The next time I saw you, you went by the name Kazimir Volken, and you were leading an army into the streets of New York. There was a virus, a sickness and it was killing everyone."

Swalowing dryly, Peter closes his eyes, "That was only the beginning. There was this virus my other half…" Shouting gets closer, cutting off Peter's voice as the men up above notice what's going on down below. "Sylar, let me go. I can persuade them, but you have to let me go." Peter stares intently at the man before him; all of the grudges, all of the hatred, all of the revenge. Where did it go?

As far as Sylar knows, Peter is the man - the men who wanted to kill him, who had betrayed him and set a trap with the Company. Not the case, but that's nothing he can know right now, and the fact that Peter seems glad to see him only adds fuel to that burning anger. Sylar is, ever since his ability set him on a road of bloodshed, a cold person, and this rage, hot and vibrant, is almost new and frightening. A hint of something that can't be controlled.

Footsteps pound ominously on the catwalks above and Sylar looks up, wary, then back at Peter, mouth twisting in a frown at what he's asking. But there's so few choices now, running out of options, too many variables. Even with his memory, he can barely focus to quite figure out which way is out— and he needs Peter.

His hand drops, and Peter's arm is released, Sylar promptly falling back into shadows to avoid being seen by the hunters above them. You went by the name Kazimir Volken. It rings true of his destiny but it doesn't sound right - why would he bother to hide behind a name that isn't his own? "Go," Sylar relents, to Peter. "Call them off. Then tell me everything."

Moments later, several men in gray jumpsuits come running down into the generator floor, looking around and spreading out through the facility, "Peter. We've got two men dead upstairs, one of them looks like he was taken out with a laser or something, there's — " Peter rubs at his wrist that was being restrained, and moves over to bend down and pick up his gun, tucking it into the back of his jeans again. He holds up a hand, shaking his head as he moves to intercept the emergency response. Up close, these "soldiers" are nothing more than young kids, fifteen or sixteen years old with automatic weapons.

"He's gone. He escaped up through the freight elevator, it was one of the stragglers from the ruins. It wasn't one of Volken's men, we're still secure." His eyes drift to the side, then back again, "Go do a sweep of the exterior, see if you can find him." The young men nod together, taking a few steps back before heading quickly towards another hall, filing out one by one.

There's a sigh, long and ragged as Peter turns to look back at Sylar. "You're hurt, I…" Peter closes his eyes, "I'm sorry, for how things went." He's changed. "Seeing you, though, it's…" There's a hint of a smile on Peter's face, "It means maybe there's some hope after all." Walking back to where Sylar had ducked into the shadows behind one of the rumbling turbines, Peter glances around uncertainly in the darkness. "You — Kazimir — You're in charge of New York City, hell, almost all of the world I think." Peter's brows furrow together, "Hard to say, after the virus struck. Things just started falling apart faster than before. These guys, Vanguard, they showed up and started taking over military installations, claiming portions of the city, then the country. It was like they were all over the world, just waiting."

Peter brings up his hands and rubs them at the back of his neck, "Then the virus mutated, it… it joined with another virus out there, and they, I have no idea. Television media was already off the air by then. I just have the horror stories, a rolling infectious plague that gave people Evolved powers, and turned them into killing machines for a short life. Then they'd melt, die, and infect more. It just…" Peter swallows, dryly, "Stuff I hear over the radio?" He looks around for a moment, "Estimate is ninety percent of the world's population is dead."

Sylar waits until the lynch mob have left the immediate area, not ducking back out of the darkness until then. When he does, it's halfway through Peter's spiel, fluorescent light spilling over his form once more, and he listens carefully, filing away the information.

They got what they wanted. And then some. And then it starts going wrong. Kazimir had said he'd take precautions but…

He leans against the wall, and he doesn't seem to be trusting Peter anymore than before, keeping his distance and tense like a cornered animal, as if waiting for the other man to unload that gun in the moments it takes Sylar to blink at the wrong time. But he listens, and he believes what's being said, and his face is grim and stoic, pale in this light, sickly so. A mask that eyes dart behind, again to Peter's vaccination scar, to his eyes.

"What hope?" he asks, simply.

"You can stop it." Peter says that with a straight face, as if that was the natural thing to ask. "Obviously you — You've got to know something about what's going on. Sylar — The only way we've been able to survive the infection, it's been by taking injections that strip us of our abilities, make us human." He worries about mentioning this weakness, espescially around someone who still has powers. "Some of us with abilities who were able to avoid infection are living in isolation, they've been working on a plan, trying to… figure out how it all went wrong." Peter starts to pace, one hand rubbing up across his forehead, "I can't believe you're alive. I — I can't believe it's you and not — " He forces his eyes closed and changes his line of thought.

"You can go back, I — " Peter breathes in a slow breath, then exhales a sigh. "We can figure something out, find a way to…" There's a slow sigh, "You're going to have to take the injection, or hunker down in one of the containment rooms in the basement. If you get infected and die…" Peter shakes his head, looking at Sylar with a silent stare of disbelief. He's here.

"I know what's going on," Sylar says, ominous words considering he leaves it at that. But only for a moment, because he adds, "It's not supposed to be like this." He's meant to be the god in the equation, for instance. Not Kazimir.

And then, Peter's words may have the same effect as an electric shock, Sylar's arm scraping against the wall as he takes a step back. "I'm not taking an injection," he says, voice darkly incredulous. "And I'm not going to let you lock me away. I'm not." And his mind catches up to him, eyes narrowing across at the other man, as if he'd been betrayed. "You don't have your abilities." It takes every rational part of him not to lash out in frustration, and it's almost visible, his right hand curling into a fist until knuckles go white, left still hanging useless. "How am I meant to get back there if you can't help me?" The question is quiet but severe in tone, cutting.

Peter levels a glare at Sylar, "If you don't do one of the two, you're going to get sick, and you're going to die. Do you know how these people die? They lose control, of everything, biological functions, their powers, they kill everything around themselves… and then they melt, hideously and die from the inside out." His words are spat out, "Get over yourself and think about the world for once in your miserable life." Is this Peter Petrelli, or some very unconvincing stand-in?

"As for how you'll get back…" Peter looks away for a moment, eyes unfocused and distant, "I'll handle it." His gaze snaps back, "You just concentrate on not dying, and then I'll take you to see someone who can help us figure out how to get you back to when you belong without stepping on a butterfly."

Peter's description of these violent deaths ring familiar, but it takes Sylar a moment of more holding back to really digest it as rage flickers deep within him again. Who is Peter to judge him? As quickly as it came, the anger dies. Peter's the only person Sylar knows is even alive. Who can help him. That's who Peter is, Gabriel. His head bows, but not out of humbleness, just to take a few breaths, feeling his wound and the way blood pumps out of him trickle by trickle. Finally, he looks up at Peter, dark eyes unreadable.

"It's already happening," Sylar murmurs, voice a quiet rasp. "In my time, it's all just beginning. If you want this to change, if you want the world to stop dying slowly around you, you'll get me home as soon as you can." A beat. "Take me to the containment rooms. I won't be able to help you if I don't have my powers."

Peter watches Sylar for a moment, as a bitter smile crosses his lips, "There was a time, when I would have given anything to see you locked up, or dead." A few slow steps are taken towards Sylar, and Peter levels his dark eyes on the man he, in a time so long ago it feels like a fairy tale, called his enemy. He reaches out with one hand, offering it to Sylar quietly. "I never thought I'd be as happy to see you as I am." He looks down at the hand, then up to Sylar, "Looks like it's your turn to play hero."

Not a day ago for Sylar, but close to a decade for Peter, there'd been a fight in the Bronx that had turned to carnage thanks to all previous alliances crumpling beyond recognition, not the least of which was the tenuous alliance between a serial killer and a Company agent. It strikes with bitter irony, to Sylar, that now, Peter is offering his hand, and perhaps his hesitation doesn't ring of insincerity - but rather, careful consideration, as his palm meets Peter's, fingers clasping in the gesture of agreement and acceptance. Save the serial killer, save the world. Has a nice ring to it. His reply is sardonic. "Can't wait to get started."

This is the beginning of the 'Road to Ruin' storyline.

Next in this storyline…
A Brief History of Time

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