Like Father, Like Son


angela_icon.gif nathan_icon.gif peter2_icon.gif peter_icon.gif

Scene Title Like Father, Like Son
Synopsis Some things you can blame on heredity, others not as easily.
Date October 24, 2008

Petrelli Mansion

It's the end of a long day. He has just enough time to check up on his children (long since ushered to bed), kiss his wife goodnight, and then finally descend down to the office on the ground floor. He's stripped out of his jacket and tie, down to a neat white shirt and gray slacks, now holding a folder filled with sheets of paper he's supposed to be reading. Instead, Nathan stands by the window, holding the documents loosely in one hand and a glass of expensive whiskey in the other - a very modest helping, more ice than liquor, but it seems to set the tone.

It's a whirlwind past two years, underscored with so much bitter that one has to push down. He chose this path and despite the thorns and obstacles that get in his way, there is absolutely no choice aside from continuing. There's been too much sacrifice for him to second guess himself.

A small sip of whiskey is taken, before the glass is set aside, and he opens the folder once more, pacing across his office. He's murmuring to himself - practicing, and the words are barely audible save for snippets of emphasis. "…honour to be… these important issues that plague…" He pauses, picks up a pen as he passes by the desk, and makes a note. 'Plague' could hardly be a very positive word, can it? No.

The wind blows through the stick-bare branches of the trees outside of the window, muted moonlight filtering through their dark branches to cast irregular shadows across the floor before the light from the desk lamp drowns them out in its warm yellow glow. The wind picks up some, causing one of the branches to scrape against the window pane, a brief, rash round of wood on glass that breaks the stillness of the room.

It is the setting of a trend for broken things.

"…Nathan." The voice is unmistakable, just as hushed and uncertain in his big brother's presence as always. But that it comes from an empty chair in the office is disquieting, even more so is the shimmer in the air, the creak of leather, and the figure that materialized from thin air in that high-backed seat. Alive, breathing, and dressed in a business suit with a narrow black tie, it hardly looks like the Peter that Nathan remembers. His hair is cut short, clean shaven, and a wildly jarring scar travels across the middle of his face at a skewed angle.

He makes no move to rise from the seat, dark eyes settled on his brother. It's the first time he's seen Nathan, the first time he's even dared to be near him since what happened. That weakness sinks in deep to his heart, being back in his big brother's presence after so long of being away. All he wants to do is pretend nothing has happened, rise up from this chair, and throw his arms around Nathan. But he doesn't. Because everything has changed, for the worse.

He doesn't react the way some might react - no visible signs of fear or shock, nothing frantic. Nathan's back stiffens, however, when his name is called, tension lining his shoulders beneath the fabric of his expensive shirt, and gently, he closes the folder in his hand.

Nathan turns towards the desk, now, watching with a blank expression as his younger brother materialises. A tense silence, then the gentle clink of ice against glass as the drink is raised, drained, and then set down onto the desk (forgetting entirely to use a coaster) along with the papers. "Peter," he says, and it's in his voice that the reaction is most obvious - a hushed tone of shock. It's been two years and all he's known of his brother were reports out of the mouths of people who didn't really know him. Nathan shakes his head once, slowly, in disbelief. "What are you doing here." Tone is cold, a little harsh, but he's moving around the desk, now. Perhaps to embrace, or at least to steal away the distance the antique desk creates.

"What I should have done a long time ago." Peter says, regretfully, though despite the foreboding tone of his words there's no sound of malice or anger there. He rises up from his seat, but holds out one hand to ward Nathan off. Peter eyes divert to the paperwork on the table, then back up to Nathan again, a mild tension now rising in his voice. "Where's mom?" That, however, is noted with more venom than would normally be reserved for his sole surviving parent.

"I…" Peter's hand lowers slowly, his head turning away as he takes a step around the chair, on ehand brushing over the leather of the back, "I need to talk to her. We both need to talk to her, Nathan." Peter turns his head to view his brother side-long. Then, all that determination and strength drains away as he meets his brother's gaze again, shoulders slouching. "Nathan… what happened?" He could be asking about so many things, so many rights turned wrong, so many possibilities tossed into the air and lost on the wind.

"What I should have done a long time ago." Peter says, regretfully, though despite the foreboding tone of his words there's no sound of malice or anger there. He rises up from his seat, but holds out one hand to ward Nathan off. Peter eyes divert to the paperwork on the table, then back up to Nathan again, a mild tension now rising in his voice. "Where's mom?" That, however, is noted with more venom than would normally be reserved for his sole surviving parent.

"I…" Peter's hand lowers slowly, his head turning away as he takes a step around the chair, on ehand brushing over the leather of the back, "I need to talk to her. We both need to talk to her, Nathan." Peter turns his head to view his brother side-long. Then, all that determination and strength drains away as he meets his brother's gaze again, shoulders slouching. "Nathan… what happened?" He could be asking about so many things, so many rights turned wrong, so many possibilities tossed into the air and lost on the wind.

Distance maintained.

Nathan stops short when Peter backs up, and if his expression was cold before, it seems to become a little icier. He walks back where he came, turning his back to Peter and moving back around the desk, picking up the heavy lowball glass he'd drained previously and moving towards an antique tea cart that's been used to stock expensive brands of liquors identified as whiskey, scotch, bourbon. More for show than function, save for the one, mostly full bottle of Pendleton's he'd filled his glass with before.

"What happened?" he repeats, that hushed tone drained from his voice as he refills. "Last I checked, you were running around with terrorists. One mistake leads to more, I guess. Drink?" he adds, a genuine offer despite the nature of this conversation. He looks back at Peter, suddenly a little wearier, and gives a shrug. "She's upstairs. It's late."

Peter's expression shifts to something a little more than cold at the retort, "You knew I was alive?" There's an honest look of shock there, and Peter breathes in a deep breath, fingers curling tightly into the back of the chair, eyes wandering the room before looking back to Nathan — first the glass, then him. "I'm not the only monster in this room, Nathan." He scowls slightly, "You abandoned me down there in Kibry Plaza. You kidnapped Claire!" His voice finally raises, anger boiling up inside of him before slowly simmering back down, a slow sigh exhaled through his nose. None of that matters anymore.

"They're not terrorists, not anymore. I stopped that. When was the last time you heard of them bombing anything?" His dark eyes follow his brother for a moment, then divert. "I'm not with them anymore, not after what happened…" He can't help but shake the look of guilt that hangs on his face, guilt hammered into his mind at the thought of Bob Bishop's sallow and bruised countenance pleading for the life of his daughter. Peter's eyes close shut, one hand coming up to rest at his brow.

"Keep your voice down," Nathan hisses harshly, glancing towards where the door is only partially closed. His family doesn't need this. Hell, he doesn't need this. Peter's jabs don't seem to have an effect, the older Petrelli giving the scarred young man a flat look, before another glass is obtained, filled with a small helping of liquor, no ice. He moves at a casual pace towards Peter. "They are what they are, Pete," he says. "They don't get excused due to a recent history of good behaviour."

Now, he holds out an arm, offering the glass of whiskey to Peter, expression softening. "For what it's worth," Nathan says, grimly. "I'm sorry. But you can't expect me to stop what was inevitable."

Those last words are the ones that hit Peter the most. His eyes lower to the glass in the same moment a sigh is pushed out through his nose. Quietly, one hand reaches out to take it, staring down into the glass, looking lost for a moment. "We could've stopped it…" It refuses to give up that ideal, as unrealistic as it is, it's the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart. "Nathan…" Those dark eyes finally rise up to look at his brother again. "I'm working for the Company now." There's a long, heavy silence as Peter's head cants to the side, watching his brother carefully, scrutinizing him in a way beyond merely watching him — it's an important question, and one worth the risk of listening for the real reaction that lies beneath the surface.

Ever the politician - and far, far better at it than he had been when running for congressman over two years ago - Nathan doesn't react on the outside, but maybe there's just the slightest difference in his heart beat, a reaction of surprise, a beat sounding out a little louder than before. It's a subtle one - but deciphering it is made into a moot action because he just smiles a little bitterly at Peter, a gesture that doesn't reach his eyes. "Interesting career move," he says. "You know I've never been that big a fan of irony?" He moves past Peter to reclaim his seat behind the desk, leather creaking as he leans back into it, sipping whiskey diluted with melted ice with a slight wince.

Following Nathan's movement with his eyes, Peter's expression downturns into a frown, "That's all you have to say?" He takes a step forward as Nathan retreats behind the desk, the glass in his hand raised to gesture with, "After everything that's happened?" That stalking advancement comes to an abrupt halt, head jerking to one side as if having heard something, then looks back towards his brother. "Do you know? Did you always know about what Mom and Dad were doing? What they did?" He raises the hand with the glass, pointing one finger up from it towards Nathan. "What they were a part of?"

Nathan's head rests back against the high-backed office chair, keeping that almost dull look fixed on Peter. It's disapproving, tired - not an unfamiliar expression, although two years might make it so. "No," he says, firmly, sharply. "I didn't know. Not until after you destroyed the city." The barb is casually tossed at his younger brother - perhaps in an effort to humble him, or perhaps just to quietly lash out at the aggressive front Peter is putting up. Rarely has he let himself be bowed by his little brother and despite his own guilt and second-guessing, it's not going to be a trend that starts tonight.

Fingers curl tightly around the glass, and Peter stops just short of the desk, his head canting to the side, "You…" His eyes widen slightly, shrinking back at the barb that comes, and despite all of his power, it seems that Nathan holds the capacity to wound him more so than anything else. He turns away, shoulders rolling forward and head hanging, setting the glass down on the tea cart, the glass making a heavy clunk from the force with which it's set down. Peter though, keeps his fingers caged over the top, leaning towards the glass as if for support.

There's a long, anxious silence, and Peter turns back to Nathan with a glare, one entirely unlike himself. "What happened then wasn't my fault, Nathan. And if you're going to pin that blame on me…" He breathes in deeply, fingers slowly sliding up from the glass, "Everything I thought I knew about myself, about this family, it's a lie." He waves one hand out to his side, "I thought finding out that dad's old friend, Miss Dalton, was heading up the Company was a surprise. But what I found out — Who our parents really are — and you know and you're still doing this?"

His breathing has become ragged, heavy and deep, head tilting to the side as his brow lowers, "I wonder what other secrets you have inside your head." His hand finally moves away from the glass, and Peter's brow furrows, head tilting to one side as he directs not only that frustration brimming in the back of his mind come to the forefront, but also his mind to move forward, into his own brother's, searching, digging; uninvited.

Angela Petrelli doesn't need an ability to know that her youngest son has come home to visit. Years of attentively listening for the sound of little footsteps in the mansion's hallways after dark has honed her maternal senses to near perfection, and soon the slim but statuesque figure of the family's matriarch stands in the doorway, dressed in a black silk robe with rose embrodiery that makes her appear more delicate, more fragile than she really is. Her legs are long and bare, and though she's taken great pains to preserve her face and hands from the weathering effects of time, the dark veins in her calves and perfectly manicured feet betray her as a woman who's not only getting on in years, but whose age is finally catching up with her.

"Don't you dare."

The sound of Angela's voice may as well have been a gunshot aimed at the back of his head for the way Peter recoils from it. Lurching forward, his head whips around to focus on his mother, eyes wide. This isn't how he imagined the confrontation would be, and seeing her there, for the first time in years, he can feel his breath catching in the back of his throat. Peter's jaw trembles slightly, a half step taking him back to bump into the desk, head shaking from side to side. All that anger, all that strength seems to drain out of him like air from a punctured tire as his shoulders sag down again, the bravado he just had a moment ago fading entirely.

Peter stares in frozen confusion, his breathing shallow in his apprehension. Lips press together, and he swallows noisily, only spurred back on by the verbal rebuking Nathan delivers with an expert tongue. He sidesteps now, brushing some papers off of the edge of the desk as he moves to get out from between the two, eyes wildly darting back and forth from mother to brother, "Mom?" For the moment, it's the Peter she'd remember.

How do you stop a telepath? Nathan flinches, because though he might not be able to physically feel the way Peter starts to pry through his mind, he knows what's happening, and his hand comes down on the desk to push himself up to stand, just as the matriarch of this little family makes her presence known. He shoots a glance her way, jaw clenched, a moment of silence passing by. Then, in a low, quiet voice, he says, "I have spent the past two years making sure no one knows the truth as to what you did. What you were destined to do. So before you start flinging around accusations about liars, why don't you take a moment to gain some goddamn perspective."

The stern expression on Angela's face softens when Peter addresses her, though the fury in her eyes and the icy tone of her voice remain as hard as ever. "Perspective, I'm afraid, isn't something that he's ever had." Although she speaks to Nathan, her words aren't meant only for him. She wants to make sure Peter hears them as well. "Sit down, Peter." It isn't a request.

"I'm fine here." There's enough of a spark behind Peter's eyes to signal the change that has gone on inside of him. The scar is an outward change, but the tone of his voice, firm in the face of his mother's heavy hand is something that shows his fierce determination in light of the way things have gone.

He swallows, loudly, and then some of that vitrol bubbles back to the surface, "Where were you? When I was locked down in Level-5, thinking it was two years ago?" Remarkably, he keeps his voice down for the sake of his newphews, "You were just content to hide from me? You need to tell me everything." His face contorts into a furious snarl, "I know what you and Dad did, I found out about the Company's origins. I found out about Adam." His fingers twitch on his right hand, "I won't sit down. I want you to tell me everything, or so help me I'll rip it out of your head." This, however, is not the son she knows.

"Peter," Nathan snaps, true anger now flashing across his features. "Did you come here to talk, or did you come here to terrorise us out of answers?" He points towards his phone. "Because I only need to push one button to have you escorted off the premises." He knows his brother is powerful, that security guards would do very little - but it's the principle of the thing, the point behind it, and a plea for a little decorum. Nathan flicks a glance to his mother, as if to see if she's alright.

The firm tone Nathan's voice takes causes Peter to shtine back, his expression fluctuating from one of frustration, then to bewilderment, and finally anxiety as he leans his back against the tea cart, his palms pressing down on the top, fingers curling around the edge. He hangs his head, brow tensed, and all of the vitrol seems to have been drained out of him again. He swallows, dryly, and looks over to Angela, then to Nathan, his voice hushed as he raises one hand to cover his face. "I — I'm sorry," his brow tenses slightly, "I'm just… I didn't mean that. I've been under a lot of stress lately." Exhaling a breath through his fingers, Peter stares down at the floor. "Work, and nightmares, and — " He cuts himself off, breathing in a deep breath before picking up the glass he had set down earlier, bringing it up to his lips and draining it entirely in one long swallow.

There's a tense pause, before Nathan is sitting down again in the seat behind his expansive desk, reaching for his own glass of whiskey and almost mirroring his brother in draining it of its liquor, setting the glass down onto a coaster and linking his hands together. He doesn't say anything, now, just shifts the chair around lightly so that he's looking towards Angela. He raises an eyebrow at her - as, let's be honest, they haven't not had their fair share of conflicts over similar issues - and remains silent. Ball's in your court, Ma.

"There's always been a lot you didn't know about your father and I," Angela says mildly as she steps into the office and shuts the door behind her, punctuating her point with an abrupt clack as she fastens the deadbolt and ensures the three of them are alone. With Heidi and the children sleeping under the same roof, she has to be more cautious than she normally might, were this conversation taking place outside the house. "Why should it bother you now?"

Peter's eyes divert to Angela, a faint bit of that earlier expression behind his eyes. "Because the man you worked for is free, because of me." Peter's fingers curl tightly around the edge of the tea cart he leans against, eyes leveled on his mother intently. "Adam wants to purge the world, purge it with a virus, one that could kill us all." He starts to lean away from the tea cart again. "The incidents in the city, with those Evolved going out of control, maybe that's Adam's work, maybe it's not. But you — " Peter clenches his jaw tightly, "You knew that I had a gift. You let Nathan, you let everyone think I was crazy. For what," he looks out the window for a moment, then back, "For this?" Breathing in a deep and slow breath, Peter exhales slowly, tiredly.

"Nathan said this was my destiny, this, all of this." Now that anger starts to come back, "You let me kill thousands of innocent people, and for what? You just abandoned me when you were through with me, instead of — If I had known what I know now — " Peter clenches his right fist, his emotions tempestuously wavering. "Adam is going to kill us all, and I'm the only one strong enough to find him and stop him, but I need to know what he's doing."

All the while, Nathan watches his younger brother now, noting the changes— and noting the consistencies. Enough of them actually make him smile, just a little, mostly sadly. And it's talk of this virus that allows Nathan not to rebuke, or summon up a lecture in turn. News to him? Seems like it. The deceptively casual slump into his chair stiffens a little, and now he looks towards Angela to gauge her reaction - for confirmation that Peter is speaking crazy. He leaves that part alone, it's the blame he's not enjoying. "No one let you do anything," he says, a smooth lie. "I'm not asking you to come before the justice system and atone, Pete, I've made it so you'll never have to do that. But in this room, let's not kid ourselves."

"What happened with Adam Monroe was unfortunate," Angela agrees. "He was always something of a point of contention among us, but I'm sure you understand that Bishop had his reasons for keeping him alive. His ability can be useful to others if it's channeled correctly." She doesn't so much bat an eyelash when Peter brings up the virus, and for a moment it seems she might be ignoring that part of his rant entirely. Nathan will note, however, the tips of his mother's fingers twitching as she curls them into loose fists at her sides and then flexes them back out again — a sure sign that she's having difficulty reigning in her emotions. "Who told you about the Shanti Virus?" she wants to know. "That information is strictly classified. Someone of your rank and seniority shouldn't have access to those files."

"Shanti Virus?" Peter cants his head to the side, one brow raising, "I never knew it had a name," Much of that vitrol fades again, when for the first time in his life, it seems like he for a moment has the upper hand with his mother. "Now I know a little bit more on what to look for." Peter's lips downturn, his eyes flitting over to Nathan, "Did you know about this? About Adam and what he's planning on doing? We're talking about the lives of millions of people here, Nathan." Having ignored his brother's barb for now, the retort comes back hard, "Or is that still an acceptable loss?"

Touche. Peter will know the look he's given well, the slightest of glares, wherein he's hit a nerve and Nathan isn't willing to show it. It happens from time to time, after all, during the more vicious of arguments. Not unlike this one. Water off a duck's back, however, as Nathan ignores it when he speaks again. "I know the name Adam Monroe," he states, a little flippantly, a glance to Angela. "I don't know about any virus, no. Are you going to answer our mother's question or not?" Divert!

"Look all you like," Angela tells Peter. "You won't find anything. The project was discontinued when Adam made his intentions known — all samples of the virus were destroyed, along with the research documenting it. Your father and Kaito Nakamura saw to that." She moves around the desk, taking a position behind her eldest son so she can rest her hands upon his shoulders. "I know the past two years have been difficult for you," she says. "They've been difficult for all of us, but the sacrifices we've had to make are already heralding in a brighter future. This time next month, Nathan will be the president-elect. This time next year, he'll be sitting in the Oval Office. Our family can do great things for this country, Peter. For the world."

Peter's head tilts to the side, "Destroyed?" His eyes wander Nathan, and then Angela, "You're lying." Clenching his hands into fists, Petr watches as his mother moves to stand behind Nathan, and his expression only grows more frustrated as he listens to her, to the plans she intends to lay out for the city. Breathing in a slow, difficult breath, there's a faint shift to Peter's skin, a ripple at his jawline as if his skin were more fluid than solid, but it passes. "If it was destroyed then why would Kaito be so afraid of Adam finding the virus and letting it go?" There's her answer, and there's his one card he had left to play. "Not everyone sees the future you're building as a bright one," He raises a hand, then waves it to the side, "Still so eager for me to go looking now?"

Angela's hands are a light weight on his shoulders but far heavier if we're getting into something more metaphorical. Either way, it grounds Nathan, and he keeps his eyes on his younger brother as their mother talks over him, arms relaxed on the arms of his chair but shoulders, back, all lined with tension. If he notices the strange movement of Peter's skin, he doesn't point it out, although his gaze unfocuses from Peter's eyes for a fraction before meeting them squarely once more. "Does it occur to you we don't have the answers you're looking for?" he asks, almost softly. "Maybe we're not lying to you, Pete."

"Whether you believe us or not, you're getting in over your head." Angela gives Nathan's shoulders a small squeeze, her way of saying thank you for his support. "The Shanti Virus, if it still existed, would be the least of our worries. There are darker things on the horizon — I've seen them, and you would too if you stopped to pay attention to your more latent talents once and awhile. You can rant and rave about Adam Monroe until you're blue in the face, my little one, but there's somebody else you've forgotten about. Perhaps you'd like to ask me about Sylar instead?"

And that pushes it over the edge, "Sylar — " Peter's expression contorts into one of considerable frustration and anger, his right hand clutching shut into a tight fist before opening again, "W-what do you — " His skin shifts, a noticable ripple. She's trying to distract him, away from Adam, away from the Shanti Virus, and it's worked. The one thing Peter clings to is that hatred, or at least it's the one thing a strong part of him clings to. "Nnhh…" Peter lurches for a moment, his hand wavering, but only for the briefest moment.

"What…" His tone of voice grows lower, rougher, "…do you know…" Peter's skin ripples and shifts, distorting like the surface of a once-still pond that has had a stone tossed into it. His suit jacket distorts and flexes as well, though under an entirely different influence. The fabric of the jacket bends and distorts, cotton turning into leather, sheathing down his arms as the jacket extends. Peter's hair lengthens and sweeps back behind his head, stubble bristling from his chin and into a grown-in goatee. His necktie sinks into his button-down undershirt, which stains itself black, dress shoes shift and contort into boots, and as he raises his hand again, the bones in it begin to glow. Foomf. Skin orange, mottled with yellow and gold, as flickering waves of radiation spill forth from his hand. "…about Sylar?"

The moment the change starts to occur, Nathan is on his feet, the chair nearly knocking over in his effort to back up, disgust written on his features. Disgust and confusion. Something through his previously cold demeanor cracks the ice, and he says, "Peter!" in a startled, almost paternally concerned way— and the concern is gone when the sickly orange light of radiation fills his office. His home. And he sees this danger more than he sees his brother's transformation, a hand reaching out towards Angela, in case— in case they need to leave in a hurry, let's just leave it at that. Except his wife and kids are in the house and he freezes in indecision… and finds himself waiting on his mother's response to that question.

It's as Angela suspected. Twenty-eight years old, and Peter still throws the same kind of temper tantrums he did when he was a toddler. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the solution isn't as simple as sending him to his room or making him sit in the corner until his father comes home — Arthur isn't ever coming back, and somehow Angela doubts the words "you're grounded" are going to have any affect on him now. In contrast to Nathan, she does not budge except to step back when he shoots to his feet. "It's all right," she assures him, guiding his hand back down with her own. "He isn't going to hurt his family." Much as he looks like he might want to. "Heidi and the boys are upstairs," she reminds Peter gently, "in case you've forgotten."

Peter would never hurt his own family.

But with a motion of his head, he sends an unseen hand tight around his brother's throat, lifting him up off of his feet and into the wall behind his desk. Sliding up, the force clamps down tightly, mercilessly as it lifts him nearly to the ceiling. "Good." His eyes divert back to Angela, "Then I figure you'll tell me where Sylar is, so I won't give the whole family another helping of my destiny."

One glowing hand held out, Peter tilts his head to the side, his features far more worn and ragged looking, his expression decidedly more sharp and fierce. In his eyes, gone is the soft and reluctant innocence of his youth, the Peter of two years ago. This is someone else, someone determined and angry, someone who would collaborate with terrorists, sneak into the home of Matt Parkman, someone who would subtly request the assassination of Molly Walker. This is everything that the future has made Peter, cast in the incandescent glow of atomic fire.

His vision goes white and blurred around the edges when his head smacks against the wall, but it's nothing compared to the claustrophobic feeling of a hand that isn't there closing around his throat. Nathan's hands splay against the wall behind him, a wordless choking sound his only able response as his heart hammers in his chest. The heels of his shoes make gentle thunks against the wall as he's pinned there, high off the ground.

For the first time in a long time, Angela is afraid. The colour drains from her face, leaving only the vibrant traces of artificial blush on her cheeks behind — bright, gaudy and entirely unbefitting of the woman who wears it. Her breath hitches in her throat, and though she opens her mouth as if to speak, to demand that Peter release his brother, no sound comes out. Not even a gasp. She didn't think her son was capable of this.

She thought wrong.

It takes almost to the count of ten before Angela's body catches up with her brain, and when it does she appeals to Peter with
a tiny, strangled cry, rushing forward to seize his outstretched arm in her hands, heedless of the consequences attached to such an act. "Enough! Put him down!"

"Fine." Peter tilts his head to the side, throwing Nathan to the ground with a crash. Head canting to one side, the younger Petrelli takes a step forward, and in that break of focus Nathan can feel the hand around his throat release and the feeling of pressure around his neck fade. But Nathan is no longer Peter's concern. Approaching Angela, he raises that radiant hand, "Do you know what it looks like when skin is melted away by radioactive fire? Do you have even the slightest idea what those screams sound like?" The glow o fhis hand is reflected in his eyes, "I do, Mom."

He doesn't relent, and the desk slides to one side violently, crashing up against the wall as he moves on the straightest, most direct path towards her. "Every time I close my eyes, I can see the horrified faces of the people who couldn't get away from me in time. Every time I sleep, I can hear them screaming." But for all his approach, Angela can't find a way to back up further, the tugging at the center of her chest grows stronger, lifting her up off of her feet and drawing her close, even as one radiant arm moves out to the side, the skin on one half of Peter's face beginning to glow as atomic energy surges through his flesh, washing out from his skin as rippling waves of heat and light. "You know what would always help the bad dreams go away?" His head tilts to the side, "Come give your son a hug."

But just as Angela can feel the smoldering heat Peter's body radiates, just as she can begin to feel the intense sting of nuclear fire getting too close, there is a jerking motion of hesitation. Peter's eyes wrench shut, and Angela is dropped the foot she has been raised up into the air back to her feet. One hand raises, pressing to the side of Peter's head, "Nnhh — No!" His voice is a shriek, loud enough that it carries thorugh the otherwise silent house. He stumbles back, skin rippling and distorting for just the briefest of moments.

When his eyes fall to Angela, and then shoot towards Nathan's prone form, Peter tenses and backs away, the glow of radiation fading in a sudden diffusion of light. He looks down at his hands, flexing them open and closed, and then stares ahead at the tall multi-paned glass windows behind where the desk was. Staring at his reflection, his breath hitches in the back of his throat. He retches, arms coming down to his sides, then curling around his waist, before he lets out a confused, pained groan and then lunges at the windows as if they had threatened him in some fashion.

Peter collides with the tall windows, smashing through them like a bullet, sending the wooden frame and glass panes exploding outwards into the back yard. Overhead, there is a peal of thunder as the wind picks up outside, flashes of lightning joining in the swirling clouds overhead, followed by another burst of air as Peter blasts up from the yard high into the skies, as bolts of lighting strike down in the distance, joined by another deep and loud rumble of thunder.

October 24th: Pestilence

Previously in this storyline…
Me, Myself, and I

Next in this storyline…
Changes Are Coming

October 24th: Recon At The Wench
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License