What a moment it was. 

To find out Peter knew how to hold a gun properly—but that contemplation was only for mental amusement. In actuality Adam knew the extent of Peter’s potential for ruthless combat, the man had fought well besides him in the beginning.

Adam fired the tranquilizer, hit Peter right in the next. For good measure, Adam dropped him, hitting him hard on the back of the head. 

—no killing strike. 

He just wanted to talk. See what this Petrelli knew. 

"Oh shut up," Adam groused to the zombie as he drug Peter into the room. He had no idea what abilities Peter did have. Good thing he had ransacked what was left of the Company’s supplies on his way out. 

He propped Peter up on a chair and went to find the rope. 

More writhing, more inarticulate sounds. A jaw moved up and down as if to form words, human words, but made only howling, animal-like noises – if Peter had to guess, they were either tied up or restrained – and curious as to who, what, why, he turned to round the corner —


A sharp prickle in his neck made him stumble back, hand clapping to something hard and cold and plastic. But there was no time to contemplate before something hard slammed into the back of his skull and the world winked out.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Half an hour barely passed, however, before Peter came to. With the world painfully over-saturated and lurching before bleary eyes, a groan rumbled from his mouth, muted by the pounding in his head. His gritted teeth. Hangovers are worse, he thought against the pain, and attempted with little success to blink himself back into an intelligible state.

onthisrock: [meme] *swINGS OPEN FRIDGE DOOR.* Got anything to eat?



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"What are you trying to say?"



"No, but you can’t complain about family to family.”

"—I don’t complain about family.”




                  ❝ yeah, the kid. my son.
                      —— it’s been a couple years. ❞ 

"…No, I haven’t. I’m sorry."



"Did you just—"

Did Peter just…

"—kill them?" Adam asked. Surprise twist. Well there’s a day for you! Adam walked closer. 

He circled to the side where Peter was kneeling and inspected the damage done to the car door. 

"You did it, you can open the door," Adam said, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. "Well done. But surely you know who these men are." 

“—No.” Not even enough concern for Adam to send him a look of aggravation. His mind was occupied with other things. “No, I didn’t.”

It was the patients first and foremost. Shrugging his shoulder with the intention of loosening Adam’s hand, he fixed his grip, braced two palms on either side of the car window and pulled. Light throbbed across his arms, racing up, up, up towards his shoulders – steel gave a answering groan of protest and with little effort, Peter pried the door free, 200lbs of twisted metal clattering to the concrete.c

“I don’t care who they are. That’s NYPD’s job.”



Sylar shrugged.

It was something Peter would never understand. His heart was too heroically pure. This empty city was here for a reason. He was in it for a reason.

If it was fake, then it was Sylar’s world. That left Peter, by all definition, the intruder. His attack on the wall (the presence was the main reason Sylar fell to his insane theory) was an interruption of a well earned punishment.

But Peter wouldn’t understand, even in his hatred. He didn’t have to.

"Your beating woke me up."

He lied. It was a more dignified excuse than nightmares.


A pause – and finally, with shoulders hunched in exhaustion, Peter lowered his sledgehammer, the wall as markless as it had been days ago.

The glance he gave over his shoulder was nothing less than fleeting, nothing less than necessary, as if any excess would poison him. As if any longer gaze would bring Nathan’s passing fresh to his mind, but for all his anger and all his grief, Peter was quietly resigned. Restrained. Reluctantly kind to his only company.

Get out, save Emma, stop Samuel. That was all.

“…I’m sorry.” The words came stiff with difficulty. “I didn’t realize you were trying to sleep.”



…Adam should have turned on the ‘engine’.

That machine sucked in the walking dead and spat them out. A bit of a bug zapper, if the analogy should be used. However the blades were half broken by now. 

But he had recognized the voice. There was no need for —shredding? 

Adam grabbed a tranquilizer gun.  He lowered himself to the floor, behind a row of desks. He imagined Peter would be distracted by the animated corpse in the next room, strapped to a table. 


Distracted long enough for Adam to neutralize him. 


Thrashing. There was no mistaking the sound of the infected, still unsettlingly not quite human — but then again, they were no longer people. Peter had learned that, and learned it the hard way.

His rifle swung upwards, sturdy against his shoulder. Sturdy like Dad taught him. Like Nathan taught him. But that noise, that terrible, terrible noise didn’t get any closer.

Brow furrowing, Peter wandered forward.

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"What are you trying to say?"



 ”Family. Now there’s a breath of fresh air.”

"They’re not that bad.”




                  ❝ —— you wouldn’t happen to have run
                      into micah? do you… did you know him? ❞  


"You mean the kid?"



peter almost looked surprised that he was here; almost like he’d imagined the whole ordeal. he knew peter well enough to know that he was a big fan of that particular river in egypt, especially when it involved him, but to totally forget? had he told himself it couldn’t be true, that the body he was touching was not sylar’s and if he ignored it, he would go away?

he wanted to ask him how well ignoring his existence had worked out for him, seeing as nathan was closer to crumbling than sylar was of actually disappearing from existence but chances were, he wouldn’t be able to follow his train of thought.

not now anyway. but soon he would. when he figured out a way to regain control of his motor and mental faculties and slink back into his body.

"he’s a little slow, isn’t he?" he directs at nathan, arching an eyebrow and moving from behind peter’s shoulder to stand beside the two. "no wonder angela wanted to make a son out of me." sylar shakes his head, chuckling softly. "yes, pete i’m here and no nathan is not a good host. not that he has great ideas but — i get that’s a petrelli thing, right?"

his face turns serious then, betraying some of his own anxiety. “yes nathan. fight me.” a hand wanders down, barely touching the back of nathan’s. “i can’t wait to put these hands, around the fragile, slim throat of your brother and watch as the life drains out of his face.”

                                                                                 —- flyingxman

"See him, hear him… He’s breaking through.” Nathan’s voice is shaky, close to crumbling as is his psyche. The hand on his shoulder calms him somewhat and takes the edge off, but for how long? How long can he endure Sylar’s torment as he fights to take control of his body once again?

He knows the answer, but he doesn’t dare voice it—or even think it.

As if he’s falling, Nathan finds himself grasping at Peter’s shoulders. A thin line of sweat dampens his brow and he sucks back short, shallow breaths. Sylar’s voice grits into him and burns him. The sweltering rage burrows deep, forcing Nathan to keep it at bay.

Shut up,” he hisses under his breath. The command directs itself towards the killer—sharp and jaded. He jerks away from his brother and stumbles, catching himself on the nearest countertop. Another series of breaths flood past Nathan’s lips. He needs to leave, he has to get out of the room and away from Peter.

“Stay back, Peter. Don’t… Don’t come near me. Not right now. I need to—get control…” 

                                                 —— onthisrock

His brow twists like the pain is his own, like the fight is his own — and God knows it hasn’t been that way the past couple of months but Peter can feel it now and more than ever, the lump in his throat painful as he grasps back. His fingers just barely close on Nathan’s arm before his touch is wrenched away.

Like Hell he’s letting go.


On impulse he reaches forward, his hand closes hard around his brother’s bicep and grounds him there. Steadies him. Makes the floor beneath his feet stable. Nathan would do it for him, if he were the one splintering, slipping. Peter can only return the favour — after all, they are brothers.

No, Nathan, listen to me.” He pulls, forcing him to turn. To look him in the eye. “—We’re doing this together. Okay? I’m notLeaving you. To fend for yourself.”

                                                                                         —— insidioxus


Adam listened for a response to Peter’s screaming.

He may be removed from this branch of living but who would answer back? Screaming was a good sign for the wounded but in this case, that was more annoying than helpful. He observed Peter’s valiant efforts to trying to open car doors and failing. Could the hero honestly not get into the car?

Adam withheld helpful advice. He had witnessed Peter’s new ability. Actually if Peter thought about it, that ability was useful in this case if it extended to the entire body. Possibly useful. 

Adam got his meaning. Hn.

"You don’t want my help, Peter," Adam informed him. 


Neither were conscious — if the other were still alive, anyway — no need to bother with the ‘here to help you’ speech. 

"—Yeah, I do."

Peter didn’t bother looking up, didn’t bother pausing his efforts for a second. Reaching through the broken window, his uniform snagging on sharp points, he tried the inside handle. Still no such luck.

"I’m not letting anyone die today, Adam." His grip turned white-knuckled on the rim of the window, the part cleared of glass. "That’s not in my job descrip—"


Light pulsed under his skin, the pads of his fingers denting metal, crushing it out of shape. Peter jolted back as if he’d been burned.

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