Fic: When Heroes Fail (Heroes)
Human beings live at the mercy of time, a force that stretches to infinity, far in front of us and far behind, incomprehensible in scope and size. We move along this path from birth to death, merely a flicker in the eyes of Fate.
We know this, and yet life is a struggle. A struggle for meaning, for truth - or just to be remembered, somewhere in this tumult of human life.
We may often wish to have a second chance at life, to erase our failures, eliminate our regrets. No one gets this second chance at life.
…but, what if we had? What if we were living a second chance, and we never even knew it? How could we know? Would there be a kind of subliminal awareness, a déjà vu, that tells us our life has gone before? Would we be able to fix our own mistakes?
Would we even know how it had gone, the first time?
- - - -
There are two, when he finds them. Alone, defenseless. Over the noise of the crowd, who would even hear their screams? -but he barely notices the second, just tosses her aside. She will be injured, crippled, perhaps dead, but she doesn’t matter to him.
The cheerleader’s skin slices pathetically easily. She struggles, weakening fast, the blood in her eyes and her hair, flowing thick down her face.
And then the girl, the second girl, stands up.
Sylar doesn’t hesitate.
The second one runs, as far and as fast as she can, but Sylar follows, his footsteps slow, deliberate. He will catch her; she will be his.
He catches up with her on the steps outside the school.
They catch up with him just afterwards.
- - - -
At first, Bennet is numb. Encased in ice. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand it.
Claire is dead? -no.
No.
- - - -
Eden doesn’t like to use her power. She used to love it - it used to be all that kept her from falling apart. Now, now it just reminds her of a time she’d rather leave behind her, permanently.
Right now, her palms itch. She feels the force of her words, in the back of her mind, and she has to, she has to -
“Do it,” says Bennet. “I want him dead.”
A smile curls on Eden’s face. “Yes, sir.”
For the second time in her life, Eden fails. Pulling the trigger of the gun, pointed at her own head, is almost a relief.
- - - -
He shouldn’t have paused. He should have continued, out of the facility, to freedom. That was his mistake.
But Sylar stopped, entranced by the scent of power.
“You paint the future,” he murmured, then, and Isaac Mendez backed against the wall, his eyes open wide. Terrified.
Now, Sylar pounds against the glass wall of the cell, enraged. He shouldn’t have stopped. He could be free. But they catch him, again and again.
- - - -
In his apartment, in New York City, Peter Petrelli lies awake.
He has failed. Mohinder didn’t believe him, and Nathan - Nathan pushes him away. Too often. Peter is alone, and he curls up, under the sheets, afraid, lost, and silent. Directionless.
What to do next? …he thinks about it, over and over again, but there are no answers.
- - - -
Bennet watches Sylar scream with a cold satisfaction.
He can’t keep Sylar like this forever, he knows. Eventually, the Company will find out .Eventually, they will stop him. Eventually -
But for now, he can watch his daughter’s killer hurt. And this, he could watch for a very long time.
- - - -
Bare weeks after his sister’s murder, Lyle Bennet is taken hostage in his own home.
He’s not afraid, somehow. One man can read minds; the other has hands that glow. They have guns. They threaten to shoot, but Lyle isn’t afraid. He doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel a thing.
- - - -
Sylar waits until they’re distracted. Until Bennet is distracted. Until the Haitian is distracted. He throws himself at the glass panel, with telekinesis and pure brute force. It shatters, and Sylar steps through, the cuts along his skin already healing.
The first place he goes is Bennet’s house. Fury burns in Sylar’s eyes; revenge in his heart.
In reward for Sylar’s patience, he finds a man with breathtaking power, hands alight, holding the family hostage.
Sylar cuts his skull open, in front of Bennet’s wife and child. He rips the brain apart, takes the power for himself, and then he turns.
The mother shrieks, pleads, but the boy’s eyes are oddly empty.
- - - -
What’s next?
Sylar steps out on the street, free as the air, and he turns northeast. Towards New York City, and an artist who can paint the future.
- - - -
Alone in his apartment, Mohinder Suresh despairs.
They don’t return his calls. They hang up on him. They dismiss him as a solicitor, or a lunatic, or worse -
He can’t do this on his own. Mohinder has no allies, no help. Not since Eden vanished.
Slowly, he picks up a business card for Primatech paper and dials the number.
- - - -
“No,” murmurs Sylar, in denial, the paint can falling from nerveless fingers.
He can’t be the one who explodes. It’s impossible. He took that man’s power, but he can control it - and why would he do that? Why would he obliterate so many people? It just doesn’t make any sense…
- - - -
Peter draws all the time, these days. One drawing after another of fires, explosions, New York City as a devastated wasteland. Most of them are useless, and he tosses them away, crumpling them, ripping them to pieces. He has to know, he has to find out his destiny.
And, finally he finds something interesting.
“Kirby Plaza,” he says, in an echo of the words on the paper.
- - - -
“Why would I tell you that,” his mother says, her eyes red, “when I know you could be so much more?”
- - - -
“You can’t do this, Sylar,” says Peter, his stance open and tough. Like a hero.
Sylar looks him in the eye. “You can’t stop me.”
They fight, oh yes, they do, but Sylar is stronger than Peter, and more powerful. Peter falls against the fountain, in the center of the plaza, broken and defeated.
Sylar turns, and he takes a breath - he’s ready -
The sword doesn’t even hurt. A stab wound, through the center of Sylar’s chest, and he barely feels it. A pinch, maybe, a tug at his insides.
The Japanese man pulls it out, with a triumphant “Yatta!” - and Sylar smiles.
Underneath Sylar’s fingertips, the skin regrows. Unbroken. Whole.
The Japanese watches, in horror, as Sylar’s hands start to glow. The fire starts to consume him, from the inside out. This is my destiny.
In the instant before detonation, the Japanese man grabs the hand of another - a blonde woman - and teleports away. A rescue - even if it is just one person - before the end.
In fury, Sylar explodes.
- - - -
Hiro Nakamura traces the string with the tips of his fingers. Here, Peter Petrelli. Here, Niki Sanders. Here, Isaac Mendez…
It all went wrong. Hiro knows this. It should have been different. It could have been different. Heroes don’t fail, not like this. They always catch the villain. They always win, even if it is at the very last second.
His hand stills on the last string. Claire Bennet.
Sylar must not survive.
“Save the cheerleader,” says Hiro, to himself. “Save the world.”
We know this, and yet life is a struggle. A struggle for meaning, for truth - or just to be remembered, somewhere in this tumult of human life.
We may often wish to have a second chance at life, to erase our failures, eliminate our regrets. No one gets this second chance at life.
…but, what if we had? What if we were living a second chance, and we never even knew it? How could we know? Would there be a kind of subliminal awareness, a déjà vu, that tells us our life has gone before? Would we be able to fix our own mistakes?
Would we even know how it had gone, the first time?
- - - -
There are two, when he finds them. Alone, defenseless. Over the noise of the crowd, who would even hear their screams? -but he barely notices the second, just tosses her aside. She will be injured, crippled, perhaps dead, but she doesn’t matter to him.
The cheerleader’s skin slices pathetically easily. She struggles, weakening fast, the blood in her eyes and her hair, flowing thick down her face.
And then the girl, the second girl, stands up.
Sylar doesn’t hesitate.
The second one runs, as far and as fast as she can, but Sylar follows, his footsteps slow, deliberate. He will catch her; she will be his.
He catches up with her on the steps outside the school.
They catch up with him just afterwards.
- - - -
At first, Bennet is numb. Encased in ice. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand it.
Claire is dead? -no.
No.
- - - -
Eden doesn’t like to use her power. She used to love it - it used to be all that kept her from falling apart. Now, now it just reminds her of a time she’d rather leave behind her, permanently.
Right now, her palms itch. She feels the force of her words, in the back of her mind, and she has to, she has to -
“Do it,” says Bennet. “I want him dead.”
A smile curls on Eden’s face. “Yes, sir.”
For the second time in her life, Eden fails. Pulling the trigger of the gun, pointed at her own head, is almost a relief.
- - - -
He shouldn’t have paused. He should have continued, out of the facility, to freedom. That was his mistake.
But Sylar stopped, entranced by the scent of power.
“You paint the future,” he murmured, then, and Isaac Mendez backed against the wall, his eyes open wide. Terrified.
Now, Sylar pounds against the glass wall of the cell, enraged. He shouldn’t have stopped. He could be free. But they catch him, again and again.
- - - -
In his apartment, in New York City, Peter Petrelli lies awake.
He has failed. Mohinder didn’t believe him, and Nathan - Nathan pushes him away. Too often. Peter is alone, and he curls up, under the sheets, afraid, lost, and silent. Directionless.
What to do next? …he thinks about it, over and over again, but there are no answers.
- - - -
Bennet watches Sylar scream with a cold satisfaction.
He can’t keep Sylar like this forever, he knows. Eventually, the Company will find out .Eventually, they will stop him. Eventually -
But for now, he can watch his daughter’s killer hurt. And this, he could watch for a very long time.
- - - -
Bare weeks after his sister’s murder, Lyle Bennet is taken hostage in his own home.
He’s not afraid, somehow. One man can read minds; the other has hands that glow. They have guns. They threaten to shoot, but Lyle isn’t afraid. He doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel a thing.
- - - -
Sylar waits until they’re distracted. Until Bennet is distracted. Until the Haitian is distracted. He throws himself at the glass panel, with telekinesis and pure brute force. It shatters, and Sylar steps through, the cuts along his skin already healing.
The first place he goes is Bennet’s house. Fury burns in Sylar’s eyes; revenge in his heart.
In reward for Sylar’s patience, he finds a man with breathtaking power, hands alight, holding the family hostage.
Sylar cuts his skull open, in front of Bennet’s wife and child. He rips the brain apart, takes the power for himself, and then he turns.
The mother shrieks, pleads, but the boy’s eyes are oddly empty.
- - - -
What’s next?
Sylar steps out on the street, free as the air, and he turns northeast. Towards New York City, and an artist who can paint the future.
- - - -
Alone in his apartment, Mohinder Suresh despairs.
They don’t return his calls. They hang up on him. They dismiss him as a solicitor, or a lunatic, or worse -
He can’t do this on his own. Mohinder has no allies, no help. Not since Eden vanished.
Slowly, he picks up a business card for Primatech paper and dials the number.
- - - -
“No,” murmurs Sylar, in denial, the paint can falling from nerveless fingers.
He can’t be the one who explodes. It’s impossible. He took that man’s power, but he can control it - and why would he do that? Why would he obliterate so many people? It just doesn’t make any sense…
- - - -
Peter draws all the time, these days. One drawing after another of fires, explosions, New York City as a devastated wasteland. Most of them are useless, and he tosses them away, crumpling them, ripping them to pieces. He has to know, he has to find out his destiny.
And, finally he finds something interesting.
“Kirby Plaza,” he says, in an echo of the words on the paper.
- - - -
“Why would I tell you that,” his mother says, her eyes red, “when I know you could be so much more?”
- - - -
“You can’t do this, Sylar,” says Peter, his stance open and tough. Like a hero.
Sylar looks him in the eye. “You can’t stop me.”
They fight, oh yes, they do, but Sylar is stronger than Peter, and more powerful. Peter falls against the fountain, in the center of the plaza, broken and defeated.
Sylar turns, and he takes a breath - he’s ready -
The sword doesn’t even hurt. A stab wound, through the center of Sylar’s chest, and he barely feels it. A pinch, maybe, a tug at his insides.
The Japanese man pulls it out, with a triumphant “Yatta!” - and Sylar smiles.
Underneath Sylar’s fingertips, the skin regrows. Unbroken. Whole.
The Japanese watches, in horror, as Sylar’s hands start to glow. The fire starts to consume him, from the inside out. This is my destiny.
In the instant before detonation, the Japanese man grabs the hand of another - a blonde woman - and teleports away. A rescue - even if it is just one person - before the end.
In fury, Sylar explodes.
- - - -
Hiro Nakamura traces the string with the tips of his fingers. Here, Peter Petrelli. Here, Niki Sanders. Here, Isaac Mendez…
It all went wrong. Hiro knows this. It should have been different. It could have been different. Heroes don’t fail, not like this. They always catch the villain. They always win, even if it is at the very last second.
His hand stills on the last string. Claire Bennet.
Sylar must not survive.
“Save the cheerleader,” says Hiro, to himself. “Save the world.”