Fic: Mad World 1/8
Chapter 1
Nimble fingers dipped the greying cloth into the cracked cup of water and soaked up a bare thimbleful. With trained care the cloth was applied to the rough grazes and scratches that encircled Peter’s ankle. He’d shifted the thick chain loop along his calf to reveal the wounds and was now completing his daily ritual of cleaning and treatment. It could almost be a fruitless gesture. He had managed to get the cuts to scab over half a dozen times in the last few weeks, but without fail something would cause Peter to move in just the wrong way to re-open the injuries.
Two days ago it had been another fight.
Difficult to defend yourself without moving your feet. Particularly when one of them was chained to the ground.
Placing the cloth back into the plastic dish that kept it relatively germ-free, Peter looked up through his fringe and made note of the other men’s locations.
There were sixty-seven inmates in the facility. As anonymous as possible in black cotton sleep pants and long-sleeved t-shirts, the prisoners had attempted individuality through hair and body art. Peter hadn’t needed to do anything to stand out; the fact that he was chained to the fucking ground kept him well-known. And easy to identify.
No-one was close enough to worry about, so Peter checked his other bruises to make sure everything was getting better and not worse. He’d tended a man dying from wounds gone sceptic not six days after he’d been brought here. It hadn’t really made much difference, probably only prolonged the poor bastard’s life by a few days. But Peter had held his hand and been witness to the death. That much he could still do chained and impoverished.
“Pretty Pretty! I’ve got somethin’ for ya...wanna see it?” The guttural voice taunted from across the yard. Peter didn’t look up. He didn’t need to see the other prisoner, likely jacking off seventeen feet from where Peter sat. Other voices joined in, yelling crude suggestions or calls to ‘shut the fuck up and put it away’.
Choosing three pieces of gravel from the small pile near his bare toes, Peter weighed them thoughtfully in his hand.
“C’mon Pretty Pretty! I’m watchin’ ya while I’m fucking my hand Pretty Pretty. Thinking of ya on ya knees for me.” The commentary was punctuated by grunts and the too-familiar sound of flesh on flesh. “Bring me that mouth of yours and I’ll give ya me rations tonight.” The request garnered several supporting votes from the masses.
Peter stood up.
Silence descended from all but the main orator.
“Yeah Pretty, that’s it. Come here Pretty…”
Shoulder muscled into fluid obedience by necessity; Peter pulled his arm back with startling speed and aimed at just below waist height. Dead on.
“Arghh…fuckin’ sonofabitch!! Shit me, shit me!” The words issued in a hoarse voice from the ball of misery now lying on the ground. “You’ll get yours Fucker. You’ll get yours.”
Peter looked around the compound to see if anyone was going to try anything. No. They knew better. Shaking his head wearily he also saw that no-one was moving to help the distressed man. Even had he been inclined Peter couldn’t do anything. The man had been careful not to come closer than seventeen feet.
The length of Peter’s chain.
*****
The grinding of gears woke Peter from a cautious slumber. Sunlight crawled gently across the compound as the great roof retracted. Once a sports stadium, the building now housed the most dangerous threats to humanity. A single, massive prison cell and exercise yard rolled into one. Turning to lie on his back, Peter squinted into a cool fall sky and wished for the ninety-eighth time that he could fly away from this hell.
A small movement to his left. Reflexes honed by weeks of living under direct threat had Peter rolling quickly to his feet, an edged piece of rock he’d painstakingly unearthed in hand.
It was just a kid. Maybe thirteen or so, crouched near the iron stake pinning Peter’s chain, arms wrapped around his knees and a face showing nothing but desperation. How the hell he’d managed to get inside Peter’s perimeter without him waking was terrifying, but for the moment the youth looked harmless. Pivoting, Peter scanned the compound for any of his usual antagonists, but they were all still asleep or grumbling at the sudden glare of sunlight.
Weapon at the ready, Peter stalked towards the boy with a clink of metal and revised his estimate. More like sixteen, the faintest of fair stubble on unmarked cheeks, large feet and hands, long limbs that had yet to be grown into. He’d be a tall, well-built man by the time he reached twenty…if he lived that long.
“You’re new.” Surprised at the scratchy sound his voice had become in three months, Peter swallowed and tried again. “What’s your name?”
The youth tried to shrink further down into his shoulders. “Ethan…I…they…they killed my mom and dad. It’s all my fault they’re dead.”
Oh Jesus.
Peter could just imagine the heart-breaking story. The son demonstrates some fantastic ability; the parents try to conceal him from the government, maybe plan to escape to Europe. They get caught. The parents die protecting their son; the kid is sent to the internment station with dozens of other super-powered humans. Many of the prisoners, locked together in this bastardised arena, were slowly spiralling into inhumanity and madness.
Except Peter. Holding onto his sanity the main focus of existence in recent times.
Dropping down to the patchy grass beside the boy, Peter hid his shiv under some debris and wondered what he was supposed to say to a young man whose life had been destroyed all because he could understand his dog or something.
“I’m so sorry Ethan. I really am.” His voice not so raw now, it was getting a small work-out. “You’re wrong though. None of this is because of you. In fact, I don’t think anyone deserves to be here.”
Ethan’s eyes lost some of his horror and took on a whirl of surprise.
“But everyone knows they’re all terrorists! It’s on the broadcasts all the time, how the specials destroyed the cities and killed the President. How they’re kept locked away to keep us all safe.” Soft blue eyes looked around the arena at the clusters of black-clad forms. “...how we’re locked away.” He corrected.
“When did you come in? Last night?” Peter asked gently.
Ethan nodded into his knees. “I could barely see, but I didn’t want to go anywhere near them.” His chin pushed in the direction of the other prisoners.
Peter let the silence ask his question.
A shrug. “They were all sleeping away from you, so I figured you were either a mass murderer they were scared of and I could run away fast enough. Or you were the only safe place in the area.” Another adolescent shrug. “Are you?”
Peter’s lips quirked at the stone-like feel in his gut at that question. Was Peter Petrelli safe to be around? God knows. He stood again to the gentle clink that filled his waking and sleeping hours.
“Well, I won’t kill or rape you so that’s a start. But you might want to move somewhere else even then.” Peter spotted the main door open and the four-wheel motorbike began to putter through. “I’m sort of a target here; you might get caught in the crossfire.”
“How?” Ethan stood up and yeah, well over six feet in the next year or so. Peter resisted the urge to stand on tip-toe. “They inject us every day to suppress our powers, how can there be a fight?”
Peter smiled grimly as he took up his place at the edge of his perimeter.
“We don’t need powers to fight, Ethan.” Watching a FedMarshal lift a plastic box from the pile on his trailer and approach them, Peter folded his arms and asked. “So, what ability did you have anyway?”
Ethan hunched his shoulders and looked curiously at the white box placed just out of the chain’s reach. “I can spit acid. It melted my dad’s car door. Doesn’t hurt my mouth though….” The youth’s words tumbled into nothing as Peter spun sharply and seized his elbow in a firm grip.
Peter looked long into the boy’s eyes to make sure there was no deceit, before looking behind them. Looking along the length of chain tethering Peter to the ground.
Chain made of steel.
*****
He had to pick his moment. After three months of survival and waiting Peter had found a chance. But he couldn’t be too impatient to escape or he’d make a critical error and be shot down in seconds. Determinedly ignoring the chain, Peter looked at the two plastic boxes five feet away and tried not to grind his teeth. Beside him Ethan looked confused, glancing at the chain and then back to Peter’s face with a questioning expression.
“Why…?” the youth began to ask.
“Ethan, could you please get the boxes?” Peter interrupted in a low voice.
The boy’s soft blue eyes now slid from the boxes to Peter and back. Good. The chain was being ignored.
“Err, sure.” Taking those three steps beyond Peter’s circle of protection, the young man collected up the boxes and turned back. Unfortunately the movement was unusual enough to garner the attention of their fellow inmates. Drawing in a deep breath Peter guided Ethan to the wall at their left. Sitting he opened a box and began eating the food within.
“Found a friend Fly-boy?” Peter ignored the drawling suggestion and spoke quietly to Ethan between bites.
“I can get us out of here.”
Blue eyed widened. “How?”
Peter looked anywhere but at his ankle. “Why do you think they have me chained to the ground?”
“Um...I dunno.” Connections made between the catcalls now floating towards them and the chain. “You can fly? They chained you down so you can’t escape. But, they give us the shots, to stop abilities.” Ethan stared now at the chain in serious doubt. “Why would they chain you if you get the shots?”
Peter finished his food and carefully collected together everything of value he possessed.
“Because the serum doesn’t work on me. I took a similar drug a while ago and now I’ve developed immunity.” Standing again Peter did some quick stretches and looked around the compound. He’d have maybe a five second window to get out of gun range. Plenty of time even with a passenger. It would be getting past the roof without too many inmates noticing that would be the challenge.
He’d need a distraction.
“So you have your power…you can fly?”
“Hmmmm…yeah.” Peter watched his most vile antagonist look over at them, curiosity and twisted lust colouring the gaunt features. Averting his gaze, the former nurse waited until the inevitable fight began. It would be over food as always. One man taking another’s apple could lead to death in the North Internment Station.
“But I don’t. I can’t melt the chain without my power.” Ethan stood at Peter’s side.
“You don’t need to Ethan. The serum is only active for twenty-four hours, and then it starts to break down. That’s why you’re due another injection soon. They come at the same time every day. Right.” Peter’s words slowed as he watched a punch get thrown on the far side of the arena. “After.” Four prisoners waded into the fray. “Breakfast.”
Looking up into the boy’s worried gaze, Peter smiled for what felt like the first time in months. No, years.
“You can’t use your power Ethan,” he acknowledged. “But I can.”
Peter took Ethan’s wrist and felt once again the brilliant rush of an ability flowing into him.
Crouching quickly, Peter lifted the chain until it was bare inches from his lips. He softly kissed the link and let the saliva on his tongue coat the cool metal. A faint puff of sour eggs and then Peter could see the acid begin to work. Inexorably the steel dissolved, bubbling and steaming until the link was completely gone.
Only a foot of chain now trailed from Peter’s wounded ankle.
He wasn’t tethered anymore.
“Hold onto me.” Peter ordered. Ethan complied immediately, arms circling his waist and chest in a reverse bear hug.
‘Hey Pretty!!” The hated voice called too close for comfort. “You letting that string-bean have ya? He’s just a fuckin’ kid, ya wanna see what a man can do for ya?”
Wishing he had the time to absorb a destructive power and fry the bastard with it, Peter sent his enemy a crooked grin and committed to memory the look of absolute shock that flowed over his face.
Looking into the sky Peter called up his memories of Nathan, the great and the terrible.
Then he flew again.
*****
Ethan wouldn’t let Peter take him home. With his parents gone there was only his little sister staying with their grandparents and the boy was loath to bring any danger to his surviving family. Peter couldn’t help but agree, unfortunately that left him with a sixteen year old passenger that he had little doubt he’d be able to protect if the FedMarshals managed to corner them. Fortunately, Ethan demonstrated his immediate usefulness by stealing some food and showing Peter how to shop-lift new clothes.
Obviously Peter had a far more sheltered upbringing than he’d thought.
It took them three days flying due east with stops for sleep and for Peter to rest. Flying wasn’t tiring at all; carrying a human weighing half again his body weight was going to dislocate Peter’s shoulders if he didn’t land every few hours.
It was near ten at night when they arrived in New York, the remains of the once glittering city still under marshal law. They would be shot on sight if spotted out after curfew. Keeping as much in the dark as possible, Peter led Ethan on foot through the deserted streets feeling his heart sink at the sight of burned-out cars and the litter-strewn side walk. This city was a duplicate of another horror New York he’d once seen. Only minutes to see it before he’d been stolen away and smothered with words like Shanti, Nathan, virus and ninety-three-percent-dead. That world had faded into nothing, along with a lilt-voiced girl and the possibility of another Peter.
There was now only his broken city, the catastrophe that had caused it and Peter; once again, trying to stop something before it even began.
Ethan stayed quiet as they stopped in front of large, imposing gates. The massive fence hadn’t been here the last time he’d seen it, or the barbed wire. Peter took a deep steadying breath and stiffened his shoulders before opening the gate. In the eerie gloom of a silent New York, the gate shrieked from its un-oiled hinges and allowed them to enter. The front gardens were overgrown, abundant roses gone as wild as their blackberry cousins. Dodging vicious thorns, they approached the front doors, Peter breathing a sigh of either relief or fear at the lights he could spot upstairs.
Someone lived here.
Shuffling his hands into the pocket of his stolen coat, Peter found one of the few items he’d managed to hold onto the last three months.
Fitting his key into the lock, Peter pushed open the door and walked into the house he’d grown up in.
It felt a little like watching Dorothy open her door onto the technicolour glory of Oz. The shabby, dilapidated outside a mask over the gleaming excellence of the Petrelli mansion. A foyer empty save for the marble statues his mother had gamely protected from two young sons and the warm glow of the ostentatious chandelier two floors above.
Breathing in the scent of wood polish and roses, Peter tensed as he heard footsteps along the upper landing and Ethan’s awestruck gasp behind him.
He looked up into the astonished face of his niece.
“Peter?” Almost silently Claire mouthed his name before she visibly inhaled and then, “PETER!”
Quiet thumps as she belted down the stairs and he was moving too, unconsciously getting closer to this beloved girl, his friend and family all wrapped up together in the sweet-faced young woman in his arms. Claire was crying and laughing and saying his name over and over like a mantra.
“You’re alive, you’re alive…Peter, Peter, Peter…”
The smell of her hair, tiny form bouncing and hugging and the wet salt of tears on his neck had Peter feeling like he could wake up now because he was home and Claire was here. Familiar face in a world gone mad for three months.
God, he’d missed her.
Small fists bunched into the lapels of Peter’s coat as Claire pulled away to look up at him with eyes drowning green in her lovely face. Other sounds penetrated Peter’s relief; footfalls clinking on marble, doors opening and a slow-rising babble of voices.
“Where have you been?” she asked, but before he could answer…
“Peter! Peter…” He looked over to see his mother push past people he knows and loves, her hair liberally streaked with grey, her face wearing the same expression she’d worn when he had just woken from a coma all those long months ago. The desperate love he saw there had him gently pulling away from Claire and accepting another much-longed for embrace.
Hands rose furiously to push through his hair as Angela reassured herself that her youngest son was really there. Kisses rained across his cheeks and touched his eyelids like a prayer. A smothered sob escaped Peter at the care inherent in her touch. Then other arms around him, across his shoulders and lips against his temple.
“Pete.” Breathed into his hair, the anger and hurt forgotten or forgiven in that moment as Nathan pulled him and their mother tighter together. Dainty fingers thread through his, others held his upper arm where it lay around Angela’s waist.
Words echoed around them, questions and exclamation. His name repeated a dozen times in shock and speculation.
“How do we know that’s really him?” The voice was deep and rich as velvet, unmistakable and unbelievable to Peter’s ears. It dominated the other sounds in the foyer until silence won the battle.
Nathan pulled back sharply from the hug and looked angrily across at the tall figure on the stairs.
“I know my brother.” Confident voice that swayed millions to his cause.
“How do we know Nathan? It could be a shape-shifter sent by the Spider to finally flush us out.” Arms crossed, broad shoulders leaned nonchalantly against the wall. “He knows someone with that face could walk right in and kill us while we sleep.”
Peter stared with furious eyes at his questioner.
“Sylar.” He snarled into the bitter chocolate gaze. “I’m Peter and you can…”
“It’s him, it’s Peter.” Matt Parkman reached the bottom of the other stairs, white irises focused unseeingly on Peter’s face; hand on the shoulder of a young woman with straight brown hair. Peter felt polite mental fingers filter through his thoughts and responded to the familiar touch with his own greeting. “Definitely Peter….but there’s something…”
Nathan’s hand, still resting on Peter’s lower back went still.
“He’s not from now…” Matt frowned. “You’re too young to be our Peter…where are you from?”
Knowing all eyes were on him, Peter looked at the long-sought faces of his family and friends, hoping he didn’t have to brace himself for disappointment.
“From what I can tell,” for some reason Peter shot his gaze to the man still lingering above them all on the far stairs. “I’m from five years in the past.”
A stunned silence once again seeped into the foyer.
“Oh shit,” Hiro Nakamura said with a wince.