Aftermath

Mar. 4th, 2013 07:29 pm
spongetastic: (Blood)
[personal profile] spongetastic
There was a popular expression that said "it looks like a bomb went off", but Peter seriously doubted those who said it truly knew what such a thing looked like. Buildings that were close by had been vaporized. Lamp posts were melted into twisted hunks of metal. Huge chunks of pavement littered what was once the streets of New York. He took in slow breaths as he glanced around the devastated city. This image... this destruction, it was all caused by him. And he forced himself to look, to fully take in what he had done.

Peter started to pick his way out of the danger zone. His face stung with pain but the rest of his body felt numb. It all felt unreal to him. Like he had walked onto a movie set. He could barely see, though he wasn't sure if it was due to the wet blur in his eyes or because of the thick smoke hovering in the air. He stumbled as he made his way out. He had no idea where he was going; he just wanted to get away.

His first thought was of the rooftop of Charles Deveaux's place. In the next moment he was there. Shaking, he rested his hands on the ledge. It was an even worse view from above. Peter choked and shut his eyes against the image. He could feel tears escape and he started to sob hard. He screamed in sorrow, collapsing to his knees and hugging himself, rocking back and forth as he wept. So many were dead. Over a million innocent lives lost in an instant. Because of him.

Sirens pulled him out of his despair. Firemen and the police were coming to inspect the damage. Peter forced himself to his feet. He couldn't stay here, that much was for sure. But he had nowhere safe to turn. Nathan had left him and he couldn't possibly put Claire in danger. Still, he had to get away. Somewhere like... Nevada. He meant to go there before he ran into Claude. He only knew it by pictures but it was all he had.

Peter took one last look at New York, then turned to say goodbye to Charles's place. He was just glad that Charles had passed on before this happened. He caught his reflection in the windows. Curiosity prodded him to take a closer look. Debris clung to his clothes and hair, and the tears he shed smudged his already dirty face. Whatever had hit him left a long red mark cutting from above his left eyebrow to down below his right eye. The dried blood was there, trailing down either side of his nose and down his cheeks. That mark would leave a scar.

He took a deep breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. Closing his eyes, Peter concentrated and left New York behind him. But the scar would stay with him. Always.

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Peter Petrelli

October 2013

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