Writers: Crossroads
Sep. 19th, 2009 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spongetasticPain and anger still throbbed inside him. If he closed his eyes he could almost feel the knife cutting into his skin again. A compulsive shudder went through his body and he lifted his fingers to brush across the scar that they gouged across his face. Still there, hours later.
Peter couldn't heal from it. A part of him was broken by what they did.
He lay there on the cold examination table not even trying to strain against the restraints. Peter felt tired, his body aching from the strain it endured for days. The brief times he slept assaulted him with nightmares that jerked him awake again, perspiring and trembling.
Peter had no way of knowing how long he was bound to the table. Time melded together for him much like it did in Hartsdale. That place seemed like a pleasant vacation by comparison. Even though he was in a cell he was allowed some measure of freedom. Here he was always trapped: sedated, restrained, threatened by guards with guns pointed to the back of his head.
When they finally unbound him he slumped mutely to the floor. They left him alone, trembling on the cold floor. Slowly Peter ran his finger up and down the length of his new scar as his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Feeling the permanent deformity fueled his rage but stabbed him in sadness as well.
Peter was utterly alone. No one was coming to help him.
The door opened and a man clad in a lab coat walked inside. Peter knew this man very well. He was the one who put Peter through all of his tests. The one who tore him apart and burned his skin. The one who gave Peter this scar.
"Time to get up, Mr. Petrelli," the doctor said. He grabbed Peter by the elbow and hoisted him up. Peter stood facing the man, remembering what he did with such clarity he twitched. The doctor held a syringe in his hand. Another sedative; they weren't finished with him yet.
His anger shot up to a boiling point. Peter lifted his hand and threw the doctor against the wall. The man hit the surface hard, immediately crumbling to the ground. Before he could recover Peter's hand moved again to suspend the doctor in the air.
"You," Peter snarled out. "Why did you do this to me?!"
"We..." The doctor's legs flailed wildly underneath him, his eyes wide. "We needed to test you," he gasped out. "To see how far you could be pushed. It was to perfect the formula!!" That made Peter's other hand twitch, closing invisible hands over the doctor's throat. The man gasped for breath desperately, his fingers clawing in vain to free himself.
"You're not going to stop, are you?" he demanded darkly. He took measured steps until he was only feet away from the suffocating doctor. "You're never going to stop. You're just going to use me and anyone with real abilities you can get your hands on." Peter's hand closed around the man's throat so he could feel the doctor's body shake.
"That formula is dangerous," Peter continued in a snarl. "You people have no idea what you're doing, how many potential monsters you could be creating! Any one of them could end up worse than Sylar!" His anger boiled enough that heat emanated from his hand and seared into the doctor's skin. "You think you can play god with people's lives like that?!? DO YOU?!"
The doctor was losing all color to his face. Peter finally noticed and released his hold on the man. The man lay there motionless at his feet for a few breathless moments before stirring, coughing and gasping gratefully. Peter pulled the man up on his feet. Peter's handprint had burned itself onto the doctor's neck. A permanent scar, just like the one now etched across Peter's face.
But it wasn't enough. He could hear the man's thoughts and knew this wouldn't be over. Peter had to stop it. Yet he hesitated, staring at the man in front of him.
"You... you're letting me go?" the man rasped out weakly.
"No," Peter replied. "I'm not." He reached forward and snapped the man's neck without another word.
Peter couldn't heal from it. A part of him was broken by what they did.
He lay there on the cold examination table not even trying to strain against the restraints. Peter felt tired, his body aching from the strain it endured for days. The brief times he slept assaulted him with nightmares that jerked him awake again, perspiring and trembling.
Peter had no way of knowing how long he was bound to the table. Time melded together for him much like it did in Hartsdale. That place seemed like a pleasant vacation by comparison. Even though he was in a cell he was allowed some measure of freedom. Here he was always trapped: sedated, restrained, threatened by guards with guns pointed to the back of his head.
When they finally unbound him he slumped mutely to the floor. They left him alone, trembling on the cold floor. Slowly Peter ran his finger up and down the length of his new scar as his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Feeling the permanent deformity fueled his rage but stabbed him in sadness as well.
Peter was utterly alone. No one was coming to help him.
The door opened and a man clad in a lab coat walked inside. Peter knew this man very well. He was the one who put Peter through all of his tests. The one who tore him apart and burned his skin. The one who gave Peter this scar.
"Time to get up, Mr. Petrelli," the doctor said. He grabbed Peter by the elbow and hoisted him up. Peter stood facing the man, remembering what he did with such clarity he twitched. The doctor held a syringe in his hand. Another sedative; they weren't finished with him yet.
His anger shot up to a boiling point. Peter lifted his hand and threw the doctor against the wall. The man hit the surface hard, immediately crumbling to the ground. Before he could recover Peter's hand moved again to suspend the doctor in the air.
"You," Peter snarled out. "Why did you do this to me?!"
"We..." The doctor's legs flailed wildly underneath him, his eyes wide. "We needed to test you," he gasped out. "To see how far you could be pushed. It was to perfect the formula!!" That made Peter's other hand twitch, closing invisible hands over the doctor's throat. The man gasped for breath desperately, his fingers clawing in vain to free himself.
"You're not going to stop, are you?" he demanded darkly. He took measured steps until he was only feet away from the suffocating doctor. "You're never going to stop. You're just going to use me and anyone with real abilities you can get your hands on." Peter's hand closed around the man's throat so he could feel the doctor's body shake.
"That formula is dangerous," Peter continued in a snarl. "You people have no idea what you're doing, how many potential monsters you could be creating! Any one of them could end up worse than Sylar!" His anger boiled enough that heat emanated from his hand and seared into the doctor's skin. "You think you can play god with people's lives like that?!? DO YOU?!"
The doctor was losing all color to his face. Peter finally noticed and released his hold on the man. The man lay there motionless at his feet for a few breathless moments before stirring, coughing and gasping gratefully. Peter pulled the man up on his feet. Peter's handprint had burned itself onto the doctor's neck. A permanent scar, just like the one now etched across Peter's face.
But it wasn't enough. He could hear the man's thoughts and knew this wouldn't be over. Peter had to stop it. Yet he hesitated, staring at the man in front of him.
"You... you're letting me go?" the man rasped out weakly.
"No," Peter replied. "I'm not." He reached forward and snapped the man's neck without another word.