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spongetasticTechnically, Peter died once before. But that had been a quick death. He didn't even really feel it happen. One moment his adrenaline was pumping as he faced Sylar, and the next he woke up in his own house after having a shard of glass pulled from the back of his head.
This was different. Power was growing inside his body-- had been for some time-- and try as he might he couldn't stop it. It was burning through his veins, seeping into his skin and pushing desperately for a way out. All of that suppressed energy was painful. He could feel the heat pulsating from his body. Peter lifted his hands and saw they were glowing threateningly.
"Nathan!" he gasped out. "Nathan, help me!" But Nathan had already abandoned him. The older man smiled his politician's smile at his brother.
"It's for the best, Pete," he said, and flew off.
"No!! Please... come back! Nathan! Claire!!" They were both gone. Claire had been taken away from him. For her own protection, Nathan claimed.
Peter started breathing harder and faster. It was finally hitting him that he was all alone. But not really. There were people all around him. Innocent New Yorkers having dinner, attending shows, riding in taxis... Mothers, brothers, sisters, children... He wanted to stop but his body was being ripped apart from the inside. He wasn't strong enough to hold it back.
He was aware that he was screaming, but it seemed distant. Bright light hit his eyes. He was convinced that the pain alone would be enough to kill him. He heard the explosion, felt the heat of it sting him. Pavement broke away in huge chunks and flew in every direction. Glass shattered and buildings were rocked. The dust and smoke were so thick. He was still in shock when something came flying out of nowhere and hit him in the face.
His face was ripped by something sharp. Peter yelped and instinctively slapped his hand over the wound. Hot blood met his hand. He could feel it run down his face, along the sides of his nose and down his cheeks. If there was anyone alive to see him they would think he was crying tears of blood.
Peter knew the wound could close up in an instant but he consciously willed it not to. All of this felt so unreal to him. He-- Peter Petrelli, gentle hospice nurse-- just exploded, yet here he stood alive... though he had no right to be. Peter needed this wound to remain.
Some things shouldn't be allowed to heal.
-- -- --
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.
This was different. Power was growing inside his body-- had been for some time-- and try as he might he couldn't stop it. It was burning through his veins, seeping into his skin and pushing desperately for a way out. All of that suppressed energy was painful. He could feel the heat pulsating from his body. Peter lifted his hands and saw they were glowing threateningly.
"Nathan!" he gasped out. "Nathan, help me!" But Nathan had already abandoned him. The older man smiled his politician's smile at his brother.
"It's for the best, Pete," he said, and flew off.
"No!! Please... come back! Nathan! Claire!!" They were both gone. Claire had been taken away from him. For her own protection, Nathan claimed.
Peter started breathing harder and faster. It was finally hitting him that he was all alone. But not really. There were people all around him. Innocent New Yorkers having dinner, attending shows, riding in taxis... Mothers, brothers, sisters, children... He wanted to stop but his body was being ripped apart from the inside. He wasn't strong enough to hold it back.
He was aware that he was screaming, but it seemed distant. Bright light hit his eyes. He was convinced that the pain alone would be enough to kill him. He heard the explosion, felt the heat of it sting him. Pavement broke away in huge chunks and flew in every direction. Glass shattered and buildings were rocked. The dust and smoke were so thick. He was still in shock when something came flying out of nowhere and hit him in the face.
His face was ripped by something sharp. Peter yelped and instinctively slapped his hand over the wound. Hot blood met his hand. He could feel it run down his face, along the sides of his nose and down his cheeks. If there was anyone alive to see him they would think he was crying tears of blood.
Peter knew the wound could close up in an instant but he consciously willed it not to. All of this felt so unreal to him. He-- Peter Petrelli, gentle hospice nurse-- just exploded, yet here he stood alive... though he had no right to be. Peter needed this wound to remain.
Some things shouldn't be allowed to heal.
-- -- --
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.