who| Future!Sylar what| Bad simply wasn't going to worse fast enough. where| Los Angeles. when| September 30; Evening. rating| PG status| Narrative; Complete.
He felt it change.
Different from the sensation of Hiro Nakamura's haulting of time, but still a tangiable and unnatural shift in the world. Seeing through the clash of fire and ice that had been his battle with Peter hadn't been an easy task, even with enhanced vision and heightened senses. His eyes were still watering from the heat of the steam when the street focused itself around him, the moisture in the air crackling and condensing around his hands. It smelled horrible, forcing him to cut off the cryokenesis to cover his nose and mouth until his amped-up sense of smell subsided; no longer needed to help keep track of Peter. When the stench had become a normally perceived one again, he lowered it, and scanned the dark street.
Lumps that were probably people were lying here and there on the sidewalks and in the streets. Several shabby-looking individuals were doubled over gutters and trashcans. Definately not Washington DC. Had Peter teleported him somewhere without his noticing? Impossible. He hadn't been able to touch him that long for years, even if he had known who he was. Stepping over a set of bodies on his way to the curb, Sylar searched the minds of those he passed.
Something wrong with the water. Thousands effected. Hospitals full. Forgotten drycleaning. The end of the world.
Beyond the huddled mental masses were the tiny pinpricks of powers, lurking just beyond his grasp. Collecting abilities hadn't been on or in his mind for a while--it was already filled with a vast and varied collection--but with the newness of the city, and the variations in the ticks and twists of what he felt, he could feel the need to know and own creeping up behind him. What would one or two more be?
The names made him stop in his tracks, and turn for the source of the information. It didn't take long. He approached her with a sheepish smile, pulling a travel brochure from a stand behind his back, and asking her to help point him in the direction of the restraunt on the second page. He scoured her mind while she talked and pointed, nodding and thanking her for her time. Comic book characters, or people pretending to be them, on a crazy message board. For a brief moment, in complete disreguard to all he had seen, all he had done, and all he knew himself to be capable of; he wondered if he hadn't gone insane. He thanked the woman again and walked on. Several streets down, he found a well-dressed body in the gutter, and with a quick telekenetic pat-down, found the cellphone in one of the pockets. Holding the device in his hand, he listened to what the sluggish browser could tell him about the digital cesspool of insanity.
It happened to be alot.
Tucking the phone into his pocket, Sylar navigated the streets until he found a suitably nondescript hotel and waited until a man, travelling alone, came to check in. When he was done with him, he took the man, he tossed him into the alley. Noone would tell him apart from the other dead or dying. He set the man's glasses on the bridge of his nose, and wheeling his luggage across the threshold, smiled at the old woman at the front desk.