Who: Peter Petrelli and Nathan Petrelli Where: Hyperion ; roof When: Following Sylar's debut at the Hyperion Rating: E for emo Status: incomplete Warning: Angst, emo-ness, and self-loathing contained within. Read at your own risk.
It was August, and California. At this point of the day it should have been close to 90 degrees on this rooftop, if not closer to 100. Instead, the entire surface was slick with ice. It was thickest in the eastern corner of the building, where Peter was sitting on the edge of the roof, his arms wrapped around his knees, skin cool to the touch. The term cold rage was literally and liberally applicable here. Anyone stepping out onto the roof would require a coat within a few minutes, or put themselves at risk for a rather nasty summer flu.
In his mind, the scene replayed itself over and over. Spotting the man in the lobby. Seeing now, in that perfect vision granted by hindsight, the minute differences between him and Gabriel. I should have killed him. Sylar didn't squint without his glasses. I should have killed him. The bristle of five-o-clock-shadow on his chin. He was right there. I could have killed him. Ended the fucking nightmare. The very feel of his mind, with those stolen abilities imprinted upon it like fingerprints. I didn't do it. Seeing the security system alert. The way the knowledge had slipped into his brain. Why didn't I do it? I should have. Throwing Sylar against the wall. Pressing against his throat. I needed to. I wanted to. I didn't. What's wrong with me?
Over and over. Whether the memory loss had been real or fake, did it matter? Sylar had been there. Sylar, at his mercy.
should have, could have, would have
He stared down at the city. Had been for long enough now that the roof could have doubled for an ice-skating rink. Why didn't I kill him?