Sylar

Peter Petrelli's eyes fluttered open as the first light of dawn filtered through his curtain. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar itch of restlessness. The dreams had been so vivid again—soaring through the sky, the wind rushing past his face, the exhilarating freedom of flight.

"Today," he whispered to himself, throwing off the blanket and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Today, I'm going to fly."

He dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a comfortable t-shirt, then grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. His heart pounded with anticipation as he made his way to the neighborhood park, the crisp morning air filling his lungs.

The park was deserted this early, the playground equipment standing silent and still. Peter walked over to the monkey bars, his makeshift launching pad. He climbed up, perched himself on the top bar, and took a deep breath.

"Alright, Pete," he muttered under his breath. "You can do this. Just like in the dreams."

With that, he leapt off the monkey bars, arms outstretched, waiting for the lift, for the rush of air beneath him. Instead, gravity took hold, and he plummeted to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt with a resounding thud.

"Ow! Dammit!" Peter groaned, pushing himself up onto his knees. He spat out a mouthful of soil, feeling the sting of embarrassment more acutely than the physical pain. "Why isn't it working?"

Frustration bubbled up inside him as he stood and dusted himself off. He'd been so sure, so certain that this time would be different. Clenching his fists, he kicked at the ground in anger.

"Stupid powers," he grumbled. "What's the point if I can't even use them?"

His thoughts turned to his mom, her comforting presence always a balm for his troubled mind. Maybe he needed a break, some time to clear his head and figure things out. With a sigh, Peter decided to head over to her place.

As he walked, the frustration slowly ebbed away, replaced by a sense of resolve. He'd figure this out somehow. He had to. For now, though, he just needed to see his mom, hear her reassuring voice, and maybe, just maybe, find some clarity.

"Hey, Mom," Peter called out as he approached the huge, well-kept house. His mother was tending to her garden, a splash of color in the front yard.

"Peter!" She looked up, her face lighting up with a warm smile. "What brings you here, sweetie?"

"Just needed to see you," he replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Mind if we go for a walk?"

"Of course not." She wiped her hands on her apron and stood up, linking her arm with his as they began to stroll down the quiet suburban street.

"How have you been?" she asked, glancing at him with concern. "You look like you have something on your mind."

"Yeah," Peter admitted, looking down at his feet as they walked. "I've been having these dreams... about flying."

"Flying?" She chuckled softly. "That sounds exciting."

"It is," he said, his voice gaining a hint of enthusiasm. "In the dreams, I'm soaring through the sky, feeling so free. It's incredible. But when I try it... you know, for real... nothing happens."

"Peter, you're such a bright boy," she said, patting his arm reassuringly. "But it's just your imagination. Dreams are meant to be flights of fancy, not reality."

"Maybe," he muttered, not entirely convinced. They continued walking, eventually reaching a small café. "How about we grab a bite to eat?"

"Sounds perfect."

They found a cozy spot by the window and ordered their meals. As they waited, they chatted about everyday things—work, family, the latest neighborhood gossip. It was comforting, grounding.

"Mom, do you ever feel like you're meant for something more?" Peter asked suddenly, his eyes searching her face.

"Everyone feels that way sometimes," she replied thoughtfully. "But life isn't about grand destinies. It's about the little moments, the people we care about."

"Yeah, I guess so." He sighed, stirring his coffee absentmindedly.

"Look, Peter," she said gently, placing her hand over his. "You're doing great things already. Helping people every day as a nurse, that's no small feat."

"Thanks, Mom," he said, squeezing her hand.

"Alright, sweetheart, I need to get going," she said after they finished their meal. "Got a few errands to run."

"Okay, I'll walk you home."

"Don't worry about it," she smiled. "You take care of yourself, alright?"

Peter waved goodbye to his mom, her reassuring words still echoing in his mind. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and started walking home, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The streets were mostly empty, a few people here and there, lost in their own worlds.

"Just another quiet night," he muttered to himself, letting out a small sigh.

Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the tranquility, coming from an alleyway just ahead. Peter's heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, he sprinted toward the sound, each step pounding with urgency.

"You're probably going to regret this," he whispered, berating himself. "What are you doing, Pete? You're a dumbass."

As he rounded the corner, he skidded to a halt, eyes widening at the sight before him. A woman stood over a lifeless body, her eyes glinting with a sinister satisfaction. She looked up slowly, locking eyes with Peter.

"Look who we have here," she purred, her voice dripping with malice.

Before Peter could react, an invisible force yanked him off his feet, slamming him against the rough brick wall. Pain exploded in his back as he struggled to breathe, his limbs pinned by an unseen power.

"Wh-what...?" he gasped, confusion and fear mingling in his wide brown eyes.

"You're not supposed to be here," the woman said, her gaze narrowing. "But now that you are, let's make sure you can't tell anyone about it."

Peter's mind raced, trying to process the situation. His body refused to obey him, held captive by her telekinesis. He grit his teeth, every muscle straining against the invisible bonds.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he choked out, desperation creeping into his voice.

"Questions, questions," she replied mockingly. "It doesn't matter. There can't be any witnesses."

The pressure around Peter intensified, pain searing through him. He felt utterly helpless, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

"Shh," the woman whispered, her eyes narrowing as she focused her telekinetic power. "This will be over soon."

Panic surged through Peter. He could feel the pressure, the invisible blade cutting into his skin. He tried to scream, but the pain was too overwhelming. He writhed against the wall, desperate to break free.

"Please! Stop!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

"Sorry, sweetheart," she said, almost gently. "There can't be any witnesses."

The searing pain intensified, a line of fire tracing across his scalp. Peter's vision blurred with tears, his thoughts becoming frantic. He had to find a way out of this. He couldn't let it end here.

"Why are you doing this?" he managed to gasp, his voice barely a whisper.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she murmured, her focus unwavering. "But it's too late for answers now."

As the pain reached a crescendo, Peter's world narrowed to the excruciating sensation on his forehead and the suffocating helplessness engulfing him. He knew he had to do something, anything, to stop her, but his body refused to obey.

As the excruciating sensation reached its peak, Peter's body began to convulse involuntarily. He clenched his fists, feeling a strange, tingling warmth spreading from his core. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and then—without warning—it happened.

A sudden, blinding flash of blue-white light erupted from Peter's body. The air crackled with electricity, and a thunderous boom echoed through the alley. The woman was hurled back, slamming into the far wall with a force that left cracks spider-webbing across the brick.

"Ah!" she cried out, her telekinetic grip on Peter breaking instantly.

Peter collapsed to the ground, his body twitching uncontrollably as the last remnants of the electrical surge dissipated. The alleyway was illuminated by the flickering remnants of the blast, casting eerie shadows on the scorched walls.

"Help..." Peter's voice was weak, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Darkness encroached on his vision, and he fought to stay conscious. But the effort was too great. Exhaustion, pain, and shock overwhelmed him. His eyes fluttered shut, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

Moments later, curious onlookers cautiously approached the alley, drawn by the bright flash and loud noise. They found Peter lying motionless on the ground, his clothes singed and the pavement around him charred black. The acrid smell of burnt ozone filled the air.

"Hey, someone call an ambulance!" a man shouted, kneeling beside Peter to check for a pulse. "Is he breathing?"

"What's going on?" another voice asked, panic evident.

"Stay back," a woman urged, pulling her phone from her pocket. "We need help here!"

The crowd grew, a mix of concerned faces and whispered speculation. But amidst the chaos, Peter lay still, oblivious to the world around him, the faintest traces of electricity still dancing along his skin.